Page 97 of Tainted Souls
As I wait, my mind won’t settle. I place the mask gently on the bed beside me and stand, pacing the room in steady, measured steps. The floor is smooth stone, cool under my bare feet, grounding me in a way nothing else does.
I stop by the window, pushing aside the heavy curtain. The world outside is quiet, tinted in the gold of late afternoon. Far below, I see gardens too carefully manicured to feel real, like something meant to impress, not to comfort.
Nothing here feels like it was made for someone like me. It’s all too polished. Too controlled.
I sit back on the edge of the bed, running my fingers over the fine threads of the dress, as if touching it might help me understand what’s expected. I can’t decide if it’s meant to make me feel beautiful or just presentable. Contained.
Unable to keep my thoughts from looping, I pick up the mask again and hold it to my face, staring at my reflection in the tall mirror across the room. A stranger looks back at me.
Not a monster, but not quite human either.
It reminds me of the days when I was tracking down Revenant.
I’d scour Mythcrest villages, those too far-flung for our maps, and ask anyone what they knew about him. It wasn’t until I stumbled upon the hidden expanse of Ravenwood that his name finally echoed with weight in every settlement.
But the villagers didn’t speak with fear, only dignified admiration.
To them, the Ravens were legends, something larger than life.
“The Ravens protect us,”an elderly woman told me, her weathered face creasing with a kind smile from behind the wooden makeshift stall, tying off a sachet of dried herbs. “They keep unwanted vampires from our doors. Without them, we’d all be turned or worse.” She inclined toward me, as if letting me in on the inside scoop. “My granddaughter serves as a bloodmaid in their manor. Says it’s better than any work in the village. She gets paid enough to keep our family’s hearth warm for the season, and is granted a fortnight’s visit every cycle.”
A rugged blacksmith from the next stall joined our conversation. “My son too,” he said proudly, polishing a half-finished hinge. “Comes back with more coin than I make in three months. Said the feedings were… well, pleasant. They make it feel good somehow. Special, even. Like you’re the most important person in the world.”
Apparently, applications were never scarce. Young villagers from all over Ravenwood’s bounds competed for positions. They saw it not as servitude, but as opportunity. A chance to safely experience something beyond their ordinary lives, while earning more than farming or crafting could ever provide.
I clenched my fists hearing it, frustration rising. “Real safety comes from Redmoore. From the hunters and slayers risking their lives every day to fight vampires. Not from feeding the monsters, no matter how pretty they make it sound.”
The elderly woman shook her head sharply, a tinge of sadness in her expression. “That may be true within the strict borders of Northcross, but not out here in the sprawl of forgotten towns. It is a system that works only if you live close enough to benefit from it.”
The blacksmith nodded in agreement, setting his hammer down. “People don’t wait for salvation from soldiers who never come.”
They turn to the ones who do.
They turn to the Ravens, who offer safety wrapped in luxury and hunger disguised as affection. And the villagers, starved for both, call it salvation. It’s an exchange that bleeds, but also feeds.
The borders of Northcross unfortunately aren’t open to everyone. Citizenship there is earned on a lottery basis, inevitably rationed against overpopulation. Only those lucky enough get in. Some have waited so long—made peace with it—they don’t even want it anymore.
I pull the mask away from my face, even more unsettled by what awaits me tonight. Restlessly, I lie back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and counting the carved patterns in the stone to calm my nerves, anything to not think about what sunset will bring.
But my body won’t let me forget. Not with the steady, aching pulse of hunger stirring beneath my skin.
“Where can I apply?”I asked, feeling triumph within reach.
The woman lifted a gnarled finger and pointed toward the far end of the market square, where a weathered oak coffer sat beneath a faded awning, its iron slot just wide enough for slips of folded parchment.
“Drop your name if you wish, along with your mark of abode.”
My eyes lingered there longer than they should have.
The instructions were simple enough, but I had no fixed threshold to write down. I wasn’t from Mythcrest or any of these towns.
The blacksmith let out a short laugh. “She’s a hunter, Mathilda.” He looked at me then. “Hunters aren’t meant to be on those lists.”
It was nothing I didn’t already know. Every day for over a month, I returned after my hunts, finding shelter in Redmoore’s outposts along the outskirts. And each day, I tried to piece together some pattern: the villagers said the coffer was emptied at odd hours, sometimes at dusk, sometimes after midnight. Some slips were taken immediately, others left for weeks. There was no real routine nor known requirements. No one knew what earned you an invitation. Age, skill, beauty—none of it seemed to matter.
The scant stories and whispered rumors weren’t substantial enough to actually find the one who emptied it. Frustration gnawed at me, and I felt it in my chest every time I crouched behind a stall, heart pounding as the market emptied.
Then, finally, at dusk on some unremarkable evening, a figure in a dark hood and mask approached. They knelt, unlocked the coffer, and began emptying the folded slips into a leather satchel.
