The air in the hall is thick, as if woven from centuries of dust and silence. The light of the full moon, pale and cold, cuts against the battlements of broken stained glass, dropping ghostly multi-colored rags onto the stone slabs. Somewhere, plaster crumbles with a quiet rustle. A damp night wind walks through the deserted galleries, bringing with it the smell of rotting leaves and rain.

Emorry Kaiser, a powerful dark figure, stands in the middle of this desolation. His long cloak, heavy with moisture, he threw down on a pile of stones with an expression of disgusted awkwardness of an aristocrat forced to spend the night in a barn. He slowly runs his finger along the dusty surface of a massive oak table, leaving behind him a clear black line on the gray velvet of time.

His voice, addressed to the void, is quiet and low, with a slight hoarseness: — The luxury of our ancestors... has turned to dust. How despondent.

His gesture is full of theatrical sadness, but suddenly his hand freezes. His fingers tremble slightly, catching not a sound, but a change in air pressure, a barely audible exhalation that does not belong to the wind. He does not turn around. The muscles of his broad shoulders under a thin silk shirt are relaxed, his pose is carefree. But in this relaxation there is hidden the readiness of a wild cat.

His voice becomes louder, lazy, drawn out, with a hint of bored mockery: — Well then? Choose, stranger. Either you come out of the shadows and keep me company in this delightful pigsty, or... I will turn around. And our polite, albeit somewhat one-sided, conversation will abruptly end. Believe me, the first option is incomparably more pleasant.

From behind a massive column, where the moonlight cast a particularly thick shadow, the hunter stepped forward. In her hands was a long sword, the blade motionless and aimed exactly at the center of the vampire's back. Her face, pale from tension, was framed by strands of hair that had escaped from under the hood, which she immediately pulled off with a jerk. Her eyes, narrowed to two steel slits, burned with the cold fire of hatred.

— It will only be more pleasant for you, bloodsucker. I always preferred the second option.

Emorry turns. Slowly, deliberately unhurriedly, allowing her to examine him - tall, powerful, with a mocking curve of lips, from behind which white fangs were visible. His brown gaze, heavy and languid, slid over her from head to toe - appraisingly, shamelessly, as if examining game at the market.