In the quiet days that followed her rescue, Celeste's body began to stitch itself back together, slowly but steadily. The meals were simple but warm, and her healing spells—weak at first—began to take root. The rest she finally received, combined with food and safety, gave her what she needed to recover at a pace no one would have expected just days ago.
She still limped slightly when she stepped on her left foot, and her shoulder burned whenever she tried to lift anything heavier than a bowl, but the bleeding had stopped, and her ribs no longer ached with every breath. With time, she could even manage a smile again—though it was often faint, reserved.
Each morning, she cast her healing spell first thing after waking. At first, it barely lit her palm. But after a few days, the light stayed longer, stronger. With each cast, her wounds softened. The jagged cut across her ribs faded to a faint line, the angry bruises across her hip dulled in color, and her skin returned to its usual shade. Though her shoulder still resisted and her leg throbbed from overuse, she was no longer in danger.
She didn't just sit around either. Despite the couple's insistence that she rest more, Celeste had always felt uncomfortable receiving without giving back. So she cleaned where she could, swept the wooden floors, helped cook meals when her hands allowed it, and gathered herbs near the edge of the field when she felt up to it. The woman—who introduced herself as Elira—often laughed softly at her persistence.
"You really are stubborn," Elira said one evening, placing a steaming bowl of soup in front of Celeste. "But I like that about you. It's the stubborn ones that live."
Riran, her husband, returned from the field later that day and greeted Celeste like an old friend. He was a wide-shouldered man, sun-kissed and calloused from decades of fieldwork. Despite his gruff appearance, his voice was soft when he addressed her.
"You're welcome here as long as you need," he said as they sat down to eat. "Zurco's a good man, and if he pointed you to us, then that's enough for me."
Celeste had barely managed a quiet thank-you in return, but the kindness in their eyes said she didn't have to say more.
For a while, it felt like maybe—just maybe—she could recover, hide in this quiet little corner of the world, and no one would come looking.
But that hope was soon shattered.
One morning, when Elira stepped out to hang laundry, humming softly to herself as she clipped sheets and shirts onto the twine with worn wooden pegs. Inside, Celeste was at the stove, carefully stirring a small pot of stew, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and her hair tied back loosely to keep it out of her face.
She had just begun chopping vegetables when she heard hooves. At first, she ignored it—merchants and travelers came through the village all the time—but something about the hurried pace, the synchronized rhythm, made her pause. She stepped closer to the window and pushed the curtain aside.
Her breath hitched.
Four soldiers on horseback had ridden into the path leading up to the house. Their armor wasn't polished ceremonial wear, but the kind used for long-distance patrols—dull iron, built for endurance. Each carried weapons at their side, and the one leading them bore a crimson sash draped over his shoulder.
Elira had paused mid-clip. The sheet she had been about to hang fluttered in the breeze.
One of the soldiers raised his hand and called out. "You there—madam. We're conducting a search."
Elira turned, brows knitting together. "Search? What for?"
The soldier dismounted, his expression impassive. "There's been word of a vampire sighted in this region. We've orders to investigate every house and property in nearby villages."
Celeste's legs weakened, and she reached out to grip the edge of the kitchen table to steady herself. No. No, no…
Elira folded her arms. "A vampire? That's a serious accusation."
The soldier took a step closer. "Then you won't mind if we take a look inside."
"You can't just barge in," Elira said, her voice firm but calm. "This is my home. You want to enter, you get permission from the man of the house. My husband's in the fields right now, and I won't let you in until he says it's fine."
The soldier narrowed his eyes, suspicious now. "Are you hiding something?"
Elira didn't flinch. "No. But that's how we do things here. You want to search our house? Go talk to Riran. He's out gathering wheat with the other men. Ask him."
The soldier glared at her for a long moment. Then, finally, he exhaled and gestured to his men. "Fine. Lead us to him."
Inside, Celeste let go of the table and dropped to her knees behind the counter. Her fingers pressed against her lips to quiet her breath. Her mind screamed run, but she couldn't. If she bolted now, it would only confirm their suspicions. And worse, it would bring trouble to the only people who had ever shown her kindness since her fall.
Out in the golden fields, Riran was using a sickle to harvest wheat when he noticed the soldiers approaching. His expression shifted immediately.
A man beside him muttered, "Soldiers? What for?"
"They're searching for a vampire," another said, his voice wary.
Riran stood upright, gripping the sickle tighter. The lead soldier approached. "You Riran?"
He nodded once. "That's right."
"We have reason to believe a vampire may be hiding in this village. We've been given authority to search every house. Do you permit us to search yours?"
Riran's brow furrowed. "You can, but I'm coming with you. You so much as crack a bowl, and we'll have a problem."
The soldier sneered at the delay but nodded. "Fine."
