“He’d have to be pretty drunk to forget that.”

“He seemed it; you saw him with the other women.” I glance back over my shoulder. Wolt is stumbling off with one of the dancers.

“Thanks for not being too hard on him, Flor.” Flor, short for Flora. Only my brother and mother use the nickname. “It’s just how things are the night before the Blood Moon.”

“Should all the hunters be drunk to the point that it might impair their ability to hunt tomorrow?” I arch my eyebrows at him. Driun mirrors the movement. We’re almost the same height and of similar build. We share the same black hair and eyes as our mother. Looking at him is truly like looking into a mirror and seeing a more masculine version of myself.

“We have until sunset to nurse our heads and stomachs, and the Hunter’s Elixir to aid us. No second day ache is stronger than the elixir.”

“Tomorrow isn’t like a regular hunt.” And seriously it didn't seem like it, the atmosphere that hung over that day was strange.

“No one knows that more than us,” he says with a note of severity.

I shrug rather than arguing further. Driun lets it drop. We enter the smithy side by side.

The smithy is one of the larger buildings of Hunter’s Hamlet, set off slightly from the rest of the clustered cobblestone structures cramped together like too many teeth in a vampire’s mouth. Unlike the other thatched roofs of the hamlet, its roof is slate, like the fortress’s. Wooden awnings cover the front, welcoming us inside. The forge is at the center of everything, wooden tables stretching out from it. Usually they’re covered in tools and blades. But tonight they’re covered with food and flagons.

This is the hub of Hunter’s Hamlet, as everyone needs the work of a blacksmith, at some point, and tonight is no exception.

The brewer has brought a cask of ale and tapped it fresh. Farmers have gathered around, sipping on the fruit of their labors. The milliner is spinning stories to children up far past bedtime. And thrumming underneath the din of it all is the beating heart of Hunter’s Hamlet—the smith matron, the shield of Hunter’s Hamlet. My mother.

Mother’s hammer rhythmically rises and falls. Her dark hair escapes the tightly braided bun she wears at the nape of her neck, clinging with sweat to the sides of her face. Even now, late in the night before the Blood Moon, we’re still hard at work. There’s still much to be done.

“By the way, who were you talking to before?” I ask Driun as we weave through a gaggle of gossiping elders.

“When?”

“Earlier. Over there.” I gesture toward the corner. Whoever the young lady was, she wasn’t waiting for Driun to come back.

“I’ve spoken with a lot of people tonight; you’ll have to be more specific.” He knows exactly what I’m talking about and is being obtuse.

“Fine, keep your secrets. But if I saw then Mother did, too, and I can promise you’ll have a harder time dodging her questions.”

“It’s just a woman, nothing serious.” Driun rubs the back of his neck.

“Mother is going to lay into you if you keep up this ‘nothing serious’ business with every lady in the hamlet.” I drop the bucket by the forge and shovel in some of the charcoal, moving to work the bellows to alleviate a burst of frustration. Driun can touch, and dance, and feel all he wants. But me… I pull the bellows even harder.

Mother spares me an appreciative glance before promptly returning to her conversation with the tanner. Whatever they’re discussing must be important, because her expression is severe. Could it be there’s something wrong with the last batch of leathers we sent for the hunters to wear tomorrow? I’m instantly trying to recall every clasp and buckle I made, every pauldron and needle. Did I hammer a defect into the metal without realizing?

“I’ve no complaints from anyone I’ve been with.” Driun shrugs. “I’ll settle down eventually, whenever I decide.”

“Must be nice to just decide whenever you want to be with someone or marry them,” I mutter under my breath. I might gracefully accept my role for the betterment of Hunter’s Hamlet around everyone else. But Driun is the one person I don’t need to be graceful in front of.

“I shouldn’t have phrased it like that. I’m sorry, Flor.”

I shake my head and sigh, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders. “It’s true.”

“But it might not have to be for long.”

My heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“But—”

“Normal time.”

“Nothing about tonight is normal,” I hiss. Our voices have dropped to a whisper. I can’t believe he’s talking about our midnight training within earshot of so many. “Look at how many people are here; we’re not going to have time to—”

I don’t get to finish because I learn what made Driun so confident we’ll be able to sneak a moment alone.

The smithy falls to a hush. Even Mother’s hammer is silent as she rests it on the anvil and plunges the iron she was working into the almost white-hot coals I’ve stoked in the forge. All eyes have turned to the silhouette in the doorway, outlined by a pinkish, festering moon.

This gnarled and fearsome man is Davros, the master hunter, the man whom our world would be lost without.

His clothes are finely made of velvet. A rare material reserved for the master hunter himself as it can only be procured outside the hamlet. His hands are folded atop a walking stick adorned with the silver head of a raven—one identical to the large bird perched on his shoulder. I fight a chill that runs down my spine at the sight of the raven.

The black eyes of the master hunter. They were finely observed in the dark.

