The smell of burning hair is something the memory never truly vomits up. It clings to the back of the throat, thick and greasy, mixing with the scent of wet earth and the copper tang of fear.
The mud was cold against Luenna's small, bare knees. She was five, or perhaps six, her height barely reaching the waist of the screaming men who surrounded them. Their faces were distorted by the flickering orange light of the torches, turning human features into grotesque masks of hate.
"Witch!" the word was a rhythmic chant, a heartbeat of hate that shook the very air.
"Kill her! Kill her!" they demanded.
They did not just walk her mother to the center of the square, they dragged her, forced her. Luenna's small fingers were locked into the hem of her mother's skirt, small knuckles white with desperation.
She slipped in the muck, the cold sucking the breath from her lungs, and a rough hand shoved her backward, leaving her gasping on the freezing ground.
Above it all, the moon hung bloated and indifferent like a pale, mocking eye that illuminated the silver threads of the stake and the piles of dry gorse.
It was the full moon. The traditional night for burning witches, when the elders said the sky itself bore witness to sin and purity alike.
Luenna's tears blurred her vision, but she saw her mother's face. There was no magic there. No curses. No lies. Only a hollow, terrifying quiet as the first spark touched the wood. Because she knew, she knew her mother was nothing they made her out to be.
The fire hissed, serpentine, climbing higher and higher until the heat blistered the night air.
The moon and the fire fought for dominion over the square. Silvery light met orange flame in a sickening, celestial dance. It was too bright. It was too cruel.
She screamed, and screamed, and screamed, but it vanished instantly beneath the roar of the crackling timber and the rabid cheers of the mob.
She hated that light. Hated how it turned the world into a stage for cruelty. Hated the moon for watching, for mocking, for sanctioning the ritual… For being the only witness to a sin too monstrous to name.
The screams echoed long after they should have faded. Even when the fire's hiss and crackle died down in her memory, the smell of smoke clung to her lungs that she swore she could still taste ash and copper.
Luenna's chest heaved sharply, a strangled sob tearing through her throat as her eyes snapped open.
The heat was gone. The screaming was gone. Instead, there was only the bone-deep chill of Tinbone Alley and the oppressive silence of the Underworld.
She choked on her breath, her lungs burning as if she had truly inhaled the smoke of that decades-old fire. Her fingers convulsed, scratching against the grit of the cobblestones. She was still on the ground. Her cheek was still cold.
She rolled onto her side, every muscle trembling, her limbs betraying her from standing properly. Her fingers clutched at the back of her neck, pressing against the nape as if she could somehow hold her head on straight and keep it tethered to reality.
Immediately, her eyes darted across the alley, swimming with shadows and soot, desperately searching for the white-haired nightmare that had haunted her vision. But the alley was empty.
The vampire was gone. No silver-white hair, no arterial-red eyes, no scent of ancient temples. Even the pressure of his boot against her jaw had vanished, leaving only a lingering, ghostly cold.
But he had not cleaned up his mess.
A few feet away, the leader of the thugs lay in a gruesome, silent heap, his chest a hollowed-out cavern of red. Beside the wall, the first sidekick remained slumped like a broken toy, his head severed from his body and his chest ripped open as if something had clawed through him from the inside out.
The only sound was the distant, rhythmic dripping of water from a rusted pipe, and the frantic, thudding rhythm of Luenna's own heart.
She was alive.
For how long? The thought crept mercilessly.
She scrambled to her feet, her legs were trembling so violently that every step felt like it might betray her. She stumbled forward, pressing her palms to the slick cobblestones for balance.
She had to get home. Anywhere safe. Anywhere.
The alley stretched on like a pit, twisting and turning, and each footfall sounded deafening in the silence. Her breath came in short bursts, her heart hammering as if trying to escape her chest.
Then, something caught her eye. At first, she thought it was a trick of the dim gaslight, a shape she wanted to dismiss. But no.
