Dromos 25 – Dromos 27, Imperial Year 1645
Luminara – The Hunters' Hall
The Hall was loud. A dozen conversations tangled in the smoke‑filled air. Hunters argued over bounties, sharpened blades, nursed ales. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the stuffed wolf's head above it watched it all with its single yellow eye.
Ghislaine stood at the counter, his new greathelm tilted as he studied the notice board.
"The bounty on the northern ridge is still open," Margot said without looking up from her ledger.
"I saw."
"Then why are you still standing there?"
He turned. The T‑shaped slit of his helm revealed nothing. "I am considering whether the pay is worth the cold."
"It's not. Take the cockatrice contract instead."
He glanced at the board, then back at her. A pause. "You worry about me."
"I worry about the bounty." Margot's quill scratched. "Go."
A hunter with a bandaged arm limped past. Ghislaine pulled a parchment from the board.
"I'll take the cockatrice."
"Good."
He walked to the door. The bell chimed. He was gone.
The door chimed again. Elara pushed through with Beardless Corvin and Roderick behind her. Beardless Corvin carried a rolled parchment. Roderick had a sack of something that clinked.
"We need to post a bounty," Elara said.
Margot dipped her quill. "Name of the creature?"
"Alphis bull. Large. Male. It has a mane like a lion and it's been scattering merchants on the eastern road."
"How many attacks?"
"Four in the last ten days. No deaths, but two broken wagons and a lot of frightened traders."
Margot wrote. "Reward?"
"Two hundred silver. Dead or alive?"
"Dead," Roderick said. "I'm not trying to rope that thing."
Beardless Corvin unrolled the parchment – a sketch of the bull, massive, shaggy, with eyes that seemed to glare.
"Put it on the board," Margot said. "Someone will take it."
The door chimed again.
Bastien of Verdon entered. His flat gold armor was dull in the firelight, the blonde dangling strands of his hood swaying. The single horizontal slit of his helm swept the room. He walked to the notice board with the unhurried stride of a man who had seen everything and feared nothing.
He scanned the parchments. Then his hand stopped.
A new notice. Fresh ink. The paper still curled at the edges.
KIDNAPPERS. Three children taken from the village of Harrow's Ford. Reward: one hundred silver. Location: abandoned mill. Five men, armed. Do not engage alone.
Bastien pulled it from the board.
"I'll take this."
Margot looked up. "The reward is low. The kidnappers are dangerous."
He did not answer. He simply folded the parchment and tucked it into his belt.
"No reward needed. They crossed a line. I will make sure they do not cross it again."
The Hall went quiet. A hunter near the hearth set down his cup. Another whispered to his companion.
"That's the Golden Knight."
"He doesn't negotiate."
"He doesn't take prisoners."
Bastien turned to the door. The bell chimed. He was gone.
Elara stared at the empty space. "Who was that?"
"Bastien of Verdon," Margot said. "He hunts those who harm children. He does not ask for payment."
"Why not?"
Margot glanced at the shelf behind her – the three hats – then back at her ledger. "Because some lines should not be crossed. He makes sure those who cross them do not cross again."
The door closed. A hunter coughed. Elara tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The fire popped. Then the bell chimed again.
Vlad entered.
He wore the coat he had spent months making – black, long, frock‑style, falling past his knees. The lapels were wide, pointed, edged with thick gold trim. Gold piping ran vertically down the front panels. A stand‑up collar, black, accented with gold. Beneath it, a white cravat held by a silver brooch. A flowing black cape, lined with pale grey, draped over his shoulders.
A wide leather belt with a gold buckle cinched his waist. Black gloves covered his hands. At his hip, a longsword with a gold hilt – the one he had forged himself.
He wore no hat. His silver‑white hair was tied back. His face was bare – pale, sharp, with wine‑dark eyes that were tired.
The Hall did not go quiet. It was already loud. But a few hunters stopped mid‑sentence. The bearded man with the crossbow raised an eyebrow.
"New coat," he said to his companion.
"New everything."
"Think he's trying to impress someone?"
