Chapter 8: What Lurks in the Woods Tonight?
Corven stepped into the dark woodland he had left from not long ago, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The cold wind wrapped around him like an old memory, carrying the scent of moss, pine, and distant decay.
Above, the moon hung high—a pale, watchful eye in the heavens—its glow spilling through the trees and painting silver streaks across the canopy. A hauntingly beautiful backdrop.
The start of a hunt.
"So I have nine blood units currently... and I’m still a fledgling vampire," Corven muttered to himself, his breath steady as he focused. He slowed his pace, closing his eyes for a brief moment to sharpen his other senses. The woods whispered with subtle life—crickets chirping, leaves rustling, small creatures burrowing.
His ears twitched slightly. Every heartbeat. Every shuffle. Every distant cry. He listened—not as a man, but as a predator.
To find prey.
His fingers curled around the grip of the bow slung across his shoulder. Familiar. Reliable.
Bow in hand.
"No rest for the wicked..." he chuckled under his breath. It was a dry, humorless laugh, echoing faintly in the stillness around him. A coping mechanism from his previous life. One of the few things that hadn’t died with him.
Corven stalked through the undergrowth like a shadow, weaving between trees and low-hanging branches. He moved gracefully, unnaturally fluid—like a ghost untouched by the world. His feet disturbed no leaves. His breathing made no sound. Even the wind seemed to part for him.
Creating as little noise as possible.
And then—prey was spotted.