The fire crackled.Sparks drifted up like dying stars, swallowed by the endless dark above.
Uriel sat among strangers, wrapped in borrowed warmth and false smiles. Every glance they threw at him felt like a blade pressed to his skin—curiosity, suspicion, hunger.
Thessa hadn't taken her eyes off him since the moment he stumbled into their camp.
He chewed slowly on a strip of dried meat. It tasted like leather soaked in salt and regret, but hunger was worse than disgust.
"You never said where you came from," Varek said, voice low. "Or what your name is."
Uriel didn't answer right away. A hundred lies raced through his mind—crafted, discarded, replaced in the space of a breath.
He could use his real name. No one here would know it. No one would recognize the shattered history it carried.
He turned to Varek, masking his expression with just the right amount of fear and trembling.
"A small village to the north," he said. "Gone now. My name is Uriel."
He didn't know the lay of this land. Didn't know if such a village even existed. But it didn't matter.
These people didn't care. They weren't feeding him out of kindness. They were like wolves circling a wounded fawn—eager to see how long it would last.
Thessa leaned in then, pressing her chest to his arm, her voice syrupy sweet.
"Uriel... what a pretty name for such a pretty boy. I like my men a little younger. So when I saw you… well, I nearly lost my mind."
She giggled, brushing her hand down his arm.
"But enough talk. Let's get you out of those clothes."
Before he could answer, she grabbed his hand and led him through the camp, past the flickering gazes of the others—past Varek and the two men who said nothing as she pulled Uriel toward her tent.
The canvas structure was crude but large enough for them to stand inside. A flattened reed mat layered with patched fabric served as a makeshift bed.
Thessa turned to him with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Take it off."
Uriel didn't move at first. He didn't need to ask what she meant. He knew this game. He'd played it before.
He looked around the tent, searching. His eyes caught on a dagger near a pile of supplies. Just close enough to reach—if he played this right.
He began removing his tattered shirt slowly.
"Thessa… do you know what a 'Stalker' is?"
He kept his voice soft—strangely submissive, like it belonged to someone else. His skin crawled using that tone, but survival demanded masks.
Thessa tilted her head. "Hmm?"
"In my village," Uriel lied, "we used to tell stories about a creature called the Stalker. Just legends, really. But… now I wonder. Are they real?"
The shift in her expression was instant. The predator's grin vanished.
"They're real," she said coldly. "Too real. Most of us just call it death."
She stepped closer, fingers brushing his arm.
"There are ranks we give monsters—Hollowed, Blighted, Fallen, Forsaken, Ruinborn, Withered, Unholy, Terror, Endborn. The Stalker's supposed to be a Blighted. But the things it can do… it should be a Fallen at least."
Her grip tightened.
"The classifications don't make sense with that thing."
Uriel swallowed. "Does it have any weaknesses?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Why do you want to know that?"
He hesitated, then forced a sheepish smile.
"I mean… since we're talking about it. I figured it might be useful to know."
Thessa paused, then laughed softly.
"How about this? For every piece of clothing you take off, I'll tell you something about it."
Her eyes gleamed.
"Deal?"
Uriel said nothing. Just bent down and removed his shoes. One at a time.
"That doesn't count," she snapped, voice sharp. "That's barely fabric!"
"We all have to start somewhere, right?" he said, flashing a weak smile.
She rolled her eyes but answered anyway.
"First thing you need to know? It won't attack if you're in a strong group, or strong yourself. But if it sees a chance… it'll take it."
Uriel nodded, slowly removing his pants. His stomach turned, disgust clawing at him.
Thessa's breathing quickened. She was trembling now—like an animal in heat.
"Second weakness," she said, voice low. "Fire. It hates heat. Can't stand it. Burns through its illusions."
He hesitated at the last layer. Then removed it.
Thessa's hands were on him immediately. She pushed him down onto the mat, hovering above him with hunger in her eyes.
He looked past her, toward the supplies—toward the dagger.
"Wait," he said. "The third weakness. You haven't told me."
She groaned, irritated.
"Can't that wait?"
"No," he whispered.
"Fine. Blood," she muttered, breath hitching as her fingers traced along his side. "If it smells fresh blood, it goes wild. Won't care if you're alone or in a group. It just hunts."
Uriel smiled. A slow, soft thing. Almost grateful.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Then he moved.
He rolled her onto her back with deceptive tenderness, his body shifting above hers, eyes locked with a gaze that gleamed with false intimacy.
Thessa's breath caught—but not in fear. She grinned, cheeks flushed, mistaking his maneuver for play.
"Mmm… I knew you had a wild side," she murmured, dragging her nails up his spine. "Don't keep me waiting—"
Uriel leaned in, lips brushing hers.
And then—steel.
With a clean, practiced motion, he reached past her to the hidden dagger. His hand shot forward, plunging the blade deep into the side of her neck.
Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened, confused. Her mouth opened to scream, but Uriel caught it with a kiss—locking her silence in place as blood filled her throat.
She jerked beneath him, struggling, but it was too late.
He held her close, watched the flicker of realization melt into fear, then fade into nothing.
Only when her limbs went still did he pull back, blood smeared across his beautiful lips like a vow.
"People like you never change and that's what makes you so fucking easy."