As the soldiers returned to the cottage, their boots crunching against the dirt path, Riran took the lead with a tone calm yet firm. He stood at the entrance of his own home, arms crossed.
"So," he said, "can you explain to me the reason for this search?"
The soldier in charge gave him a tired look, irritation evident in the way he sighed and adjusted the strap of his scabbard. "As I've already explained—we've received multiple reports of a vampire sighting. A young girl, injured, traveling alone. A number of villages have already been attacked in the past year under similar pretenses. We're here to prevent that."
Riran gave a measured nod, turning his eyes to Elira, who stood behind him. She looked at him with concern, and after a small pause, nodded back. That was all he needed.
He turned back to the soldiers. "Alright. If you need to search my house, let's be quick. We'll start with the bedroom."
He raised his voice slightly as he said it, putting a deliberate weight on the word. He spoke not for the soldiers now—but for Celeste, wherever in the house she still remained. He knew she would hear him. He knew what he was doing might brand him a liar to these men, but if he could just give her a sliver of time…
Behind the storage wall, crouched low, Celeste heard it. Her heart dropped in an instant. The pain in her body—the ache of her still-healing shoulder, the burn in her foot—it all vanished under the sting of betrayal.
She pressed her back against the stone wall and clenched her jaw. "That's unfair…" she whispered, a tear breaking free and streaking down her cheek. Her voice trembled. She didn't know what she expected—that they'd fight for her? That they'd hide her in a cellar or lie for her outright? She didn't know. But still, hearing it hurt.
Sniffling, she wiped her tears with the edge of her sleeve, then quietly reached for her daggers. They were strapped tightly beneath her borrowed tunic. She moved as quickly as her body allowed to the back of the storage room, where a small window faced out into the woods behind the house. She climbed up onto a low shelf to reach it.
The window creaked as it opened, and she nearly slipped as she pulled herself through. Her foot hit a crate, knocking it over with a dull thud. She winced but didn't stop. By the time she landed in the grass outside, she was already running.
Inside, the soldiers walked through each room. Chests were opened. Bedframes were pulled away from walls. Cupboards and storage boxes were examined one after another.
When they reached the storage room, the leader paused. The window was open, and several small tools and crates had fallen or been shifted.
He stared at it for a moment.
Riran stepped behind him and said with casual confidence, "Wind must've knocked a few things down. My wife sometimes forgets to close the window."
The soldier turned to look at him. They locked eyes for a second.
Then the soldier looked back at the mess, his brow still furrowed. Eventually, he nodded. "Alright."
The search ended shortly after. As the soldiers exited the house and mounted their horses, the lead man gave Riran a polite nod. "Thank you for your cooperation."
Riran offered a silent nod in return, his hand clenched behind his back.
But as the soldiers trotted away, the leader's voice lowered. "Search that side of the woods," he told his men, pointing discreetly. "I had a strange feeling about one of the rooms. Make sure nothing escapes you."
Three soldiers broke off from the group, heading toward the treeline. Their figures slowly disappeared into the woods.
Meanwhile, Celeste was moving. Her breath came in heavy gasps, her lungs burning with each ragged pull of air. She had no idea how long she'd been running—twenty minutes? An hour? The pain in her left leg was sharper now, and her shoulder screamed every time she pushed through a patch of brush or stumbled over a root. But she didn't stop.
The branches clawed at her clothes and skin, leaving thin scrapes along her arms and cheeks. But she kept running. One step after another. Her limbs screamed for rest, her heart thudded in her ears like a war drum.
After what felt like hours, the trees began to thin. The sunlight that filtered through the leaves had started to dip into an orange hue—dusk was nearing.
Celeste finally collapsed near a clearing, dropping beside a shallow stream. She leaned against a fallen log, her breath wheezing. She reached down and tore another strip of fabric from her already-tattered sleeve and tied it tighter around her foot to stop the throbbing.
As she sat there, trying to calm her breath, she whispered, "If I can only find a town… maybe a week from here… I can escape them. I'll make it back to the capital. I'll find a way back home."
But just as the thought brought a sliver of hope to her, she heard something behind her. A soft, sharp rustle—like hooves on leaves.
She tensed instantly, her body snapping upright despite the pain. She drew her daggers in a flash and turned toward the sound.
From the forest's edge, something emerged.
At first glance, it looked like a juvenile stag. Its legs were long, unnaturally thin. Its fur—if it could be called that—was patchy and blackened at the joints. The creature's ribs showed beneath its skin, but it wasn't emaciated—it was wrong. Its eyes glowed a dull amber, too large for its face. And its antlers were twisted into chaotic, jagged branches, like splintered wood fused with bone.
It stared at her with something between confusion and hunger.
Celeste's dagger trembled in her hand as she took a shaky step back. "And what is this now…?" she murmured, voice catching in her throat.