The Crimson Moon hung low over the city, painting everything in shades of blood and shadow. Elara checked her weapons one last time: silver stakes, blessed water, and the ancient blade passed down through generations of hunters.
Lord Damien’s manor loomed ahead, all gothic spires and dark windows. She’d studied him for weeks. He was different from other vampires—no bodies, no missing persons, no trail of death. That made him more dangerous, not less.
As she approached the gates, they swung open on their own. An invitation. Or a trap.
“Welcome, hunter,” a voice called from the darkness. “I’ve been expecting you.”
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