As Arthur, surprisingly motivated to preserve what remained of his army, ordered the entire camp to rest and recover from the exhaustion of the previous night, I found myself granted a rare reprieve. The day stretched ahead, slow and unyielding, allowing me to move at my own pace—or as much as one cursed by vampirism could manage.

  I kept something in my mouth constantly, chewing to dull the gnawing emptiness clawing inside me. Yet everything tasted horrendous, metallic and bitter like rusted iron, and nothing could truly quench the relentless hunger simmering beneath my skin. Every breath I took seemed to fan the flames of my thirst, held captive inside the suffocating cage of my own self-control.

  Some brave—or foolish—soldiers tried to approach me, seeking words or answers. Each time, I responded with a low, menacing snarl that sent them scurrying away, leaving me cloaked once more in solitude. In this quiet isolation, I waited. The sun climbed higher, its cruel light battering against my skin and dulling my heightened senses. My strength, my speed, my edge—all diminished in daylight’s harsh glare, more so than ever before.

  When the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the world slipped back into shadow, I felt a sharp rush as my senses returned to me. The night sharpened every sound, every scent, every movement around the camp. It was a blessing—and a curse. Humans, with their thick, sweaty bodies and pungent scents, became a maelstrom of temptation that fed my insatiable hunger.

  Biting into my palm to curb the cravings, I slipped silently from my quarters, moving like a shadow through the sleeping camp. I avoided the officers’ tents, staying clear of the few who remained awake. My feet barely made a sound on the cold earth as I darted through the narrow paths carved between tents and supplies.

  I barely gave in once, tasting the air as it thickened with the musk of the soldiers. But I pushed forward, fueled by determination rather than restraint, until I reached the far edges of the encampment.

  Under the cloak of night, I slipped unnoticed through the shadows, moving swiftly toward the shoreline. Across the water, the elven camp gleamed with the soft glow of magical lamps—beautiful, untouchable, and impossibly close. A pang of worry gnawed at me; the window I had carved for my plan was closing fast.

  Ignoring the creeping chill, I veered upstream, keeping as far from the water as possible. The floodwaters had retreated, but the ground was still soft and treacherous beneath my boots. After two long hours, I finally reached the bridge I had mentioned earlier, its stone span partially swallowed by the swollen river.

  The guardrails peeked above the muddy water, slick and glistening in the moonlight.

  “I hate water so much...” I muttered under my breath, stepping cautiously away from the bridge’s edge where the land still clung stubbornly to solid ground. “...but it won’t stop me from murdering this worm.”

  Heart pounding, I sprinted toward the bridge, launching myself at the last moment onto the cold stone railing. My boots barely found purchase on the slick surface, and I nearly slipped, my breath hitching as I caught myself with trembling fingers.

  Beneath me, the muddy current roared, surging forward with terrifying force. I moved along the railing with slow, careful steps, muscles tense as I fought the chill seeping up from the stone. The danger was minimal—I could have dropped down and swum easily if needed—but the thought of the cold water was enough to make me cautious.

  Every few seconds, a wave would splash against the railing, sending droplets flying upward like icy needles. Each time, I flinched, a horrified shriek caught in my throat, my body jerking away as if the water might drag me in. The relentless cold and wetness threatened to break my focus, but I pressed on, teeth clenched against the bite of thirst and the biting wind.

  This bridge was a crossing point, a line I had to pass if I wanted to reach my prey.

  If I had to choose between facing a water elemental or the Devourer, I’d take the latter every time. At least with her, there was a glimmer of hope—a chance to outwit and survive. The elemental’s relentless, fluid wrath would swallow me whole without mercy. But the Devourer… she was cunning, calculating, and vulnerable in ways I might exploit. For the next twenty-four hours, this final gambit was all I had left.

  For what felt like an eternity, we—the two lingering denizens of purgatory stranded in this world—had been locked in a game of chess unlike any other. Not the mundane version played with carved pieces on a wooden board, but a ruthless battle of wills and strategy, each commanding opposing armies in a brutal war of attrition. The king and queen remained firmly in my grasp, along with most of my unique, powerful pieces, yet the pawns were slipping through my fingers—turning, betraying me, corrupted by her influence.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  She outmaneuvered me at every turn, threading intricate traps through the battlefield of mind and flesh. But surrender was not an option. I only needed to rise from her lap—the seemingly inevitable defeat—and take my place on the opposite side of the board, where a fresh and unbroken army awaited. An army poised to strike decisively at a fractured foe, tearing itself apart from within.

