Candlelight reflected dimly from irises the colour of molasses; eyelids closed briefly, and a fleeting, fervent thought crystallised. Pupils contracted again as the deep brown eyes opened anew, shortly to be suffused in smoke and then plunged into darkness as the light sources died.

"Happy birthday!"

A round of applause filled the tavern as the main lights were lit again. Isca was immediately surrounded by well-wishers of all ages, pressing small gifts into his hands, clapping him on the back and – occasionally – whispering suggestions in his ear. The table before him was soon covered in hand-woven clothing, carved wooden ornaments, and, much to the boy's delight, his first hunting knife, which he quickly stashed away from prying eyes and eager hands. Most of the rest of the night passed in a blur, occasional snippets of conversation filtering through the tumult of music and dancing.

". . . far too young to be drinking your homebrew, Silas . . ."

"Bah, a little sniff of the barmaid's apron never hurt anyone . . ."

"You'll make him ill if you don't stop spinning him around like that . . ."

At sixteen, Isca, son of Daera and Darrin cut a handsome figure in his gala best. Already of a height with lads several years his elder, his youthful frame, whilst tall and strong, had not yet gained the depth of thew that develops when the teenage years are past. Nonetheless, his build was maturing gradually to show the rewards of years of manual labour, and such changes did not go unnoticed. Tonight he was surrounded, as always, by a small swarm of clucking aunties and cooing lasses, each trying to outdo the other in their presentation of gifts, or their attempts at vying for his attention.

There were, mused the blissfully smiling youth, certain advantages to being one of only ten males under fifty in a settlement comprised almost entirely of women.

Eventually, Isca managed to extricate himself from the grasp of another potential dance partner - much to the chagrin of his aunties – and slip outside for a breath of fresh air. It was almost seven years now since the bereaved boy had been brought to sanctuary at Quadros, and, along with the three other surviving male children from Carno, he now constituted one of an extremely exclusive set. Quadros itself, nestling comfortably in the lee of the Razielim Fortress, was the largest of four Tithe Villages currently under the protection of this particular Vampire Clan. Although from the outside it boasted an air of well-maintained prosperity, its structure was in actuality defined somewhere between a refugee camp and a holy order. The denizens of the steadily expanding town were for the most part women whose menfolk had either been drafted for the nefarious Sarafan army - or killed by them; and holy men whose belief in ancient doctrines had earned them expulsion from their former parishes. Though life was not easy, the inhabitants would ever choose this occasionally arduous life of free choice and free worship over the restrictive impositions of the Sarafan regime. Again and again Isca's gaze was drawn to the Fortress looming above the village: his eyes darkened as an unwanted memory of that fateful day returned, accompanied as always by a hollow, sinking feeling in his gut. One thought alone gave hope to a mind still filled with the vengeance of an orphaned child. In a very short time, the Razielim would once again be recruiting potential candidates to join their fledgling ranks, and the young men of Quadros would be given the opportunity to prove themselves worthy of the honour. Isca would be among them - this he swore. The Sarafan knights would pay for what they had done to his parents.

Since his bereavement, Isca had lived with two old aunties. In truth, the ancient crones were in no way related to his parents, but nevertheless, due to their kindness and doting manner, as such had he come to regard them. In return for their fostering of him, he stoically endured their descriptions of him to everyone within earshot as a 'strapping young lad', and their constant reminiscences of his behaviour in his toddling years. In addition, he tolerated without complaint their ardent cheek-pinching, and always listened respectfully when they insisted on telling him for the umpteenth time what a wonderful woman was Daera. As with most ladies in the later years of life, they showed their affection through the provision of enormous cooked dinners, impossibly outsized pastries and specially-prepared treats; as with most sixteen-year-old boys, one helping was never quite enough. The night before the Razielim were due to arrive for the selection, the aunties were outdoing themselves with the helpings of food, each labouring under the misconception that since this might well constitute the last time their charge ate human victuals, he must therefore make up tonight for an eternity of fasting. By the end of the feast, even Isca was ready to admit defeat. The lad sat back in his chair, slapping his distended belly and grinning his appreciation for the meal.

