Corven stood up, silent and heavy, approaching the door once more. The cool draft of the evening air seeped through the wooden cracks, brushing against his bloodied face like a whisper of judgment.
He was preparing to hunt.
To test the limits of his cursed body.
To understand the hunger that now clawed at the edges of his sanity.
"To hunt…?" The mother's voice cracked from behind him, still seated on the floor, her back resting against the wall like a collapsed statue.
"Where are you going…?" she asked again, weaker this time.
Corven paused, hand resting on the crooked handle of the door. His eyes didn't meet hers—he couldn't bear to—but his voice answered with low conviction.
"...To hunt. To keep my promise."
There was a pause. Then, quietly, she rose.
Her hands brushed the front of her soot-stained dress, knocking off dirt and ash that clung stubbornly to the fabric, as if even her clothes resisted the idea of moving on.
Wordless, she walked toward the simple drawer tucked beside the room—unassuming, carved from dark cedar, its brass handles dulled by time. She opened it slowly, the wood creaking like a reluctant mourner stirring in grief.
Inside was gear.
Worn, humble, yet clearly cared for.
Leather armor, aged but oiled and ready. A pair of scuffed but sturdy vambraces. Mud-hardened boots. Worn trousers, lined with old quilted padding. A shortbow with a quiver of hand-fletched arrows.
"It was my husband's…" she said, almost in a whisper, biting her lip so hard it drew a pinprick of blood. "But it's no use to him now."
Her hands trembled as she rested them on the gear. Her eyes refused to drift to the covered body in the corner, but her soul couldn't look away.
"If you truly want to help…" she said, voice heavy with something more than sorrow, "then have this. It'll make it easier for you."
The idea—the very act—of handing over her husband's gear to the man who had murdered him...
It tasted like betrayal.
Felt like her heart was being hollowed out from within.
"You don't have to do that," Corven said quickly, gently, opening the door just a sliver. The forest beyond stared back like a black maw, waiting to swallow him whole.
But she cut him off.
"Accept it," she said sharply, her voice rising with the weight of unspoken agony. "It's not just a gift."
She turned slowly to glance at the shrouded form of her husband.
"It's to remind you of the burden you carry."
Her eyes glistened now, glassy with unshed tears.
"He was a lovely man," she murmured, her voice hitching. "I'm sure if… if the same thing had happened to me instead, he would've forgiven you…"
She shook her head, a single tear slipping free, tracing a crooked path down her cheek.
"That's the only reason I'm letting you help."
Then, without another word, she picked up the gear and tossed it toward him.
It landed at Corven's feet with a heavy thud, stirring a puff of dust from the floor.
"To honor his memory," she finished, her voice as fragile as a final breath.
And with that, she turned.
Not with drama, not with ceremony.
Just quiet retreat.
She walked toward her bedroom—her steps slow, numb, like each one was made of stone—and gently closed the door behind her, leaving him alone with the gear… and the weight of what he'd done.
She knew she couldn't stop him.
If Corven wanted to leave, to slaughter, to vanish—nothing could stop a creature like him. He was far stronger than her. Than anyone.
And yet… he stayed.
Corven bit his lip hard, his fangs barely withdrawn, tasting blood that wasn't stolen but his own.
He looked down at the gear—familiar, too familiar. Not from sight, but from memory. From the memories he had devoured. He could still feel them—etched into his soul like ghostly fingerprints.
He remembered the tug of a bowstring. The breath before the shot. The silent prayers not to miss—because missing meant his family might go hungry.
The man he killed… had been a hunter.
And now Corven would take that role.
Not in glory.
Not in pride.
But in mourning.
He slipped the gear on piece by piece. The vambraces slid on as if they had been made for him. The boots gripped his feet like old friends. Even the armor, padded and cracked, settled against his frame with a strange kind of acceptance.
Surprisingly, it all fit.
Though he was still covered in blood, the image had shifted.
Now, he wasn't just a killer.
He was a killer… with a purpose.
Armed, heavy with remorse, Corven stepped outside.
The forest welcomed him with a chilling silence.
The moon hung overhead, pale and distant, its glow fractured by swaying branches.
And with each step into the woods, Corven repeated the silent vow echoing inside his head.
'Become stronger…'
'Through beasts…'
'To protect what little light remained…'
And so the vampire disappeared into the trees.
Bloodied. Burdened.
But no longer aimless.