That’s what the townsfolk refer to the bird as. It has a name; Driun told me it once. But I promptly forgot it. The name was as uncomfortable as the bird’s gaze. A fitting name that sounds like shrill cries and sharp nails on stone.

The old stories say that not one master hunter, dating as far back as the fortress itself, thousands of years, has been without a raven. When one master hunter dies, the raven takes to the skies. Then, when it is time for a new master hunter to be masked, a raven returns to perch on their shoulder. Some claim it has been the same raven for every master hunter since the first stones of the forge were laid. Driun says the raven is so revered in the fortress that it is usually the one to choose the next master hunter from worthy candidates. Others in the hamlet go so far as to think that the creature is an ancient god in the shape of a beast, defending Hunter’s Hamlet against the vampire scourge.

If that is true, the old god does a poor job of it. Because even though the vampire lord himself can’t come through the Fade, he still sends monsters every full moon to attack, to remind us that he is there, waiting. And the rumored divine could clearly do nothing to prevent the impending Blood Moon.

“Hail, Hunter’s Hamlet,” Davros says in that weary way of his.

“Guide and guard us,” the room intones in response.

“Tonight’s revelries seem to have been a delight.” Davros smiles. I think the expression is intended to be fatherly, but to me it always looks wicked. There’s a gleam to his eyes that deeply unnerves me. Driun has never found my unease surprising.

Davros is baptized in the blood of our enemies, he says. The man has seen more vampires, more of his kin live and die, than any of us.

And none of us are strangers to bloodshed in Hunter’s Hamlet. Death keeps a summer home in this forsaken place.

“But the night is growing thin,” Davros continues. “And I must recall my hunters to me.”

Men and women slowly step away from the crowd, as if in a trance. They are the hunters and have the scars, both visible and not, as a testament to their bloody work. I want to grab Driun’s hand. To ask if he’s sure he’ll be able to come later. I can’t stomach the thought of him marching out tomorrow evening without a chance to speak to him alone just one more time. Even though I don’t know what I want to say yet.

What do you say to someone before they march off to certain death? What could I tell him that he doesn’t already know? What words would be enough to encapsulate everything? He was always the clever one with finesse. I’m useless if I can’t hit my problem with a hammer.

But I let him go.

I have no other choice.

He has his role and I have mine. They were given to us before we were born, determined solely by our family name and sex. No matter how much we might hope, or dream, or begrudge, neither of us can escape the path laid before us.

“Is there anything more you need from the forge?” Mother asks Davros.

“No, you have already done more than enough to protect Hunter’s Hamlet. Without your weaponry, wall fortifications, and assistance with our leather armor, the hunters would be going out underneath the Blood Moon in a sad state,” Davros says as the hunters gather round.

“It is our family’s honor to see the hunters and the hamlet prepared for every hunt, this one especially.” Mother lets her eyes drift to Driun with a sad smile; it’s an expression I’ve seen her give him often, one of both pride and worry, fear and joy. Even though we knew becoming a hunter was his destiny, as much as mine is the forge, neither of us looked forward to him embarking on that path. It is not a life with longevity. But we knew why he had to leave the house and join the fortress. We understood.

That is the way of things in the Runeit family: the eldest daughter is the forge maiden and the eldest son heads to the fortress. Every family has their traditions and their role to play in Hunter’s Hamlet. There is security when we are all in our place. It is the promise and sacrifice we’ve all made. So after Father died it was merely a matter of time until Driun assumed his position in society.

From that moment on, Mother and I have been waiting each month for Davros to arrive and tell us that the vampires have claimed another member of our family. But, miraculously, month after month, Driun has returned. Maybe this month, even with the Blood Moon, will be no different. It’s a fool’s hope and I know it. But all hope is foolish in Hunter’s Hamlet.

“Speaking of your family’s honor…” Davros’s eyes drift to me as he trails off. His eyes shine and the taste of bile rises in the back of my throat. “Following tomorrow night’s hunt, there will be even more cause for celebration. It is time to cement our forge maiden’s future, so that the smithy continues to run hot for generations to come.”

“I will do as the master hunter bids.” I dip my chin and keep my face as blank as the masks the hunters wear when they go out to the Fade Marshes.

“May the bell toll for a wedding in the coming week.” Davros taps his walking stick for emphasis. Driun is fighting a scowl. I think he hates this topic even more than I do.

I can imagine what he’ll say later. How dare Davros speak about you like you’re not there, in front of everyone. How dare he speak of marrying you off like you’re some prized mare. But my fate is no secret. The forge maiden is always married before twenty. That’s just the way of it, the tradition, the necessity since any of our lives might end come the next full moon. I’ll likely be with child before the end of the year and the idea has me cold, even standing next to the forge.

There’s excited murmuring among the eligible male hunters. They leer at me. I grab one of the hammers by the forge on instinct, keeping it at my side.

I might be the forge maiden, but I am no delicate flower. I am as cold as silver. As strong as iron. I will bend for destiny, but not for any man.