"Ooh, he's got an appetite!" The old crone bared her gums and pinched the youth's cheek in approval. Isca endured her attention with a wry, indulgent smile.

"He's a growing boy, dear," advised the other, sagely.

The crone stood back and regarded the sated youngster critically, shaking her head and clucking her tongue. "I don't know where he puts it."

She was shoved to one side in short order as her companion shuffled across to the table with a pan brimming with pudding.

"More custard, dear?"

The young man's grin widened.

The following day found Isca ready and willing to take on the challenge. Although he was aware that most of the female population of the town were distraught by the thought he might leave, he knew as well as they that if he was successful, he would quite likely still be a frequent visitor. Unlike some of the other candidates in his position, he never took advantage of his unique situation to be free with his affections: as much as the attention massaged his ego, leading to the occasional flirt with temptation, the last thing the youth wanted was a family tie when the opportunity for excitement and adventure loomed so close. Besides, the majority of the homely women inhabiting the village, though pleasant enough, did not really inspire him - with the marked exception of Maeve, the innkeeper's daughter. Golden haired, slim waisted and barely a few days younger than himself, she was often seen walking at his side of an evening - much to the envy of her friends. It was in this particular young lady's company he found himself that one pivotal afternoon, the pair of them sequestered behind the local tavern. He himself was fresh from working the fields, and covered in caked mud and bits of hay, which Maeve apparently found quite alluring. He'd surprised her into dropping her laundry basket as she made her way from the tavern garden, and they were now leaning against the inner wall as they indulged in the bittersweet mix of passion and chastity that mark the affections of youth.

"Don't go," murmured Maeve when she had an opportunity to speak. Her flushed face contradicted her request, and betrayed a barely-formed desire that she herself could hardly fathom yet. The youth ultimately became aware that she was not talking about their current situation.

He drew back from her slightly, his tone serious for once. "I've wanted nothing else for as long as I can remember."

"But what if you don't pass the Trials?" Maeve insisted, "What will you do? Will you come back here?"

Isca considered this as he leaned one arm against the wall, a far-away smile on his face.

"If I fail, I'll wander the world seeking adventure until I'm good enough." He told her, taking in the expanse of the tavern garden with a wave of his arm. His gaze quickly returned to the young girl, who was hanging on his every word. His smile became shrewd.

"Except I'm not going to fail. I'm going to pass all the Trials. . ." He moved away from the wall to give an energetic demonstration of how he was going to defeat whatever beasts he was expecting to fight, much to Maeve's delight. Isca then moved back to the admiring young woman, placing a hand against the wall either side of her as he continued.

"Then, I'm going to come back here one night . . ." he paused, mischief written all over his face as he leaned closer to the girl, who was feigning fear while enjoying every minute of the young rascal's attention, "… and bite you!" He added a touch of realism to his threat by giving her a passionate kiss on the neck, whose results would likely earn them both a hiding from her grandmother.

The seldom-heard clatter of iron-shod horses broke the young lovers' clinch, Isca's head snapping at once in the direction of the sound. This could mean one thing and one thing only: the seekers had come early. The two exchanged a glance, hers pleading, his regretful, before he pulled himself away from her embrace and darted into the street to locate the riders. He instantly recognised three of the four horsemen as members of the upper caste of the Clan. They were a familiar sight in the town: once a month, the Razielim Elite would come from the fortress to obtain the blood tithe that the townsfolk paid for their protection. In return, the denizens of Quadros could live out their lives the way they wished, free from the persecution of the Sarafan. Isca had often watched as the fearsome warriors descended into the town and disappeared into the self-same dwellings time and again. The youth rather got the impression that they came for more than just blood. More and more Isca wanted to join with these ancient creatures - even at sixteen, he was convinced that this was his destiny. Determination strengthened his resolve: he would face the Trials, and he would succeed.

