The Pontar Valley, Midnight
The wind reeked of rot and fear.
Darian Voss crouched beside the gnarled roots of a dying tree, his golden eyes scanning the moonlit clearing below. The earth was torn open—massive claw marks etched into the soil like fresh script carved by something angry and ancient. Blood splattered the stones, still wet. Still warm.
He pressed two fingers to it, rubbed them together. Goat. Recently gutted. Lure or leftovers?
A faint hiss rode the wind. Then silence.
The dhampir's lips curved in a wry smile. "You're watching me, aren't you?" he muttered, voice low and sandpaper-rough. "Let's not keep each other waiting."
He rose, slow and fluid, cloak whispering behind him like shadow. His fingers brushed the hilt of his sword—runes along the blade shimmered as if tasting the air. A flick of his wrist, and the weapon slid free with a faint thrumm, glowing faint red.
The basilisk struck without warning—talons raking the air as it dove from the cliff above. Darian sidestepped, barely a blur. He raised his hand, casting Quen—a golden shield flashed to life just in time to catch the beast's tail swipe, sending him skidding back through the dirt.
He exhaled. "Big bastard."
The creature landed with a thunderous crash, wings folding in as it hissed, serpent eyes burning with a sickly green fire. Scales like rusted armor clattered as it stalked forward.
"Come then," Darian said, flipping the blade in his grip. "Let's bleed."
The basilisk lunged.
He met it head-on.
The basilisk's jaws snapped shut where Darian's throat had been a breath ago.
He twisted beneath its lunge, planted one foot hard into the dirt, and launched upward—Igni igniting from his palm in a searing arc. Flames danced across the creature's wing, forcing a shriek from its twisted maw. The monster thrashed wildly, but Darian was already in motion.
He pivoted behind it, cloak flicking, eyes gleaming gold in the firelight.
One breath.
One strike.
The sword found its mark—right at the base of the skull where scale gave way to sinew. A dull crunch, then silence. The basilisk's body spasmed, wings unfurling in a final death flutter. Then it crumpled, twitching once, twice… and was still.
Darian stood over the corpse, expression unreadable. Blood dripped from the edge of his sword, sizzling faintly against the runes.
He wiped the blade on the creature's tattered wing and slid it home.
"Ugly. But not stupid," he muttered. "You hesitated. Should've gone for the kill."
A rustle behind him. A pair of terrified farmers emerged from the woods—faces pale, eyes wide.
"You—you slew it," one stammered. "Gods above... we didn't think anyone could."
"You were right," Darian said, not looking at them. "No one could."
He turned, gold eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
"But I'm not just anyone."
With that, he walked past them, cloak trailing, vanishing into the mist of the Pontar woods—leaving only a corpse, a fading fire, and the echo of something not quite human.
Draymoor – Just After Dawn
The town of Draymoor stirred like something waking from uneasy sleep—fog curling between crooked buildings, chimneys coughing smoke into the morning chill. The townsfolk watched Darian Voss from behind shutters and cracked doorways, whispering like crows on a corpse.
He paid them no mind.
The shop was tucked into a sagging corner of the square, a crooked sign above the door: "Marten's Remedies & Curiosities." The old man who ran it had one good eye and too many secrets. Darian pushed the door open with the toe of his boot. The bell overhead gave a weary chime.
Inside smelled of dried herbs, mildew, and dust older than some of the books on the shelves.
Old Marten sat behind the counter, nose deep in a crumbling bestiary. He looked up slowly, that one eye narrowing.
"You're back," he said, voice like gravel. "Wasn't sure you would be."
Darian said nothing. He stepped forward and dropped a weathered leather bag onto the counter. It landed with a thud, heavy. A few cracked, curved teeth spilled out, each one the size of a man's thumb—jagged and yellowed, still stained with blood.
"Payment," Darian said simply.
Marten blinked at the sight, then chuckled low in his throat. "Teeth of a Pontar basilisk… real ones, too. You're either mad, cursed, or better than the stories."
"Maybe all three."
Marten opened a drawer behind the counter and drew out a small chest. He set it down with a grunt, flipped the lid. Inside—crowns. More than most men in Draymoor would see in five years.
He slid it toward Darian without a word.
"You'll want to burn the corpse," Darian said, turning away. "Its blood draws worse things."
"Worse than a basilisk?" Marten asked.
Darian paused at the door.
"Always worse," he said quietly. Then he was gone.