The morning sun had climbed higher, spilling honey-gold light across the rolling hills as Elira made her way back toward the village. The path beneath her worn leather boots was soft with fallen leaves and the faint scent of pine needles. A gentle breeze stirred the trees, carrying the distant song of a lark that seemed to echo the melody in her heart.
She paused briefly to look back at the river where she had spent the early morning. The water glittered beneath the now-clear sky, winding like a silver thread through the emerald landscape. For a moment, the world felt untroubled, as if the hills held their breath in quiet peace.
But the peace was fragile.
The village lay nestled at the foot of the hills — a scattering of timber cottages with smoke curling from chimneys like whispers in the cool air. Its heartbeat was steady but cautious, shadowed by the knowledge of the Blood Tax that would soon come again, like a winter frost creeping across the land.
Elira's cottage stood at the village's edge, modest but sturdy. The wooden door creaked as she pushed it open, stepping inside where the warm scent of burning wood and fresh bread greeted her like a long-lost friend. The low walls were lined with rough-hewn shelves holding simple treasures — clay pots, woven baskets, a small carved wooden bird her father had made when she was a child.
Her younger sister, Lilin, sat cross-legged by the hearth, humming a soft, lilting tune as she tended to the dying embers. Her dark eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and innocence, framed by tangled curls that fell over her freckled cheeks.
"Did you bring the bread?" Lilin asked, her voice tentative but hopeful.
Elira smiled and set the basket gently on the wooden table. "And honey too. Nicholas brought it."
Lilin's face brightened, but a flicker of worry crossed her features. "Do you think he'll visit again?" she asked quietly.
Elira crouched beside her, brushing a loose strand of hair from Lilin's forehead. "I think he will. Nicholas is kind. He cares about the hills… and about us."
Their moment of warmth was interrupted by a sudden, sharp knock at the door. Elira's heart tightened as her father, Mr. Smith, stepped inside, his face drawn and lined with fatigue.
"Girls," Mr. Smith said, his voice low and rough, "we need to talk."
The weight of his words settled like a stone in Elira's chest. Lilin looked up at their father, wide-eyed and silent.
Mr. Smith sat heavily on a worn stool, rubbing his hands together as if trying to will away the cold that had settled inside him. He avoided Elira's eyes for a moment before speaking again.
"The lord's men were here yesterday. Names are being collected for the Blood Tax," he began cautiously.
Elira's breath caught. She knew what it meant — the harsh tradition that demanded one girl from each village, sent to serve the vampire lord. It was a debt the village paid every year, a reminder that their lives belonged to others.
"And it's your turn, Lillin," he said gently.
Lillin gasped softly, clutching Elira's hand. "But… but I'm older. Why not me?"
Mr. Smith's gaze darkened. "Because your stepmother, Mara, has other ideas. She wants Lilin to take your place."
Elira's eyes narrowed in anger. Mara — her father's second wife — had never been kind to her, and her presence felt like a shadow over their home.
"Why?" Elira demanded. "Why would she say that?"
"Because she's selfish," Mr. Smith replied bitterly. "She wants to protect the family, even if it means sacrificing Lillian."
Lilin's lip trembled, and Elira squeezed her hand tighter. "I won't let her do that," she whispered fiercely.
Mr. Smith's shoulders slumped. He ran a tired hand through his graying hair before continuing. "There's more, Lillian. You must understand. The lord isn't just taking you as payment for the Blood Tax this year."
Elira frowned, confusion prickling in her chest.
"Your father… I mean me," Mr. Smith said, voice thick with shame, "I took a loan from the lord last year. For the winter supplies, and for the farm repairs. I promised I would repay it soon."
Elira's heart sank. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Mr. Smith looked down at his clasped hands, "she will have to serve the lord for longer than the usual term. A few more years."
Her breath hitched. "Years? But I thought it was only one year."
"I wish it were only one," he said, voice breaking. "But the debt must be paid, Elira. And I am too old and weak to pay it myself. This is my fault, and I am sorry."
Tears welled in Elira's eyes. "You didn't have to send her."
Mr. Smith met her gaze, pain etched deep in his face. "I had no choice. I thought sending Lilin would be easier on you. But I know it's not right."
Elira swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to scream at him, to demand that he fight for her, but she knew the lord's power was beyond any of them.
"We will get through this," she said quietly, more to herself than to him. "I have to."
Mr. Smith nodded slowly. "You are strong, Elira. Stronger than I ever was."
The room grew heavy with silence, broken only by the crackling fire.
Elira stood, the weight of her fate pressing down on her. "I'll speak with Nicholas. Maybe… maybe he can help."
Mr. Smith gave a tired smile. "He is a good boy. But this is a dark path she has to walk."
