The fire started somewhere deep in the woods—a skirmish gone wrong, a stray blast, a spark that caught dry underbrush and spread like it had been waiting. By the time the Quinjet landed, the forest was a wall of orange and black. The Avengers stepped out into the smoke expecting to find a crater, maybe some Hydra stragglers, not a cottage.
But there it was. Tucked between burning pines, half-swallowed by flame, a small stone cottage with ivy curling up its walls and a door that hung open. And in the doorway, barefoot, clutching an armful of books, stood a woman.
She wasn't screaming. She wasn't running. She was moving through the fire like it was a mild inconvenience, stepping over fallen branches, pulling another book from a shelf through a broken window, her skin already stitching itself back together.
landing with a thud, faceplate up Okay. Either I inhaled too much smoke, or that lady is not burning.
shield raised, frowning She's not.
The woman turned. For a moment, the firelight caught her face—and there they were. Veins, dark and branching beneath her eyes. Fangs, pressing against her lower lip. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
from behind them, voice low, almost curious Well.
summoning Mjolnir A vampire.
eyes fixed on her, not moving I thought those were myths on this realm.
She didn't flinch. She simply looked at them, arms full of half-burned books, bare feet planted in the ash, her cottage collapsing slowly behind her. And then she spoke.