Who would win in a fight between a drugged half-vampire who had lost all sense of reason and a human with hardly any fighting skills? Well, that would be me.

  Arthur flailed around like some wild, rabid beast, eyes wild and unfocused, his every move unpredictable and frantic. Tom, ever the cautious one, lunged to restrain him first—but he wasn’t prepared for just how easily Arthur overpowered him. With a single powerful shove, Arthur sent Tom flying back into the wooden wall with a sickening thud.

  “How is he so strong?” Tom muttered, blood trickling from his lip as he wiped it away with a grimace. For a split second, I toyed with the idea of leaving Tom in the dark to figure this out on his own. But honestly, I doubted he’d even make it that far without a clue.

  “My blood’s running through his veins. What did you expect?” I said coolly, dragging the thrashing Arthur out of the cramped carriage as if he weighed nothing. “You’ve always seen me fight at a disadvantage, so I’m not surprised you’re a bit taken aback by the strength coursing through him now.”

  With a swift motion, I threw Arthur out of the carriage. He landed hard on his back but recovered quickly, a feral snarl ripping from his throat as he lurched a few meters away.

  “Eww,” I muttered, wrinkling my nose as he drooled thickly onto the dirt, revealing—once and for all—that his human side had been swallowed whole.

  “Kill him,” I ordered Tom, opening the way with a sharp gesture. “There’s a dagger in the white bag—use it if you want. Or better yet, entertain me and try to fight barehanded.”

  Naturally, Tom wasn’t stupid enough to challenge Arthur unarmed. He grabbed one of my daggers, his grip still awkward but determined. As soon as he leapt out of the carriage, I quickly gathered my scattered clothes and dressed, watching with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

  The two circled each other, tense and uncertain, neither quite sure how to begin. I perched on the edge of the carriage floor, legs dangling lazily outside the door, a satisfied grin spreading across my face. Somehow, this was far more entertaining than I’d anticipated—even with the lack of immediate action.

  “Hey, Tom!” I called out, unable to resist. “If you want my advice, stop holding that dagger like you’re starring in some melodramatic assassin novel. Try gripping it like you actually want to stab someone—or, I don’t know, slice some vegetables.”

  He shot me a look, flustered and a little defensive, but I could tell my words hit home. Tom seriously needed to spend less time lost in fantasy and more time learning how to handle a weapon.

  At least Tom corrected his mistake quickly, twisting the dagger so the sharp tip faced his opponent—a basic move, but one he had to learn on the fly. Arthur, on the other hand, fared far worse. His fighting style was pure instinct: wild, animalistic, and utterly reckless. I’d hoped he wouldn’t simply launch himself at Tom headfirst, but those hopes were dashed the moment he charged at full speed, crashing his shoulder directly into Tom’s midsection.

  Tom didn’t flinch, dagger planted firmly in place. Arthur howled in pain as his shoulder slammed into the unforgiving blade, the impact clearly severe enough to halt his momentum. I scratched my cheek, dumbfounded by the sheer stupidity of that move. But Tom’s own behavior was equally perplexing. He just stood there, like a statue, waiting for Arthur to come at him again without any attempt to dodge or reposition. He faced Arthur head-on, shoulders squared—taking the full brunt of the assault without a hint of strategy.

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  I barely had time to register it before both men toppled over, locked in a chaotic tangle of limbs as neither managed to regain balance. Arthur screamed, triumphant now that he was on top, pinning Tom’s hands firmly to the ground. But Tom’s grip on the dagger was weak—too weak—and it slipped free during the fall.

  Already growing bored with how quickly this fight seemed to be ending, I grabbed the white bag and tossed the second dagger toward them, the blade landing just within reach. Arthur’s lips curled back, saliva dripping as he leaned down toward Tom’s neck, the predator’s instinct taking over.

  “No,” I growled, my voice low and harsh. “No biting.”

  Arthur whimpered like a scolded dog but reluctantly released Tom’s wrists and instead wrapped his long fingers around the younger man’s neck. I couldn’t help but watch with twisted delight as Tom struggled desperately, his hands searching blindly for the dagger.

  “Come on, Tom,” I whispered, my voice laced with amusement. “Grab the dagger… yeah, right there.”

  Just in time, his fingers closed around the hilt, yanking it free from the ground. With shaky determination, he drove the blade deep into Arthur’s side again and again. But the wounds, shallow and uneven, barely slowed the feral creature or forced him to defend himself.

  “No… the neck…” I murmured, frustration creeping into my voice. Tom’s strikes were relentless but ineffective, stabbing repeatedly into flesh that refused to yield.

  Moments before Tom slipped into unconsciousness, he managed one final desperate thrust—driving the dagger deep into Arthur’s neck. I sighed heavily as Arthur’s fingers still squeezed Tom’s throat with unyielding strength. The dagger fell uselessly from the wound; it was too shallow to pierce the cursed half-vampire’s flesh in any meaningful way.

  Growing bored with the slow, brutal spectacle before me, I finally stood, the rough wooden floor creaking beneath my weight. Without hesitation, I surged forward, closing the distance between myself and the struggling pair in a second. A swift, hard kick connected with Arthur’s side, sending him tumbling off Tom with a sharp yelp of surprise and pain.

  Tom lay sprawled on the ground, unconscious but breathing—his chest rising and falling in a ragged rhythm.

  I turned to face Arthur. What remained of him now was less a man and more a savage beast, utterly repugnant in his half-crazed state. And yet, despite his monstrous form and violent instincts, there was a strange warmth in my chest—a deep, unshakable bond. He was mine, forged from my own blood and will, a twisted creation I couldn’t help but love.

  My mind raced, grappling with this odd connection as I stooped to pick up the dagger that had fallen from his neck moments before. Arthur instinctively recoiled as I approached, his wild eyes flashing with fear. But there was no room for hesitation.

  Firmly, I grasped the back of his neck and forced him down to the cold, unforgiving ground. With my free hand, I drove the dagger mercilessly into his heart. The blade pierced deep, and after a few agonizing seconds, his body went limp—finally surrendering to the death he had so long evaded.

  Slowly, I withdrew the dagger, blood dripping from its gleaming edge. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackling fire nearby.

  I cleaned the blades carefully, wiping away the grime and blood before tucking them back into their sheathes. Then, cradling Arthur’s lifeless form, I carried him back towards the fire, placing him down opposite Tom, who still lay unconscious but alive.

  Rather than linger in stillness, I set to work cleaning up the remains of the coachman. His corpse had been hastily discarded near the campfire, and I gathered the charred flesh carefully, throwing the still-smoldering remnants into the bushes just beyond our camp. Thankfully, the dry underbrush didn’t catch fire, sparing us from an unwanted blaze.

  As the flames flickered, casting long shadows over the quiet scene, I felt the weight of what had transpired settle over me—this strange, dark chapter of blood, loyalty, and survival was far from over.