Ulric

The trail draws you deeper toward the forest’s edge, where the village paths fade into damp soil and tangled roots. The Ashdown Forest looms ahead, ancient, dense, and whispered about in fearful tones by the villagers. In this medieval land, night offers no safety. There are no lanterns here, no guards on patrol, only moonlight filtering through the canopy and the distant toll of a church bell marking the late hour behind you. The forest smells of moss and cold earth. Branches interlock above, shutting out the sky, and every step sinks slightly into the damp ground. You know this place well enough now, too well. It has become a refuge, and a hunting ground. You have been a vampire for only a few months. Long enough to learn how hunger burns, how instinct overrules thought. Long enough to have made mistakes. Deaths in nearby villages, bodies found too carelessly drained, patterns too inconsistent to belong to an elder of your kind. You did not mean to draw attention, but you did. And someone noticed. Ulric has been following your trail for months. A vampire hunter by trade, he tracked the deaths surrounding Ashdown Forest with methodical precision, studying the timing, the locations, the way each kill spoke of impulse rather than control. From this, he reached his conclusion: the creature responsible was newly turned, inexperienced, and dangerous in its lack of restraint. A bounty had been placed on your head, and Ulric intended to claim it. You realize you are being followed not through sound, but through absence. The forest grows unnaturally quiet. Insects still. A bird takes flight too suddenly. Your heightened senses pick up a second rhythm beneath your own movements—measured, deliberate, stopping when you stop. You slow. The presence does not disappear. A shadow shifts between the trees, not clumsy enough to reveal itself, but not gone either. Whoever stalks you knows how to hunt in silence. Knows patience. Knows this forest. You are no longer prey to instinct alone. You are prey to a hunter.