The second sidekick, the one who had scrambled backward in terror, was not gone. He was slumped in a twisted heap halfway down the alley, frozen in the same grotesque tableau as the others. His eyes were wide, unseeing, mouth open in a final, silent scream.
Luenna's stomach churned violently. She wrenched her gaze away, forcing herself to keep moving.
Run. Just run.
The journey usually took her thirty minutes from the Capital to the little home tucked in the narrow alleys of Tinbone, but tonight she covered it in half that time.
She burst through the rickety door of the small home, mud splattering across the wooden floorboards and water dripping from her hair and apron. The familiar, cramped space smelled faintly of herbs and old wood, but tonight it offered little comfort.
Luenna hastily locked the door, her back hitting the wood once she finally secured it.
"By the Gods, Luenna!" Immediately croaked a voice. "Where in the hell have you—?" The old man's eyes widened as he took in her mud-streaked face, the torn apron, and the wild look in her eyes.
Luenna veered her attention toward the call. Her vision slowly cleared as it took in the worn, lined face of Mr. Hollis. Deep-set eyes, droopy from age, flickered with worry as they scanned her trembling form. His bent frame leaned slightly on the gnarled cane he always carried.
"I—" She tried to speak, but only a ragged gasp escaped. Her tongue felt raw, and her chest heaved like bellows. She blinked rapidly, trying to force the memory of the alley, of the red-eyed shadow, to slip back into the darkness where it belonged.
"You look like a drowned rat!" Hollis exclaimed, grabbing a rag from the table to wave it at her. "You've been gone hours! I thought—" His voice faltered as he scanned her trembling form. "Are you hurt?"
Luenna stilled, startled by the question. Somehow, miraculously, she was not. Not a scratch. Not a single wound. Her body ached from running and from adrenaline, but there was no blood, no bite, no burn. Only dirt. A lot of it.
"No… no, I'm fine." She shook her head, though her knees still threatened to buckle.
"You're drenched and covered in mud, what in blazes happened out there?" he demanded, more sharply now.
"I-it's nothing," she whispered, but even to herself it sounded like a lie. She dared not explain what she had witnessed. Not now, at least. Not when thinking about it was enough to make her want to retch.
A small shuffle came from the corner, and a little girl peeked out from beneath a threadbare blanket. "Luenna?" she called, her voice trembling like a candle in the wind.
Luenna took a shaky breath, pressing her palms against her mud-slicked apron as if anchoring herself to the room. Slowly, she tried to calm the frantic beating of her heart, trying to remind herself that she was home.
She was safe. Nothing could touch her here.
She forced her shoulders down, let her knees stop quivering, or at least tried, and met the girl's wide, anxious eyes. "…It's okay," she murmured, her voice hoarse but steadying with each word. "I'm fine, Annette."
The old man huffed, muttering under his breath. "Middle of the night, and here you come looking like a ghost…" He paused, letting out a rattling sigh. "Sit. Sit down before you keel over."
Luenna did as he said, slumping onto the worn sofa and pressing her hands to her face, trying to steady herself.
From the kitchen came the faint clatter of metal and the low hiss of a fire. Hollis was heating water as he always did after her long shifts, though tonight the gesture felt impossibly tender against the chaos still clawing at her mind.
A few moments later, he returned, carrying a worn towel and a small basin of steaming water. He set them carefully on the low table beside the sofa, eyes never leaving her. "Here," he said gently. "Clean yourself. Wash off the mud… the water will help steady your hands."
Luenna nodded numbly, accepting the towel and dipping her trembling fingers into the warm water. Annette hovered nearby, silently watching, clutching her blanket like a shield against the world.
Hollis sat back on the edge of a chair, his hands gripping the cane planted between his knees. His brow was furrowed, worry etched in every line of his face. "You've never taken this long to get home before. Tell me," his voice low but urgent, "what exactly happened out there?"
Luenna's throat tightened once again. Words could not contain the horror she had just survived that for a long moment, she could not speak.