Windshire. (A village in The cold North)
A wooden box hit the frozen earth with a hard thud, splitting the silence of the morning like a hammer to ice.
Crimson flinched as wilted cabbages spilled across the frost-bitten cobblestones, bruised and curling at the edges. The box reeked of rot. Steam curled from the old man's mouth as he leaned over it, face red with cold and rage.
"You trying to rob me blind, girl?" he hissed. "Look at this! These wouldn't feed a swine, much less a man!"
Crimson shut her eyes, jaw tightening, the cold gnawing at her fingers beneath the thin weave of her gloves. She knew that voice, grating, self-important, and louder than it needed to be.
Old Ferdrik Gods-damned Old Ferdrik and his perpetual drama.
"I don't set the prices," she muttered under her breath, crouching to gather the bruised produce.
She was freezing. The wind curled through the alley like claws, tugging at her threadbare cloak. Her boots had soaked through, and her stomach had started aching two hours ago long before the sun rose over Windshire's sagging rooftops. The last of the food had gone into her grandmother's stew the night before. Thin broth, thick with root herbs she'd bartered for on credit.
Her grandmother was out of touch. The villagers said she was mad or worse possessed.
One day she'd speak plain and sweet as she used to, humming tunes from her youth and recalling what Crimson wore when she was five. The next, she'd fly into rages, screaming of demons and changelings, calling for her husband who'd been dead twenty years.
Sometimes, she mistook Crimson for others. A witch, a stranger and if she was lucky, a daughter.
Today had to be better.
This stall job, wheeling crates of spoiled vegetables and frost-burned fruit for Old Fincher the grocer, was the only work left after the snows had come. At the end of the day, she might earn a few nickel pieces, if Fincher was feeling generous, and maybe a mushy apple or two if she was lucky. Probably not, though. He'd once made her drag a broken cart for half a mile through sleet, only to pay her with a wrinkled plum and a sermon about gratitude.
"You'll sell naught with an attitude like that," Fredrik grunted, folding his arms across his round belly.
Crimson hoisted the box with a grunt, biting back a curse. Her arms ached. She wanted to scream.
Instead, she gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Oh, of course, Master Fredrik. I'm sure there'll be plenty of fresh strawberries and summer pears to pick from once the blizzards come through. You'll find plenty of fresh vegetables when the snows deepen and the roads to South freeze shut. Maybe the trees will bloom for you."
He snorted. "Smart mouth. That'll cost you customers."
She dropped the box onto the cart with a loud bang and looked him dead in the eye.
"Then we'll all starve together, won't we?"
Fredrik blinked. Crimson didn't wait for his reply. She turned to push off again, but of course, Old Ferdrik wasn't finished.
"Moldy vegetables, half frozen, and you want my coin for it?" he grumbled louder than necessary. Then, more grudgingly, "...Fine. I'll take it."
He fished a few battered nickels from the pouch at his hip and dropped them into her palm. Cold and dull. A box like that, in decent condition, should've gone for at least a copper and a half. But she wasn't in a position to argue.
Crimson gave him a thin-lipped smile. "You're right, Old Ferdrik. Truly, you deserve the finest."
And with that, she dropped the box to the cobbles with the same careless thud he'd used earlier.
"Watch it, you brat!" he snapped, swearing under his breath as he knelt to scoop the vegetables into his own splintered crate. When he was done, he shoved her box back at her, grumbling all the while.
She tucked it back into the cart without a word and resumed her route, the cart creaking and rattling as her frozen fingers curled tight around the handle.
It wasn't always like this.
Well—that's what the elders said, anyway.
They spoke of the South, where humans had once flourished under warm sun and blooming orchards. A land of art and music, where rivers sparkled and no one went hungry. Heaven, they'd called it.
Then came the vampires.
Crimson shuddered just thinking about them. She'd never seen one, but she'd heard the stories. The village priest said they were devils with fangs, red eyes like burning coals, and horns curling from their heads like punishment from the gods. Monsters born of night and wickedness.
Once, they had kept to the far North, where the cold suited them and the snow matched their dead hearts. But now...
"Ow," she hissed, lifting a bruised finger to her face. It had turned a deep, ugly purple and twisted slightly...crooked.
Crimson groaned. The last thing she needed was to spend her meager pay on a healer's herbs. She flexed the hand, pain flaring through her knuckles. Another problem to tuck under her growing pile of problems.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The old brass bell at the center of the market rang out three time loud, sharp, and solemn.
Crimson paused, squinting toward the village square as a hush fell over the market. The crowd turned as one toward the raised platform.
The village head, cloaked in heavy furs and flanked by guards, stepped forward.
His voice boomed over the frost-bitten evening. "Word has reached us. Another village has fallen, burned out in the night."
A murmur rippled through the crowd like wind through the pine trees. Crimson's stomach turned.
"It was Greymoor this time. Only half a day's ride from here," the village head continued grimly. "There were no survivors."
Crimson's breath caught in her throat.
These reports had started over a fortnight ago, whispers of villages razed, livestock drained dry, bodies mutilated beyond recognition. At first, the attacks were far north, near the old borders. But they were moving closer. Closer to Whitespire.
"Until further notice," the village head declared, "all residents are to be inside their homes by sundown. Doors locked. No exceptions. Do not open your doors for anyone."
The bell rang again.
Behind her, a voice sneered, "Best be careful, firehead, you'll be the first they see in the dark. You might live up to your name."
Crimson turned sharply, jaw tight.
A group of boys stood off to the side, one of them snickering, his face half-covered by a scarf. She recognized him, the butcher's son. Arrogant. Lazy. Too smug for someone who cried the last time a rat jumped at his feet.
Crimson met his gaze coolly. "Then I'll make sure I'm inside. You, on the other hand, smell enough like blood to be a walking invitation."
The laughter from his friends died instantly. His face turned red.
He hurled another insult at her back, something crude and likely about her hair, but Crimson didn't bite. She tightened her grip on the cart and kept walking, the snow crunching beneath her worn boots, her breath curling into the icy air. She was too tired, too cold, and too numb to care.