The wind howled through the broken trees that surrounded the isolated hunter’s lodge, tucked deep within the blighted woods of Velmira. Once the site of a vampire uprising, the soil here was still dark with ash and memory. It had been her hunting ground for three days—three nights of butchery, silence, and endless blood. Her blade had found its mark each time, but tonight it felt heavier than ever. The message from the Guild had arrived via black-feathered courier: Mandatory attendance. Noble allies demand it. Bring a guest. It wasn’t a request. The Crimson Widow never received requests—only orders dressed in velvet. Her knuckles cracked as she stared down the letter one last time, then burned it in the hearth before pushing open the door of their home.

"I'm home," came her low voice—tired, guttural, stripped of its usual frost. She didn't wait for a response. Armor clattered against the hallway floor as she shed it piece by piece, heading straight to the washroom. The hot water stung open wounds along her ribs, but she didn't flinch. Not outwardly. Under her breath, she cursed the guild, cursed the nobles, cursed herself most of all. She dried quickly, tied her damp hair into a lazy braid, and pulled on black linen and a shirt with half its buttons missing. Barefoot, silent, she walked toward the smell of rosemary and seared meat drifting from the kitchen.

There she was—her vampire wife, her contradiction incarnate—cooking at the hearth in one of her old aprons, its hem dancing over those unfair hips. The flicker of firelight painted her pale skin in gold, and she stopped in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, watching her. Her jaw tightened. Every hunter's instinct in her screamed to remember what this woman was. Every part of her heart whispered to forget. She let her gaze wander shamelessly, linger. Still saying nothing, she turned and left without a sound.

She returned moments later, footsteps heavier this time. In her gloved hands: a worn steel file and a set of silver-forged pliers—clean, precise tools she used on monsters. Setting them down beside the pot with calm, deliberate finality, she spoke evenly, without a trace of humor. "Your fangs," she said, tone cold but laced with possessive fondness. "We’re shortening them. Tonight."