"If he is, it's working."
Elara's head snapped toward the door. "Vlad?"
Roderick turned. His jaw tightened. "It's him."
Beardless Corvin squinted. "Never saw him dressed like that back at home."
"He's different," Elara said quietly.
"New coat," Roderick said.
"Not just the coat."
Vlad walked to the counter. His boots made no sound. The cape settled behind him.
Margot looked up. Her quill did not stop. "You're back."
"I am."
"Three weeks."
"I had something to make."
She set down the quill. "Something to make?"
He reached into his coat and set a small box on the counter. Dark wood, polished, no inscription.
Margot opened it. Inside, nestled in black cloth, was a hat. Black – the same deep black as his coat. The brim was wide, tailored, with a subtle pinch at the crown. The hatband was black grosgrain, edged with a thin line of gold thread – the same gold that trimmed his lapels. At the side, a small silver clasp: a wolf's head, howling, its eyes tiny garnets. It matched the clasp on her grey hat, but the metal was darker, the garnets deeper.
"I made it," he said. "To match the coat."
"For you?"
"For you."
She lifted the hat. The felt was soft, the band smooth. The garnet eyes caught the firelight. She turned it over. The stitching was even, deliberate – the same careful hand that had made his own clothes.
"You made this yourself."
"Yes."
"For me."
"For you."
From the corner table, a woman with a scar across her jaw nudged her companion. "Look at that. He's giving her a hat."
"She's already got two."
"This one's different. Black. Gold trim. Matches his coat."
"A pair," the companion grinned. "Someone's courting."
A third hunter leaned in. "He's been gone three weeks. Came back with a whole new wardrobe and a hat for her. That's not a hunt, that's a confession."
"Shh. She'll hear you."
Margot's ears were red. She traced the wolf's head clasp with her thumb. Then she set the new hat on the shelf beside the ruined one and the grey one she already wore. Three hats. Three chapters.
She reached up and straightened the ruined hat – a small gesture, quick, almost automatic.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"It is not ruined."
She almost smiled. "No. It is not."
"Thank you," she said.
He nodded. He turned to leave.
"Alucard."
He paused.
"The coat," she said. "The gold. You're not hiding anymore."
He did not turn. "I never was."
Elara stood. "Vlad."
He stopped. His shoulders tensed. Then he turned.
The Hall went quiet. Hunters looked between Elara and Vlad. A few leaned forward.
"You know him?" Margot asked, her voice carefully flat.
"We shared a table," Elara said. "Fixed our tools. Sharpened our swords."
Roderick added, "He was our blacksmith."
Beardless Corvin nodded. "Made breakfast. Burned the toast. Twice."
Vlad sighed. Not a twitch. A long, slow exhale, the kind that came from somewhere deep.
"We can talk later," he said.
"We're in town for a few days," Elara said.
"Then we will talk later."
He walked to the door. The bell chimed. He was gone.
The Hall exhaled.
A hunter at the notice board – the one who had been drinking alone – reached up and pulled down the alphis bull contract. He tucked it into his belt and walked out.
Elara sat down. Roderick sat across from her. Beardless Corvin stared at the door.
"He sighed," Beardless Corvin said.
"He always sighs."
"No. That was a different sigh. That was a 'I am surrounded by idiots' sigh."
Roderick shrugged. "He's not wrong."
Margot picked up her quill. Her hand was steady. But she glanced at the shelf – the three hats – and then at the door.
Elara leaned toward Roderick. "He's different."
"New coat."
"Not just the coat. The way he looked at her."
"The clerk?"
"Yes."
Roderick was silent for a moment. "Good for him."
Beardless Corvin snorted. "Good for him? He's hopeless. He made her a hat."
"A hat that matches his coat."
"That's worse."
Across the Hall, a hunter shook his head. "He's daft. Giving a woman a hat she already has."
His companion shrugged. "Aye, but he made it. That's different."
"Is it?"
"She kept the burnt one. She'll keep this one too."
The fire crackled. The stuffed wolf's head watched. The Hall breathed.
End of Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four