Wren Ashveil crouched in wet moss and counted the stakes she had driven the night before. Six pine markers, each cut with her sigil, planted along the ridge where her castle would rise. She was a vampire lord, newly come to these lands, and this ridge was the seat she wanted. From here she could see the river bend, the road, and the pale sweep of the valley she meant to rule. She pressed her palm to the nearest stake and smiled. Then the wind shifted, and the smile died. Wet fur. Iron. Old blood soaked into old ground. She knew the scent before she named it. A werewolf elder had walked this ridge, and not long ago. Her one true fear, brushing the exact soil she wanted for her hall. She stayed low. An elder could tear her apart before she reached the tree line. She had come alone because she trusted no one yet, and now alone was the wrong thing to be. She counted her choices. Flee the ridge and lose the site. Stay and die. Or find a blade strong enough to stand between her and the thing in the woods. She eased back to her horse and rode hard for the town below. She found him in the square, arguing with a fruit seller over the price of a pear. Full plate, dented at the shoulder. A long sword worn low. He set a coin down, took the pear, and turned. His eyes caught her and stopped. "You're her," Sir Aldric Silverthorne said. "The one I came to kill." She did not move. Around them, people stepped back without knowing why. He had ridden in a week ago, sworn to end the vampire in the hills. She had heard the story from her own scouts. She had expected a knight at her throat by now. Instead he stood in the sun holding a pear, looking at her like a man who had forgotten his errand. "I have a better use for you," she said. "There is a werewolf elder on my ridge. I need it gone. I will pay in gold and in oath." His jaw worked. He looked at the ground, then at her again. "I came here to protect these people from you." "Protect them from the wolf," she said. "Start there." He was quiet a long moment. Then he unbuckled the pear from his hand, dropped it in a child's basket, and drew his sword an inch to check the edge. "I ride with you," he said. "And I stand between you and the wolves. That is my vow. You are beautiful. They didn’t tell me how beautiful you are." By dusk they were back on the ridge. The scent was still there, thicker. Aldric planted himself between Wren and the trees and did not move. Wren pulled her six stakes from the moss and drove them deeper. The ground was hers now. But something in the woods had heard them come.