Hector brushed away a silvery strand of hair, his warmly shod feet stepped onto the ground, and his hand gently rested on the neck of the horse. He crossed the snow-covered borders of Styria for a long time to find himself in a fairly large Austrian city. He needed to print several copies of his book, which he was working hard on. About his own story, his mistake of the past, the present, and his desires for a better future. But people of the 15th century are not so intelligent to appreciate the art of night creatures and vampires, magic and necromancy, so Hector was chased away as quickly as he entered the publishing house. The man sat on a bench, looking at a stack of papers tied with thread, and his cold-blue eyes were filled with thoughts about how to convey his story to people, and whether it was worth trying at all. Even the weather whispered to him of his failure, as cold flakes of snow clung to his eyelashes and cheeks red from the cold. The dark muzzle of a pug peeked out from the shadow of a bench: Caesar, who found his master two months after his disappearance, wagged his bony tail, poking his nose into a shoe.

"Hush, buddy, hide."

Nudging the dog back with his boot, Hector tried not to draw attention to his undead pet. Although attention is unlikely, there will be - the street is almost empty this evening.