Despite showing signs of recent inhabitance, the village was empty.

Damp clothes hanging on thin wire were left swaying in the cold breeze. Rations of moldy food from the marketplace were scattered across the ground in peeling, trampled baskets. Broken windows and cracked doors were left open, and the occasional lone shoe could be seen as it was forgotten in the dirt road.

Smudges of dried blood stained every surface imaginable.

It smelled heavily of metal, rose water, and the slightest tinge of burnt wood.

Whatever scuffle there was before Layla arrived most likely ended with the townsfolk being eradicated—in a violent manner, no doubt.

She walked slowly, pulling her thin cloak even closer to her body. Remnants of ash caked her shoulders and arms. Half-alive cinders stuck to the fabric and threatened to ignite at any moment. Just like the surrounding area, she too smelled of fire.

Layla was the walking epitome of death and misfortune as she donned her cloak.

She could still hear the screams of her loved ones. She could still remember the sounds of a mob yelling—screaming at the small family to get out of their village. Holy chants were belted out alongside threats of "burning the witches". She remembered the sound of glass breaking as lit torches were thrown through the downstairs windows.

At first, it smelled heavily of smoke. Then of burning fabric. But in the end, the stench of Hell fire reigned supreme, clinging to the hairs in her nostrils and making a home in her nasal cavity.

There was no hesitation in slaughtering the ones responsible.

Those people—they killed her family. Young men, women, and children who never hurt anyone.

Well, anyone who didn't deserve it.

But Layla's family was sought out to act as the sacrificed cattle for a flock of sheep who didn't like things that were different. The townspeople burned and maimed and killed whatever they couldn't comprehend. Their fear outweighed their cognitive ability to follow a decent moral compass.

And because of that, an innocent family was reduced to the same ashes clinging to her body.

Layla knew she wasn't safe. She knew she had to flee—or else other hunters would come looking for her to finish the job.

She just didn't expect to find the remnants of more carnage in another village a few miles away from her own.

Similarly to her distant community, this one seemed spiritual and religion oriented. Multiple structures had crosses protruding from long, slanted rooftops. Dancing flags on metal poles housed religious symbols. Bibles written in different scripts and languages were lying open on outdoor tables and in bookshop windows. The tallest, largest establishment toward the center of town appeared to be a church.

A lone cross stood triumphantly in front of the full moon. It was a physical representation of both absolute faith and the looming presence of some divine being.

The sentiment made her skin itch.

Just like in her home village, an unseen higher power called the shots. And just like before, she didn't feel welcomed.

Layla knew the scriptures well. They held prophecies and tellings of supernatural entities. Witches, shapeshifters, werewolves, vampires—creatures formally categorized as Lurking Eyes. They routinely fought for territory and sometimes killed others to get it.

According to the higher beings, the only way to protect one's self from those monsters was to don metal jewelry, walk with a vial of rose water, and to burn wooden spears at a town's most active points.

All the good that did anyone.

Layla herself had never seen monsters like witches, shapeshifters, or werewolves. To her, the only thing those creatures could do was act as fuel to make thriving communities morph into blind followers. She was wary of real threats. Like the townsfolk she thought were kind and trustworthy. Like the neighbors who threw torches into her house. Like the children and older youths who screamed for the massacre of her family.

Like the unseen form currently watching her from the shadows.

If Layla played her cards right, she'd be able to get out of the village without having to confront them.

Her head was kept down. A single hand was used to draw her hood even closer toward the bridge of her nose. Quickened footsteps dodged mud mounds and wheel tracks from previous carriages trudging around in wet dirt. A careful path was taken to not accidentally step on any bibles or personal belongings.

The village was small, so it didn't take much time to reach the end of it. But before she could make it through the last gate, the hidden figure stood in her path.

He was a Believer—the highest in the hierarchy of obedient religious followers. A white cloth covered his hair to keep his strands hidden. A gray robe with brown sleeves was draped over his body. The bottom half of his face was covered by a beige mask. Multiple chains hung from his neck and pooled in the space between his collarbones. A wooden torch with a bright flame at the end was held in his right hand. On the left, he had a vial that stunk heavily of rose water.

He held it out in front of him.

"Please remove yourself from the premises," Layla requested.

"You do not give me orders, witch." The man raised his torch higher into the air. "You have eyes of emerald, skin of milk, and, beneath fire, the vile stench of wilted roses. I am not fooled by your politeness."

"Do not force me to get violent."

"You cannot hurt me, witch. For I am protected by-"

Layla had her teeth buried in the man's neck before he could finish his declaration. Blood pooled in her mouth in a matter of seconds; and with the severance of a major artery, he was dead shortly after.

She stood to her full height, wiping at bloodstained lips. "It's vampire. Not witch. Maybe in your next life, you'll know better than to corner a threatened animal."

In anger, Layla stomped on the small vial, shattering the container. Pink, sweetly scented water soaked into the ground.

She didn't spare another glance before continuing toward the rickety gate and leaving the village.