CHAPTER 425: NIGHT HUNT

The city of Greyhollow was nestled between jagged cliffs and thick, tangled woods. By day, it bustled with trade caravans and townsfolk, its cobbled streets alive with noise and color. But by night, Greyhollow changed. The lanterns flickered with a ghostly hue, shadows deepened between alleyways, and the veil between predator and prey grew dangerously thin.

Amber and Lilith arrived just as twilight dipped into true night, the horizon bleeding orange behind distant peaks. The city gates opened with a lazy groan as the guards gave the two cloaked travelers a wary glance, but said nothing. There was something about their presence that made people instinctively lower their eyes.

"We’ll rest here," Lilith said, brushing strands of raven-black hair from her face. "We made a statement back at the Black Chain hideout. If anyone’s watching, they’ll hear of it soon."

They found a modest inn nestled between a spice merchant and an old blacksmith. The Silver Cask was quiet, its wooden beams worn but sturdy, its interior warm with the scent of burning pine and roasted meat.

The innkeeper—a plump man with a weathered face and kind eyes—greeted them with forced cheer.

"Two guests? A double room with a bath? You’re in luck."

"We always are," Lilith replied with a knowing smile.

Their room on the second floor overlooked a quiet alleyway, the small window fogged by the night’s chill. Inside, it was cozy. A single wide bed with clean sheets, a washbasin, a carved mirror, and a small hearth gently crackling in the corner.

They took turns bathing.

Lilith went first, sinking into the steaming wooden tub with a sigh, washing away the dust and blood of the hunt. She was quiet as always—unbothered, queenly in her demeanor. By the time she finished, the scent of soap and lavender filled the air.

Amber took her turn after, discarding her dusty coat and blood-streaked clothing. The water was still warm, and she lowered herself in slowly. Her muscles unwound. The battle in the mountains had left her body humming with leftover tension, like a coiled spring. Now, it softened. Her crimson eyes stared into the rippling surface.

"You were right," she murmured to herself.

"I am changing."

After dressing in a fresh set of clothes—all black, sleek, and tightly fitted—Amber emerged from the bath just as their meal arrived.

Roasted boar with wild herbs, baked root vegetables, soft bread with sweet butter, and two tall goblets of thick, dark wine.

Lilith finished her portion swiftly and gracefully, as if it were routine.

When she lay on the bed, she didn’t stir again.

Within moments, the ancient vampire was asleep, one arm draped across her midsection, her expression calm. Even in slumber, she exuded quiet power—like a blade resting in its sheath.

Amber sat on the windowsill, staring into the fogged glass, her reflection half-visible.

But her eyes glowed. Faint red rings of light. Hunger was clawing at her again—not physical hunger, but craving. The thrill of movement. The scent of adrenaline. The pulse of blood.

She rose without a sound.

The moment she stepped into the alley, the city felt different. The warmth of the inn was behind her, and now the night embraced her like a long-lost lover. Her steps were silent on the stone, her aura suppressed to a whisper.

She didn’t need to ask for directions. Her kind always knew where the filth gathered.

The slums were a festering wound on the city’s edge, tucked beneath overpasses and broken bridges. Lean-tos of rotting wood clung to the walls like barnacles. Filthy children darted through the shadows. Desperate men watched with hollow eyes. And deeper still, among the smoke and despair, scum flourished like mold.

Amber walked boldly into it, her presence veiled but not hidden.

The first voice called out to her before she turned the corner.

"Well, well. What’s a pretty thing like you doing out here all alone?"

She turned.

Three men stood in a narrow alley. All dirty, scarred, armed. One licked his lips. Another twirled a rusted knife.

"Lost your way, sweetheart?" the tallest mocked, taking a step forward.

Amber said nothing. Her red eyes shimmered faintly beneath the shadows of her hood.

Then she smiled.

"I was hoping for rats."

She blurred forward.

The tall one didn’t even have time to scream. Her dagger materialized in her hand mid-movement, slicing across his throat in a single, clean motion. The other two lunged toward her, one swinging wildly, the other aiming to grab.

She ducked beneath them, spun, and kicked one into the wall with enough force to crack bone. Her dagger flashed again—a single stab through the second man’s chest, and his heart burst like a ripe fruit.

She caught his falling body gently, whispering to it,

"Sleep."

With a simple motion of her fingers, she directed the blood from all three to rise in crimson streams. It hovered mid-air like silk ribbons, coiling toward her lips. She drank slowly, savoring it—not from the wound, but from the air, her power shaping it into floating sips.

She felt her thirst dull, but not disappear.

Not yet.

She prowled deeper into the slums, eyes scanning, senses flaring. She found a gambling den beneath an old brewery—seven men counting stolen coins and harassing a tied-up merchant.

Amber stepped inside like a ghost.

They barely looked up.

She kicked the table with such force it flipped, sending gold and dice flying. Before they could draw weapons, she was among them. Slashes, stabs, spins—the fight lasted seconds. One tried to run. She pinned him to the wall with a spike of blood. Another tried to cast a spell—she slit his throat with a whisper.

Only one survived—barely.

He whimpered, crawling back against the wall.

"W-what are you?"

Amber knelt before him, tilting his chin up. Her glowing red eyes were calm.

"A reminder."

She leaned close, her breath cold against his face.

"Greyhollow’s rats don’t rule the night anymore."

She rose. The man fainted.

By the time Amber returned to the inn, the first signs of dawn tinged the sky. She moved through the city unseen, her body warm with fresh blood, her hunger sated, her spirit calm.

Inside the room, Lilith hadn’t moved. But she knew she went out and just let her have some fun.

Amber quietly removed her boots, stripped her jacket, and slid into the bed beside her master. She lay back against the cool pillow, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

The hunt had been good.

The slums would wake to whispers of crimson shadows and dead men with drained veins. Fear would spread. Order would return. Amber had cleaned the filth from Greyhollow, not for virtue—but for balance.

That, and the simple joy of reminding the world that monsters didn’t always wear rags and stink of alcohol.

Sometimes, they wore black, smiled softly, and moved like whispers through the dark.

And as the light of morning filtered through the curtains, Amber closed her eyes—satisfied, full, and still tasting the fear on the night’s breath.