THE SAPPHIRE CARNAGE

It was well past midnight when you found yourself wandering through the quieter streets of the city.

The neighborhood was unfamiliar, its narrow roads and aging buildings illuminated by the occasional streetlamp. Most establishments had already closed for the night, leaving behind an unusual stillness.

Then you noticed someone leaning against a wall in a narrow alley.

It was Marcus.

He stood with one shoulder against the concrete, dressed casually in a dark T-shirt and trousers. A cigarette rested between his fingers while he casually nibbled on a chocolate stick, seemingly unbothered by the late hour.

His eyes eventually settled on you.

"Hey... You're out late."

His greeting was accompanied by a slight nod. No smile, no particular enthusiasm. Just an acknowledgment.

As you approached, your curiosity got the better of you. Peeking past his shoulder, you noticed an old, seemingly abandoned building tucked away from the main street. Its windows were broken, its walls weathered, and its entrance barely illuminated.

Then you heard it.

The unmistakable sounds of a fight.

Inside, several men were gathered around an improvised fighting space. Two of them were already trading blows, their bodies battered and their clothes stained with blood. The surrounding men watched with an unsettling familiarity, as though this were nothing out of the ordinary.

Your curiosity quickly gave way to apprehension.

Marcus noticed the change in your expression.

"Don't concern yourself too much with that."

He took another bite of his chocolate stick, barely sparing the commotion a glance.

Inside, the fight came to an end. One of the men collapsed onto the concrete, unconscious, while the other stood over him, barely able to keep himself upright.

"Marcus! You're up!"

A man called from inside the building.

Marcus glanced over his shoulder and gave a short nod.

"Well... See you later."

And with that, he pushed himself away from the wall and casually walked toward the entrance.

For a man who had so little to say, he certainly seemed to attract quite a bit of attention.

You might have thought that was the end of your strange encounter.

It wasn't.

Curiosity, perhaps, or the simple inability to look away from something so bizarre, kept you around.

And then you saw him enter the fighting space.

The next match began.

This time, however, there was something considerably different about the spectacle.

Marcus's opponent was a much larger man, built like a heavyweight and seemingly eager to make an impression. Yet the moment they engaged, it became apparent that size wasn't going to be much of an advantage.

Their movements were almost impossible to follow.

To your eyes, the exchange was little more than a blur of motion. Every now and then, you caught glimpses of what was happening when one of the fighters crashed against a wall or slammed into the concrete floor with enough force to send dust and debris scattering.

The spectators erupted with every exchange.

And Marcus?

He barely seemed to be taking the fight seriously.

Minutes passed before the commotion finally settled.*

The fighting space was left clouded with dust and smoke, making it difficult to distinguish anything inside. A few men hurried forward, while others stepped aside to clear the entrance.

Then Marcus emerged.

His T-shirt was torn, and he pulled it over his head before tossing it carelessly onto the ground. His muscular frame was now exposed, marked with a few fresh bruises. He reached for another cigarette and lit it, seemingly more inconvenienced by his ruined shirt than by the fight he'd just finished.

Only then did he notice you.

"You're still here?"

A short chuckle escaped him as he took a drag.

"What? You don't have anywhere else to be?"

He looked at you for a moment, his expression somewhere between mild teasing amusement and curiousity.

Then he tilted his head toward the street.

"Come on. It's getting late."

He started walking, leaving you to decide whether you were going to follow.

THE OLD WOLF

It wasn't every day that Francisco D'Valença requested your presence.

The message arrived earlier that morning. Brief, courteous, and conspicuously lacking an explanation. You were simply instructed to visit the D'Valença estate, where a car would be waiting to take you to a particular location.

By the time you arrived, you were nowhere near the mansion.

Instead, you found yourself being escorted toward the estate's woodland grounds, following a narrow trail surrounded by towering trees. The further you ventured, the quieter everything became, until the distant sounds of the estate were replaced by rustling leaves and birdsong.

Then came the sound of an axe striking wood.

THUNK.

THUNK.

THUNK.

You eventually reached a small clearing.

And there he was.

Francisco stood beside a chopping block, splitting logs with an enormous axe. His upper body was bare, exposing a heavily built physique that seemed almost unreasonable for a man of his age. Gray hair, broad shoulders, thick arms, and an assortment of old scars that told stories you would probably never hear.

A neatly folded fur coat rested on a nearby wooden bench.

He brought the axe down one final time.

THUNK.

The log split cleanly.

"Ah. There you are."

He rested the axe against the chopping block and reached for a towel, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"Hope the walk wasn't too troublesome."

He gestured toward a nearby bench.

"Come. Sit. There's no particular hurry."

It was an unexpectedly mundane setting for a man of his stature. No grand study, no imposing throne, no servants standing at attention. Just an old man in the woods, a pile of freshly chopped timber, and the occasional bird calling from the trees.

Francisco poured himself a glass of water from a nearby flask.

"People tend to find it strange that I do this myself."

He glanced at the growing pile of firewood.

"Of course, I could have someone do it for me. But where would be the enjoyment in that?"

A faint smile crossed his face.

"Besides, there's something satisfying about working with your hands. Reminds you that you're still capable of doing things yourself."

He took a drink before looking your way.

"So. How have you been finding your stay with us?"

His tone was conversational, almost paternal.

"I imagine my children have given you quite a different impression of this household. Camille, especially. She's always had a particular fondness for bringing people into our lives."

He chuckled quietly.

"Christa, on the other hand..."

He shook his head, seemingly amused.

"Well, I'm sure you've already discovered that one for yourself."

He was about to continue when hurried footsteps interrupted the peaceful afternoon.

"Sir! Sir Francisco!"

A young woman came rushing through the trail, nearly stumbling over a protruding root. She wore the modest uniform of a household servant, her breathing uneven and her expression visibly distressed.

A Bloodbound.

Francisco turned toward her.

"Easy, child. Catch your breath."

"Forgive me, sir, but there's someone at the estate entrance!"

She struggled to steady her breathing.

"There's... there's a man. He says he's here to challenge the head of the household."

For the first time since your arrival, Francisco's expression changed.

Not dramatically. He didn't curse, raise his voice, or show the slightest trace of panic.

He simply looked at the girl.

"A challenger?"

"Yes, sir. He's armed, and he claims to be a vampire hunter."

Silence settled over the clearing.

Francisco looked down at the axe resting against the chopping block. Then he glanced at the pile of freshly split logs, as though mildly inconvenienced by the interruption.

A low chuckle escaped him.

"Well, that's rather unfortunate."

He reached for his fur coat.

"Here I was, enjoying a perfectly pleasant afternoon."

He slipped the coat over his broad shoulders, then turned toward you.

"Seems our little conversation will have to wait."

His expression carried a peculiar amusement.

"Come along, if you'd like. It's not every day someone comes knocking on my door asking for trouble."

He started down the woodland trail, leaving the axe and the neatly stacked firewood behind.

Francisco D'Valença emerged from the far end of the hall, his massive frame draped in a commanding fur coat, its heavy mantle resting across his broad shoulders. Beneath it, his bare chest and weathered physique bore the unmistakable marks of a lifetime of battles. His silver-gray hair was swept back, revealing a stern, deeply lined face.

And just like that, your quiet afternoon with the patriarch of House D'Valença had taken an entirely different turn.

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