Anemoi 25, Imperial Year 1645
Luminara – The Hunters' Hall
The Hall was quiet at this hour. Midday, between contracts. A few hunters nursed ales at the corner tables. A fire crackled in the hearth, though the day was not cold. The light was grey, filtering through the high windows, settling on the scarred oak counter like dust.
Behind the counter stood Margot Stone. To the regulars, she was simply La Serre – the Greenhouse, a nickname earned decades ago for the way she could make anything grow, including patience, from the most stubborn of hunters. No one used it to her face.
She was tall, and the height was not the first thing you noticed—her stillness was. She did not fidget. She did not lean. She stood with the easy, unconscious posture of someone who had long ago stopped apologizing for taking up space. Her hair was black, long, straight, falling past her shoulders. A single streak of grey ran from her left temple, a scar from a cut that had healed white years ago. She never spoke of it.
Her face was sharp—high cheekbones, a straight nose, a jaw that could have been carved. Her eyes were the colour of a frozen lake, pale grey, almost blue, and they missed nothing. She wore a simple grey dress, high‑collared, long‑sleeved, the fabric worn thin at the elbows. Over it, a leather apron, stained with ink and the occasional drop of blood from a freshly delivered bounty. Her hands were not soft. The knuckles were scarred, the fingers long and calloused.
She was not beautiful in the way of songs. She was beautiful in the way of a winter landscape: stark, unforgiving, and impossible to ignore.
Behind her, on a high shelf, sat a ruined hat. Charred, stiff, a hole burned through the crown. She dusted it herself. No one asked why.
The door chimed.
A young man entered. He was young—maybe twenty, maybe younger. His armour was new, the leather still stiff, the buckles unmarked. His sword was too clean. He walked to the counter with the swagger of someone who had not yet learned that swagger was a liability.
"I'm here to register," he said.
Margot did not look up from her ledger. "Name?"
"Rolan. Rolan of… nowhere. Just Rolan."
She dipped her quill. "Specialty?"
"Monsters. Goblins. Whatever needs killing." He leaned on the counter, elbows on the wood. "You're pretty."
The quill stopped. Her eyes lifted. They were flat, grey, patient.
"I'm married to the job."
"I can share."
From a corner table, a veteran hunter with a scar across his jaw spoke without looking up. "Kid. Stop."
"I'm just being friendly."
"You're being stupid."
Another hunter, a woman with a missing ear, snorted. "He's not the first. Won't be the last. La Serre's turned down better men than you."
Rolan's grin tightened. "Maybe I'm not asking."
Margot set down the quill. Her hand moved to the shelf behind her—not to the ruined hat, but to something else. She did not need to. The door chimed again.
Vlad entered.
He wore no hat. No mask. His face was bare—pale, sharp, with high cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. His eyes were the colour of old wine, red and tired. His hair was silver‑white, long, tied back. His coat was black wool, falling to mid‑calf, silver buttons gleaming. A longsword hung at his hip, its pommel a silver wolf's skull.
The room shifted. A hunter near the fire set down his cup. The woman with the missing ear straightened. The veteran with the scar sat up.
"Alucard," someone whispered.
Vlad walked to the counter. His boots made no sound. He set a box on the counter. Wood, dark, polished. No inscription.
Margot looked at the box. Then at Vlad.
"You made it."
"Yes."
She opened the box. Inside, nestled in black cloth, was a hat. Dark grey felt, wide brim, a crimson silk band. At the side, a small silver clasp—a wolf's head, howling, its eyes tiny garnets.
She lifted it. The felt was soft but stiffened against rain. The inside was lined with silk, embroidered with a single silver thread—a tiny Geass crest, hidden from all but her.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"I had practice."
The veteran with the scar leaned toward his companion. "He gave her a hat."
"She kept the old one."
"She's been dusting it for weeks."
"And now he gives her a new one."
They exchanged a look. The woman with the missing ear grinned. "La Serre's got an admirer."
"More like the other way around."
"You think?"
"Look at her. She never smiles. She just did."
Rolan stared at the exchange. His face was pale. "You're Alucard?"
Vlad turned. His red eyes settled on the young man. No threat. No warmth. Just a gaze that had seen too much.
"I am."
Rolan's hand moved to his sword. "I've heard about you. You think you're better than everyone."
"I think nothing."
"I could take you."
The veteran stood. "Kid. Don't."
Rolan drew his sword. It was clean, bright, unscratched. "Come on. Let's see what the legend can do."
Vlad did not draw. He did not move. He simply looked at the young man.
Two hunters grabbed Rolan's arms. "That's enough."
"Let me go—"
"Look at him." The veteran pointed at Vlad. "Look at his face. You think you can compete with that?"
Rolan's eyes darted to Vlad's sharp features, his silver hair, his wine‑dark eyes. His jaw worked. He said nothing.
"She's been turning down men for twenty years," the woman with the missing ear added. "You really think a shiny sword and a nice grin are going to do it?"
Rolan's face went red. Then white. He sheathed his sword and walked to the door. It chimed. He was gone.
The Hall returned to its murmur. The veteran sat down. The woman picked up her cup.
Margot placed the new hat on the shelf beside the ruined one. Two hats. Two chapters.
She looked at Vlad. "You didn't have to come today."
"I know."
"You wanted to see me wear it."
"I wanted to see you keep it."
She almost smiled. Almost.
"Thank you," she said.
Vlad nodded. He turned and walked to the door. It chimed. The Hall was quiet.
The veteran hunter raised his cup. "To La Serre."
"To La Serre," the others echoed.
Margot picked up her quill. The ledger waited. The new hat sat on the shelf, its garnet eyes catching the firelight.
End of Chapter One Hundred Sixteen