-Ronan Hale:
The village was small—nothing more than a handful of stone-and-wood cottages scattered along a muddy path.
The houses were old, their thatched roofs bowed with age, smoke curling from the chimneys into the grey sky.
A few villagers lingered near the market square, their eyes wary as we approached on horseback.
I'd been to places like this before. Isolated, quiet. The kind where people knew trouble when they saw it. And we were trouble. Or at least, she was.
A witch can't go unnoticed especially when it's a witch who was blessed with such an ethereal beauty.
Subjectively speaking.
Elara, with her untamed red hair, the faint scent of magic clinging to her like a second skin.
I could feel their suspicion as I dismounted, pulling my hood lower to obscure my face. They wouldn't recognize me, but my kind had a reputation.
A vampire hunter passing through meant something had already gone wrong—or was about to.