With that thought foremost in his mind, the young man slipped past the dismounting warriors into the long barn that served at various times as meeting place, recreation hall, and place of worship. Belatedly, Isca remembered the state of his attire. As he glanced at his co-workers, he realised that they had spent some portion of the last half-hour getting cleaned up and donning fresh clothes. He had planned to wear his father's armour, in the vain hope that the more warlike he looked, the more likely they would be to choose him. He brushed ineffectually at the dried mud on his knees, and looked disconsolately at the grass stains that seemed almost luminous against the dull brown of his work clothes. He glanced again at the impeccable dress of the other candidates as he moved to stand with them, cursing himself for indulging his whims on so important an occasion.

The candidates fell silent as two massive figures blotted out the sunlight that filtered through the hall doorway. The first was already known to some of the candidates as Gurt, the austere Fledgling Master. Despite his unaging body, he still managed to project an air of grizzled maturity, and his harsh reputation preceded him. The Fledge Master stood to one side, head inclined politely as the other figure strode into the hall. The young men stiffened, some standing instinctively to attention while others caught their breath as they finally beheld the fabled, seldom-seen Clan leader in the flesh.

Raziel's penetrating gaze missed nothing. It had been many years since he had sought fledges from Quadros: there were few enough males in this settlement as it was, and he had been forced to wait until the newest additions to its populace came of age. Although his Clan was not short of men – vampires not suffering from the disadvantage of a mortal lifespan – the recent increase in Sarafan activity around the borders of his lands had forced his hand. He had a feeling he would need all the reinforcements he could muster, before too long. His sense of snobbery precluded the option of creating fledges from the ranks of the enemy, and thus he had come again to scour the Tithe Villages for potential Initiates.

Gurt accompanied the Vampire Lord as they strolled past the candidates, ranged in a single row in the centre of the hall. Raziel nodded to each of them in turn, eyeing each shrewdly before coming to a halt at the end of the line. What with his youthful face, still bereft of all but the fluffiest of face-fuzz, and his filthy work clothes, Isca stood out like a sore thumb.

"This one's too young." Gurt opined gruffly, singling out the red-faced youngster.

In his desperation not to be overlooked, Isca blurted out, "Please - let me try."

Raziel arched an eyebrow at the boy's audacity. As the Clan leader stepped closer, Isca became uncomfortably aware that this was not the kind, almost fatherly figure he remembered from his childhood meeting with him. The amber eyes were cold and calculating, and the intimidating form towered above him, darkening his vision. It occurred to the trembling boy that standing next to Raziel was like being buried in a snowdrift: he seemed almost to banish warmth and light from the air around him. Isca cursed his loose tongue.

"Even though to fail would mean your death?" intoned Raziel casually, gauging the youngster's reaction. "Are you prepared to risk your life in the attempt?"

The youth paled visibly. He had not realised that failure would entail such consequences. Nevertheless, his desire was as strong as ever – he was just glad Maeve was out of earshot.

"I won't fail." He said grittily.

Golden eyes narrowed in thought. Raziel scrutinized the boy, shortly recognising him as Darrin and Daera's kin. He should have known: there was something of the father's determination in the son's eyes. To Isca's dismay, Gurt continued to argue that he was too young, and, at the Fledgling Master's words, Raziel turned on his heel and stalked towards the door.

Several faces fell.

As Raziel reached the exit, he halted with his back to the room and gave an order to Gurt over his shoulder:

"Bring them all."

Isca's heart soared, and he grinned delightedly at the other candidates, all of whom returned his elation with smiles of their own: all that is, save one. The sallow-faced Poul was by far the eldest of the young men left in Quadros, and was evidently less than pleased at Isca's good fortune. He made his contempt of the youngster quite clear.

"I can't believe you came here dressed like that!"

Gurt, who had not yet left the hall, called out a reproving comment in a deep, booming voice that froze all present.

"Clothes do not make the man, Initiate." Feeling thoroughly chastised, Poul sulkily followed the others from the building.

As Isca emerged into the afternoon sunlight, he took another look at the magnificent leather armour worn by the Elite riders, a covetous expression on his awestruck face. He uttered his response in a low voice so that Gurt would not hear.

"I beg to differ."

*

Water seared vampire flesh in an insidious, incessant stream. A Turelim cackle punctuated a gurgling Razielim cry.