Anemoi 26 – Anemoi 28, Imperial Year 1645
Luminara – The Hunters' Hall
The door chimed.
Margot looked up. A courier. Not him.
She returned to the ledger.
The door chimed. A hunter she did not recognize. Not him.
She wiped the counter.
The door chimed. A woman selling pies. Not him.
She sharpened a quill.
The door chimed. Garrick, drunk before noon, complaining about a poached bounty.
"La Serre, you're quiet today."
"I'm always quiet."
"No. You're usually still. Today you're waiting."
She did not answer. Garrick shrugged and left.
The door chimed. A veteran with a scar across his jaw. "Any word from Alucard?"
"No."
"He'll be back. He always is."
She did not ask how he knew. She simply nodded.
The door chimed. A woman in wet leathers. "Any witch contracts?"
"None today."
The door chimed. A man with a sack of goblin ears. She counted. Her hands were steady. Her mind was not.
The door chimed. A child looking for her father. "He's in the back," Margot said. "Second door on the left."
The door chimed. A bard. She sent him away.
The door chimed. A hunter she had not seen in years. "La Serre, you look well."
"I look the same."
"The hat is new."
She touched the brim. The silver wolf's head clasp was cool under her fingers. "Yes."
The door chimed. A woman with a broken sword. "Can this be repaired?"
"The blacksmith is not here."
"When will he return?"
"I don't know."
The woman left. The door chimed.
The door chimed. The door chimed. The door chimed.
She stopped counting the chimes. She counted the silences between them.
Anemoi 28 – Evening
The Hall was nearly empty. A fire crackled in the hearth, its light painting the scarred oak counter in shades of orange and shadow. Rain tapped against the high windows like impatient fingers.
Margot stood behind the counter. The new hat was on her head, the brim shadowing her eyes. The ruined hat sat on the shelf behind her, a silent witness.
She was not supposed to worry. She had been a clerk for twenty years, since she was nineteen, since her mother died of a fever that the village healer could not cure. She had learned to file absence away like a misfiled bounty notice. Hunters came and went. Some did not come back.
This was different. She did not examine why.
The door chimed.
She looked up.
Vlad entered.
He was wet. His black coat dripped water onto the floorboards. His silver hair was dark with rain, plastered to his temples. His face was bare, pale, sharp. His eyes were the colour of old wine, and they were tired.
He walked to the counter. His boots made no sound, but they left wet prints.
Margot did not speak. She waited.
He set a small bundle on the counter. Oilcloth, tied with twine. His left hand was wrapped in a makeshift bandage. The cloth was stained dark at the palm.
"The witch is dead," he said.
"There were thirteen," he added. "I counted."
She did not ask if he was hurt. She could see the gash on his hand, the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the way his weight shifted to his right foot.
"You're bleeding."
"It's shallow."
"Let me see."
She reached for his hand. He did not pull away. She unwrapped the bandage. The cut was deep, but clean. No green edges. No black veins. She took a cloth from under the counter, dampened it with water from a pitcher, and pressed it to the wound.
He did not flinch.
"You should be more careful," she said.
"I was careful. The witch was not."
She wrapped a fresh bandage around his palm, her fingers efficient, unhurried. She had done this a hundred times for a hundred hunters. This time, her hands did not shake. This time, she did not look away.
"There," she said. "Keep it dry."
He nodded.
She untied the bundle. Inside was a book. Old, leather‑bound, the pages yellowed. A pressed violet fell from between the pages. She caught it before it hit the counter.
"What is this?"
"Her notes. On plants. Poisons. Remedies." He paused. "You mentioned once that you used to garden. Before your mother died."
She had mentioned it. Years ago. To someone else. He had been listening.
"The violet?"
"It was pressed between the pages. I thought you might want it."
She opened the journal. The handwriting was cramped, precise. Diagrams of roots and flowers. A recipe for a tincture crossed out, rewritten in the margin. On one page, a note: "For fever, not for poison." The ink was darker there, smeared.
The violet was faded, but still purple.
She looked at him. "Thank you."
Vlad nodded. He turned to leave.
"Alucard."
He paused.
"The hat. I wore it."
He looked at her. The new hat was on her head, the brim shadowing her eyes. The silver wolf's head clasp caught the firelight.
"It suits you," he said.
He walked to the door. It chimed. He was gone.
Margot stood behind the counter, the journal in her hands, the violet pressed between its pages. The fire crackled. The rain tapped against the windows.
She did not count the chimes anymore.
She counted the days until he would return.
End of Chapter One Hundred Seventeen