- Back to Freya, Village-
The screams from the forest had stopped.
Not faded — stopped. As if someone had closed a curtain over the sounds of dying men and splintering bones.
Back in the village, the silence returned heavier than before.
Only one woman cried.
The same one who sent the alarm about the "Strange figures in the dark".
She was still on her knees in the center of the square, her face buried in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
After the initial help, no one dared approach her again.
Not after the cackling from the trees. Not after the torches had begun to flicker unnaturally.
For some reason, some of them who were next to her, took some steps back, standing next to the people.
They just stood — villagers, widows, elders — eyes wide, hands trembling, waiting for something, anything, to explain what was happening.
And then Aurea moved.
Freya Valken, cloaked in light and illusion, walked gracefully toward the crying woman.
Her steps were calm, deliberate.
The air around her shimmered faintly — she was weaving energy through her palms.
White magic.
Subtle, but deadly in the right hands.
She didn't speak. Not yet.
She was about to do... a small test.
Her smile was soft, almost maternal, as she approached the sobbing woman.
The villagers watched with hesitant relief — Aurea, the kind traveler, the gentle soul, was going to comfort her.
Freya reached out.
Her fingertips glowed faintly with divine light but nobody normal could see her magic.
But it wasn't healing she was preparing.
It was detection. And purification — if needed.
Because from the moment she entered this village, Freya had smelled it.
Faint. Muted. Masked beneath sweat and soil and livestock.
The rot of old blood.
And now that she was this close…
It reeked.
But, her instincts told her to wait.
She knew that she had to wait for something... or someone.
She tilted her head, leaned down, her hand hovering just inches from the woman's trembling shoulder.
She smiled wider.
Then she whispered into her ear, voice like velvet laced with iron:
"You have a disgusting stench of rotten blood."
The sobbing stopped.
Instantly.
The woman's head jerked up.
A moment later, she launched backward, body twisting through the air like a serpent uncoiled.
Her movement was so strong and rapid that the impact on the ground left a big hole.
She landed in a crouch several meters away, hissing, her eyes now glowing an unnatural crimson.
The crowd gasped and staggered back.
"What the—?!" someone stammered.
Children began to cry.
Freya remained still, standing exactly where she had been.
The glow on her fingertips faded, replaced by the cold gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.
The illusion of the crying woman melted away like wax.
What stood in her place was tall, regal, and terrible.
Pale skin like polished porcelain.
Long hair the color of dried roses.
Her dress was black, tailored and ornate, high-collared with silver thread that shimmered with unholy runes.
And her eyes burned with the hatred of a thousand nights.
She smiled wide, showing perfect, predatory teeth.
"Impressive," she purred. "You almost touched me."
The villagers froze, terrified.
One of the elders whispered, "What… what are you?"
The woman bowed with theatrical grace.
"I am Selene Vaekhar. Baroness of the Crimson Hand. Daughter of Maria the Pale."
The crowd broke.
Gasps, prayers, some dropped their torches, others stumbled backward, tripping over themselves in their haste to run.
But they didn't get far.
Laughter rippled through the village.
And then the real nightmare began.
From the crowd — from within the people — more figures began to change.
Clothes tore.
Eyes bled red.
Smiles stretched into fanged grins.
Dozens.
Dozens of them.
Villagers that were never villagers.
Children, husbands, wives — all revealed for what they were.
Sleepers. Parasites.
Vampires.
Some simply dropped the act, mouths opening unnaturally wide as they lunged at the nearest humans.
Screams tore through the night.
Blood sprayed across wooden walls.
A boy no older than ten tackled a blacksmith and began tearing his throat out with tiny, savage teeth.
A woman who had served soup to Aurea three nights ago now drove her claws through her neighbor's chest, laughing.
Freya did not flinch.
She stepped back once, calmly avoiding the spray of arterial blood from a dying man's neck, and adjusted the sleeve of her illusionary dress.
Selene watched her, delighted.
"Oh, your calm is delicious," she said, voice sing-song. "Do you know how long we've waited for this? How long we slept among your little cattle?"
Freya gave her a half-smile.
"Sleeping pigs still stink," she replied. "And your disguise was poor. The smell was always there."
Selene's grin widened.
"But none of you did anything. You let us live here."
Freya chuckled.
"You misunderstand. I didn't let you live here."
Her fingers twitched.
Blades of light appeared in the air around her, hovering like wings made of glass.
"I was just waiting for the right time to kill you all."
Selene lunged.
Freya met her head-on.
The impact shook the ground — white light clashing against crimson shadows. Freya's illusion burned away mid-leap, revealing her true self: black hair flowing, battle-worn cloak unfurling like wings, and eyes that burned with judgment.
The air cracked with every strike — light colliding with darkness, holy magic against undead ferocity.
Selene moved like smoke and silk, her claws dancing, but Freya was faster — blades of light orbiting her, blocking each strike, slicing across Selene's arms and chest.
Blood sizzled where it touched Freya's aura.
Behind them, the massacre continued.
Villagers screamed and fled as the infiltrators fed, the night painted red with betrayal.
Freya didn't look back.
She couldn't.
This was no longer about protection.
This was execution.
Selene hissed and leapt again, faster, stronger — her wounds already closing.
"You'll die here, witch!"
Freya caught her wrist mid-swing and grinned.
"I've died before."
She twisted — and with a pulse of divine force, exploded Selene backward into a wall, cracking stone and bone.
The vampire shrieked, sliding down, blood trailing.
Freya took a breath, light circling her body in slow orbits.
Then she smiled again.
The same smile she had given the children earlier.
The smile of a wolf in sheep's skin.
"Now it's my turn."