No one notices my white knuckles; they’re too busy cheering. The wedding of the forge maiden is a huge affair in Hunter’s Hamlet. We have precious little to celebrate, so when there is an excuse, the hamlet indulges deeply.

I keep my panic, my worry, within. I won’t be the one to squelch their joy. Not due to childish notions of getting to choose my husband for love, or desire, or attraction, or any of the other reasons someone is drawn to a partner. I have my duty. I have an obligation, and all of it is far more important than anything I would want.

“Into the night,” Davros says, turning.

“Good hunting,” the rest of us respond as the master hunter leaves with his loyal soldiers.

“The bellows, Flora,” Mother says, gentle but firm. “And since you have a hammer in hand, help me with a few sickles; the fortress can never have enough.” Her eyes dart from the tool to my face. Her expression softens into a sad smile. She knows what my future holds all too well. It had been hers too.

And she had fallen in love with Father, in time.

I can see them together in the forge. Sweat shines on their cheeks. They share a smile reserved only for the two of them. Father is nimble and light. Mother is strong and sturdy. He was her shield, her his sword. They were two parts to one being, one entity.

The image is briefly replaced by the shell of my father stumbling unnaturally toward the smithy without his sickle—that was how we knew he was dead.

I shake my head, scattering the thoughts, and set to work.

Before I know it, the last reveler has wandered away. It’s just Mother and me left, as it always is at the end of a long day. The coals are turning orange-red and the shadows are lengthening.

“That’s enough for tonight.” Mother pats the horn of the anvil, returns her hammer to its peg, rolls her shoulders, and then stretches her wrists. No matter how long we do this job, there are still aches and pains that come with it. Every strike reverberates up through the elbow and into the shoulders. The core is worn ragged. Knees ache. The smithy demands every part of the body.

“I’ll clean up.”

“Thank you.” Mother rests a hand on my shoulder. “What Davros said earlier about your marriage…”

“I thought nothing of it.”

She smiles. She knows I’m lying. “I wanted you to know that I had no prior knowledge he would bring it up. If I had, I would’ve told you.”

“I know,” I say softly. For years it’s felt like it’s just her and me—ever since Father died and Driun left for the fortress. We work together every day. Share dinner every night. She’s the only one who really understands my circumstances.

“After we survive tomorrow, if the vampire lord is not slain, then we’ll talk more about your nuptials. I won’t send you in blind. And I’ll do what I can to find you a smart match.”

“Thank you,” I say earnestly.

“Of course.” She leans forward and kisses me on my forehead, even though I know it’s coated in metal dust and soot. “Now, take your time. We’ll be cooped up tomorrow night and have preparations come dawn, so enjoy this time for yourself.”

Mother knows me too well.

I run my hand along the smooth top of the anvil after she leaves. My nails stick on the grooves of the softer metal of the horn. It’s still warm from her work.

Home.

Every month the vampires come to try and take it all from us. But, according to the old stories, the infiltrations month after month are just glancing blows. The real fight is tomorrow. Driun has been telling me not to dwell on my possible demise for the past few months, but how could I not? Just like the old stories warn, the moon grows ever more ominous, a faint pink darkening with each night. It can’t be ignored.

I set to cleaning. First, I sweep up the scale, then rake the coals, piling them toward the back. It’s odd to think we won’t be stoking them in a few hours come dawn. Then I head to the back.

In the back of the forge is a vault built into the thick walls. I check and count the silver within, making sure all the bars are stacked in the particular way that Mother likes them. Then, I lock the door with the spinning dials smelted onto its front. The numerical lock is a strange contraption designed by my great-great-grandmother. She kept its workings a secret to the grave. Every forge maiden has left their mark—a great work left behind. Mine still remains a mystery.

Perhaps I’ll figure out how to make my own unique lock and replace this one. No one alive knows how to fix the one smelted into the door. But the benefit is that no one but our family has any idea how it works and how to open it. Fear marries desperation to breed poor decisions, Mother always says. We must protect the silver, for it is our only defense against the vampires. A defense that grows more finite by the day.

Those who enter Hunter’s Hamlet by way of the fortress gate and join our community are never allowed to leave thereafter. That is part of our sacrifice to keep the world safe from the vampires. No one goes in or out, vampires included. Space for humans to slip through means spaces for vampires to pass. The single path through the fortress is the only, tightly guarded, connection to the outside world.

The only exception to sequestering is for the master hunter. He is permitted to leave through the outer gate to engage with the traders the other hunters call from the walls. There are some things we cannot produce on our own, namely iron and silver.

According to Driun, the Apelius Trading Company that transports rare, raw silver from the distant north has not come to the port town near us for almost a year now. Mother and I have begun to worry that they might not ever return. There have been many dinners spent discussing what we will do if the veins of silver in those faraway mines have run out. She has already begun consulting the old family records for ideas on how to more efficiently smelt down the existing, but broken, weapons and recast them into the crescent moon sickles that the hunters wield without losing the silver’s potency.