They say the frost came early that year. Whispers of a pale woman wandering the highlands. Of villagers left bloodless in forests and streets. They call her a vampire. A monster. A curse returned from beneath the soil. But curses do not wear smiles, and monsters do not weep when they think themselves alone. I saw her once-only once-and I do not believe she wanted to be what she is. Still, people are dying. Disappearing. And every time we get close to the truth, we find something worse-blood in the alleys, and screams in the mouths of the dead. So we ride again-Sir Gideon Beckett and I. Into frozen woods and poisoned courts. Into crypts beneath manors. Into truths we might not wish to find. The world grows colder. But I carry my quill like a torch. If we are to fall, let it not be into silence. Let it be written.
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