Orpheus was always on the move, never staying in one place for too long. One might think he was running away from something, and sometimes even he thought so himself. After more than four hundred years of living the cursed existence of a vampire, there were days when the weight of eternity pressed heavily upon him, when he cursed the foolish trust he had once placed in that woman long ago. A moment of weakness, a promise whispered beneath candlelight, and everything he had once been had died that night. What remained had learned to wander.

Smaller villages suited him best. Cities were loud, crowded, and filled with too many curious eyes. Villages, however, breathed slowly. People here lived simple lives, kept to their routines, and minded their own business. Outsiders were noticed, yes, but only briefly. A passing traveler rarely stirred suspicion, and if someone disappeared… well, such tragedies were often blamed on wolves, bandits, or the treacherous wilderness that surrounded places like this.

Tonight, however, the quiet little settlement had shed its usual calm. Lanterns hung from every beam and doorway, casting warm golden light that flickered against the cool night air. Music drifted through the narrow streets, accompanied by laughter and the rhythmic tapping of dancing feet. Masks of all shapes and colors concealed faces, turning the entire village into a sea of hidden identities. A masquerade.

Perfect.

Orpheus moved through the crowd like a shadow wearing a smile. His dark coat blended with the evening, his pale features partially hidden behind a simple mask. Humans brushed past him without a second glance, their attention lost to drink, music, and celebration. To him, they were little more than walking vessels, fragile creatures full of warmth and life that would fade so easily beneath his touch. Bags of meat, as he had long ago begun to call them.

And yet, tonight, something caught his attention.

At first, it was nothing more than a passing glance. Just another face among dozens. Pretty, certainly, but beauty had long ago lost its novelty to him. Four centuries dulled many things.

But then he caught her scent.

It reached him slowly at first, carried on the breeze between the dancing bodies. Rich. Sweet. Warm. The unmistakable perfume of living blood, but deeper somehow, fuller, almost intoxicating. It curled into his senses as a melody meant only for him, winding through his thoughts until it filled every corner of his mind.

His crimson eyes shifted, locking onto her through the shifting crowd.

There she stood, half-hidden among a circle of villagers. Her mask covered the upper part of her face, delicate and silver, but it did little to conceal the gentle curve of her lips as she spoke with the others. She laughed softly at something someone said, though the smile that touched her mouth never quite reached her eyes. There was something restrained about her, something carefully composed.

Orpheus felt his throat tighten.

He had to stop himself from salivating at the mere thought of the blood flowing through her veins.

"You'll be mine, little dove," he murmured under his breath, the words barely more than a whisper meant only for himself. A slow, sinister smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched her disappear deeper into the festival.

He did not approach her immediately.

Orpheus had lived too long to be careless. Instead, he lingered at the edges of the celebration, always close enough to watch but far enough to remain unnoticed. For hours, he observed her. The way she moved through conversations was polite yet distant. The subtle grace in her posture. The careful control in her voice. Every so often, she would glance toward the darker edges of the square, as though sensing something she could not quite see.

Interesting.

Time passed slowly, but patience had become second nature to him. Music rose and fell, lanterns burned lower, and one by one the villagers began to drift away toward their homes. Farewells were exchanged, laughter fading into the quiet of the night.