  I just had to hope she wouldn’t see this move coming. After all, calling others I didn’t even know to my aid was uncharacteristic—an unexpected play even for me. Sometimes, the best way to win was to be utterly unpredictable.

  With careful, silent steps, I crossed the river, landing softly on the opposite bank before slipping into the dark embrace of the forest. At first, a spark of hope flared—no arrows hissed toward me from the treeline. Perhaps the elves were unprepared, or simply unaware of my approach.

  But as I pressed downstream, that hope dimmed. The silence grew too deep, too unnatural. Either the elves were blind—or they had been expecting me all along.

  Discarding caution, I broke into a sprint, muscles burning as I pushed through the undergrowth. It took another long hour before I reached my destination: the elven army’s encampment. Their tents, still perfectly pitched, rose from a high plateau overlooking the floodplain. A lucky haven, or perhaps something else.

  “The wise elven king, huh?” I muttered bitterly, eyes narrowing at a brightly lit tent perched alone on the hill—isolated from the cluster below. “The books mentioned him. So it’s no surprise he’s still standing.” I scowled, secretly hoping the Devourer didn’t wield magic comparable to this king’s—magic that might shatter even my careful plans.

  Rolling my eyes at my own worries, I climbed the hill with measured steps, stopping just before the only tent’s heavy flap. Inside, only one elf breathed—his chest rising and falling in the dim glow. With a questioning gaze, I slipped through the entrance, gazing at the face of a man I had once seen in a book.

  “You are known as the wise elven king,” I began, my voice low and steady, “yet here you sit, completely alone. What’s the meaning of that?”

  For the second time, I saw him clearly. An elf—his skin smooth and pale, almost luminous under the dim lantern light. His blonde hair fell in neat strands around his sharp face, and his eyes… those piercing green eyes held a calm so deep it felt like looking into an endless ocean. Behind them lay a tranquil sea of blue that refused to ripple or waver. His green robes fluttered faintly in the still air as he sat at a simple wooden table, exuding an air of effortless command.

  “I doubt my guards could save me from you,” he said, a knowing smile curling his lips as I settled into the chair opposite him. His calm confidence was unnerving, but I matched his smile with one of my own.

  “Then you must have incapable guards,” I retorted smoothly, scanning his face for any flicker of doubt or weakness. Nothing. His expression remained a mask of cordiality, the ocean behind his eyes still and inscrutable.

  “We’re still recruiting,” he said with a subtle sarcasm that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “If you want…” I could almost see the bait hanging in the air, daring me to take it. At one point, I half-expected to see what he’d do if I accepted.

  “It honors me,” I said lightly, “but I must decline. A good friend mentioned you might assist me with a few… issues.”

  “And who might this good friend be?” His slight smile hinted that he was testing me, probing for the truth behind my words. I decided to push back with a bit of humor.

  “Santa Claus,” I replied, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

  His brow lifted, amused. “An interesting name. Where does he come from?”

  He couldn’t read my thoughts—or he chose not to. Otherwise, he’d know Santa Claus was a myth, a fairy tale that never existed.

  “A place called the North Pole,” I answered smoothly. “A land completely covered in ice.”

  He seemed genuinely intrigued. “Interesting. I didn’t know such a place existed. And what does the ice princess need my help for?”

  That question revealed something—he could watch me from afar. His magical senses were sharper than I’d assumed. I had to tread carefully.

  “Are you interested in winning a war?” I asked, trying to bait him, to draw him into a trap. “I can tell you the exact route the humans will take when you evacuate this area.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “You intend to switch sides?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “But even a lost war can be turned to domestic advantage.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “I see. And you’re not worried about the worms that breed in corpses? Why else would you flood the area where your army was camping?”

  I tilted my head, waiting for his explanation. Then it struck me—he could see through the obvious, but more than that, he had sight beyond the natural. He was no ordinary king. He could see.