The small village that became a grave burned for three days after Nick and Lenara vanished. No flames—just dark rumors and gossip. A small hamlet, once nothing, had become the birthplace of fear and whispered dread.
They didn't run or hide.
They wandered.
Down moonlit roads and across backcountry trails, always together—Nick in loose, deliberate struts, Lenara silent at his side like a statue carved from bone and shadow. No destination. Just hunger and a growing sense of what they were meant to become.
They were walking gods in the making. And they knew it. Without the need of knight's resolve and lingua, they could easily slaughter hundreds of people. Of course, they knew they weren't truly invincible and could be harmed so they never overdid it.
The next town was called Wellsbarrow, a logging village built around a blackwater river and a hollowed-out temple. Population? Around seventy. Weak. Isolated. Exactly the kind of place where a myth could take root but in a slow and control manner.
"Let's be subtle," Lenara said as they stood beneath the crooked welcome sign.
Nick chuckled. "You sure? I liked last time."
She turned her violet eyes to him. "Too much gossip too fast and the prey might scatter. I want them crawling back to their beds with blood on their shirts and their minds broken."
"Let me guess," he muttered, stretching. "We play nice first? Pretend to be travelers or something."
Lenara smiled faintly. "We play clever."
They entered the town under cloaks, their skin hidden, their presence muted with minor darkness lingua glamour—just enough to pass. Lenara took the guise of a wandering herbalist. Nick claimed to be her brother. The townsfolk didn't ask questions. Why would they? Strangers came and went sometimes. Travelers were common enough. Besides, the pair had kind smiles—smiles sharpened like knives.
For two days, they did nothing. They helped the villagers, played with the children, and even helped with the building project of the village.
They bought bread. They paid for an inn room. Lenara even treated a child with a "rare fever" using "a rare herb" she plucked from nowhere. Truefully she used her blood which could heal and turn others. However, to turn another she also needed to ingest their blood before feeding them hers.
Nick flirted. Boldly, charmingly. Mostly with women too young to know better and wives too miserable to care. He took what was offered—smiles, touches, secrets—and gave wild nights of sexual passion in return. Just little bites of attention. Promises of more. A little spice to make the future meal taste better.
By the third day, the town trusted them. They even offered to help them build a house if they wished to stay in the village.
That was when the deaths began.
The first was the boy who had followed Lenara into the woods, trying to steal from her bag. They found him the next morning—tied to a tree, arms cut from the elbow down, jaw wrenched open and stuffed with ash.
The second was a girl who had confessed her feelings to Nick. They found her in her family's barn, naked from recent sex and drained, heart carved out and placed in her own hands.
Wellsbarrow stirred with panic. The constable tried to rally the men, but fear crushed discipline. No one could explain the marks. No one had seen a thing. This was not the work of beasts and they feared whatever creature was capable of such acts.
Nick and Lenara remained blameless. Untouched. Just two outsiders in a sea of suspicion.
They fed only once each night. Taking their time letting the fear and confusion slowly build.
Lenara preferred to stalk the dreams of those who mourned. She entered their homes silently, sometimes just watching from corners, whispering to sleeping minds, letting her presence fester. Her victims often died before her fangs touched skin—heart attacks, madness, seizures. The trauma flavored the blood.
Nick, on the other hand, was fast, hungry, and depraved. He would take a woman—sometimes a man, if drunk enough—out into the fields or behind the tavern. They would think they were about to experience something dangerous and exciting.
They weren't wrong.
One woman returned missing her teeth and memory. Another came back convinced her husband was a demon and bludgeoned him to death with a candlestick.
Nick laughed so hard he nearly cried. "We don't even need to feed. They're doing it for us."
"They're breaking exactly how we want," Lenara agreed. "It's beautiful."
On the seventh night, a traveling mage arrived. He was middle-aged, scarred, and wore a silver sun necklace a sign of the creator. This world had no official religion but some mages mostly vehemently believed in the creator. The townsfolk begged him to cleanse the village. He agreed.
Lenara waited until he had finished lighting the ward candles imbued with light lingua. This would keep most beasts away but sadly the beasts in question weren't the least bothered by such things.
Then she stepped into his room, drenched in blood not her own, and set it all on fire.
He lived.
For six hours.
The next morning, the sound of a bell could be heard ringing thirteen times—throughout the whole village drawing the villagers out of their houses. Thinking the mage had succeeded they rush to his inn.
There was no mage inside.
Only his robes, folded neatly atop an altar slick with fresh crimson, and a message carved into the wood:
"Faith tastes like regret."
By now, Nick was restless.
He watched the townspeople flee in scattered groups, trying to reach neighboring villages or vanish into the woods. "This is too easy," he muttered.
"Because they're weak," Lenara replied. "But we want them to talk. Leave a few alive from each group. Let them carry the stories."
"Like breadcrumbs," Nick smirked. "We're building quite the infamy."
"More of a legend," Lenara corrected. "Monsters that come by night. Kill slowly. Leave nightmares behind."
Nick scratched his jaw, watching a family sob as they packed a cart with shaking hands. "It's not just fear anymore. They worship the dread. Some of them… think we're gods, like the false creator and our master. They want us to come so they can offer us sacrifices."
"That's the first step to devotion," Lenara said calmly. "And devotion breaks just like bones."
That night, they made their first mark.
They carved it into the tavern wall, where every remaining soul would see it:
A sun pierced by a fang, dripping blood.
No name. No message.
Only the symbol.
By morning, the town was abandoned.
And the symbol would appear again—days later, in a city to the west, drawn in blood above the door of a nobleman's home found entirely empty.
They walked away from Wellsbarrow hand in hand, smiling.
Nick tilted his head toward her. "We ready to make a family?"
Lenara looked at the path ahead. "I've already chosen the girl."
"She pure?"
"In every way that matters."
Nick's grin turned wolfish. "Then let's break her."
Lenara's voice was velvet and final. "Let's remake her."
They vanished into the trees, night at their heels, and death in their wake.