Elira squared her shoulders, determination flaring within her. "Then I'll light the way."
_______________________________
The bell tolled.
Its clang rang out across the hills like the cry of a wounded beast—long, low, and cold. The sound carried through the stone and wood of the village, through hearth smoke and window glass, into every ear that remembered what it meant.
Elira froze by the hearth, the edge of her mother's shawl clenched in her fist.
"They've come," Mr. Smith muttered grimly, standing near the doorway, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of memory.
Lilin whimpered. "Why does it sound like that?"
"Because someone is being taken," Elira answered quietly. Her voice didn't shake, though something inside her did. "Someone who won't come back the same."
A knock echoed on the front door. It was firm, steady—neither rushed nor polite. It was the kind of knock that came with the right to enter, with a badge and an order.
Mr. Smith opened it, stepping aside as two tall figures stepped into the room. They were dressed in black leather, cloaks like raven wings dusted in road dirt. One bore the crimson seal of the vampire lord's estate—an insignia of a crescent moon impaled by a fang. The other held a parchment scroll.
"Elira Smith," the taller one said, his voice smooth but cold. "You have been chosen to fulfill the Blood Tax for your village. You will report to Lord Calvorn's estate by sunset tomorrow."
Mr. Smith cleared his throat, fumbling for words. "There—there was an arrangement. She—she's not the one the lord asked for. He asked for the younger."
The man's eyes glinted. "Yes. The lord asked for Lilin. But Lilin was not offered. Elira's name was submitted by your household. And that submission is binding."
Lilin's hand found Elira's. It was trembling.
"Is there no way to appeal?" Mr. Smith tried again. "No delay?"
The second man, silent until now, spoke. "There is a delay granted… for a price."
Elira stiffened. "A price?"
The man's eyes slid to her. "Your father has already delayed this tax once, Miss Smith. The lord granted him a loan last harvest—a generous one, I might add—and extended his patience by nearly a year. In return, you will serve longer."
Mr. Smith bowed his head.
"And how long?" Elira asked, her voice steady, even as her stomach coiled.
The man unrolled the parchment. "You are to serve five years."
A silence, sharp and breathless, fell across the room.
Elira blinked. "Five."
"Unless your father repays the debt in full," the man said. "Which, I believe, he cannot."
"I'll be twenty-one by then," she murmured, almost to herself. "My whole life—"
"—will be pledged to the service of House Calvorn," the man finished. "We expect you before nightfall tomorrow."
Without another word, the two men turned and exited, boots thudding against the wooden floor, leaving a silence like ash in their wake.
Mr. Smith slumped into the nearest chair, rubbing his temples.
"I was going to tell you," he muttered.
"When?" Elira whispered. "When I was already inside the carriage?"
"I didn't think they'd come this soon."
"No," she said, her voice hardening. "You didn't think I would care."
He looked up then, eyes hollow. "I didn't want this for you. You have to believe me."
Elira wanted to scream. Instead, she walked out of the house.
Outside, the hills still looked golden in the afternoon sun. A few children played in the distance, unaware or unafraid. The world didn't seem to care that hers had shifted, cracked.
She didn't realize she was walking toward Nicholas's cottage until she saw his horse tethered to the fence.
Nicholas opened the door before she could knock. His smile faltered when he saw her face.
"Elira?"
"They came."
He didn't need to ask what she meant. He stepped aside, letting her in. The house was warm, the scent of rosemary and woodsmoke hanging in the air. Nicholas's mother sat in the corner, darning a sleeve, and gave Elira a soft, knowing nod before excusing herself.
Nicholas waited until they were alone. "When?"
"Tomorrow."
He sat down across from her. "I'll go with you."
"No," she said quickly, almost angrily. "You can't. They won't let you near the estate. You'd get yourself killed."
"I don't care."
"Well, I do!" she snapped, and then softened. "I… I don't want to owe another debt."
He was quiet for a long time. "How long do they want you for?"
Elira looked at her hands. "Five years."
Nicholas inhaled sharply. "Five?"
"My father took a loan last year. I didn't know."
"Elira…" He reached for her hand. "We'll find a way."
"No," she said softly, pulling back. "There's no way out of this. You know the laws."
He looked at her as though memorizing her face. "Then I'll wait."
She met his eyes, blinking back tears. "You don't have to."
"I do," he said. "You're… you're the only thing that makes this place feel like home."
She stood slowly. "Then don't say goodbye tomorrow. Just… remember the river. That morning. When everything still felt like ours."
"I'll remember," he said. "Every day."
And with that, Elira turned and left, walking back through a village that no longer felt like hers.
Above her, the sky began to darken.
Tomorrow, her blood would belong to someone else.
But tonight, she was still free.