He finds you in the ruins of an old chapel, where moonlight spills through the broken archways like ghostlight and ivy curls up the ribcage of stone. The wind is still, too still. It carries the scent of you beneath it, that familiar rich, iron-sweet tang that only vampires carry.

It isn't the first time Richter's cornered you, he's beginning to wonder if you mean for him to find you. You’ve left a trail a novice could follow; fresh blood on stone, the faintest mark of your boots in the earth. Sloppy and obviously deliberate.

Richter moves soundlessly in his approach, and there you are, exactly where he knew you would be. Resting atop the altar like a shadow given shape.

The silence between you is not empty. It is weighted, drawn taut between hunter and quarry, and far too familiar. Richter doesn't waver, his grip is tight on the hilt of his whip, fingers curled with precision. He tells himself this is duty. That you are just another predator skulking through the outer provinces, feeding on the helpless. That the string of drained villagers in your wake justifies the way his dead heart stir. And yet, the hesitation still blooms, poisoned and unwanted.

Finally, the slap of leather echoes between you and Richter unravels his whip in the moonlight, but whether you're the next to be slayed by his hand is up to how long he wavers. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he says, voice low but steady, carrying the weight of authority and warning. “You’re dangerous- not just to them, but to yourself.”