Darkness, with the tangible touch of tentacles, coiled around Isolde with every breath. She ran, her lungs burning, her ears filled with the frantic drum of her own heart and the increasingly close inhuman shrieks behind her. The icy mist scraped her face, carrying the forest's decay and the nauseating stench emanating from her pursuers. Her boots slipped on the damp mulch and gnarled roots; she nearly fell several times, held upright only by years of training and a hatred that refused to let her collapse.
The vampire's words—that pale, silver-haired monster with eerie lilac eyes—still echoed in her mind.
"Danger... leave immediately..."
The pained warning, the icy, irresistible force that had shoved her, and the complex, unreadable emotion in his eyes just before he vanished.
All an act! A more sophisticated, more cunning act! To lower her guard? To plant ridiculous doubts? Or was it a twisted, monstrous form of play, like a cat toying with a mouse before the kill?
The mere thought that she had hesitated, even for a second, filled her with intense self-loathing and rage. The feel of the silver blade slicing his arm, his suppressed groan of pain from the holy water—these real sensations were the best antidote to confusion. He was hurt. He fled. That was enough. It proved he wasn't invincible. It proved her hatred and her weapons were effective.
As for those suddenly appearing, savage shadows... Isolde gritted her teeth, sliding down a sloping bank, rolling to absorb the impact as she landed, and swiftly ducking behind the broad trunk of an ancient tree. The shrieks were closer now, accompanied by the violent rustle of foliage being shoved aside. She held her breath, one hand tight on the silver dagger at her waist, the other retrieving two small, rune-carved crystals.
A trap. It had to be. The silver-haired monster was the bait, the one to feign weakness, while these low, frenzied things handled the ambush. Classic Cassius style, that sadistic bastard who enjoyed toying with his prey! They were in it together! All monsters deserving of hell!
A dark shape lunged from the bushes to her left, not far away. Crimson eyes glinted in the dark, a maw full of jagged fangs gaping, drooling. It was fast, but lacked the silver-haired vampire's grace and control, moving with pure, bestial bloodlust.
Isolde didn't move. Not until the creature was less than three meters from her hiding place. Then she leaned out sharply, her left hand snapping forward. The two dispelling crystals shot out, striking the ground squarely before the monster's chest.
"In the name of Light, be gone!"
The low incantation burst from between her teeth. The crystals didn't explode physically, but erupted in a sudden, blinding flash of silvery-white light mixed with a powerful surge of positive energy. The attacking vampire let out a piercing shriek, as if touched by an invisible brand. Its charge halted violently; it clawed at its eyes, tendrils of smoke rising from its body. Its fear of the light was far more direct and violent than the silver-haired one's reaction to the holy water.
Now! Isolde burst from behind the tree, body low, driving forward. The silver dagger in her hand traced a cold arc in the fading glow, plunging accurately into the heart of the vampire, left wide open by its agony.
Hiss—
A duller sizzle. The monster convulsed violently, its crimson eyes instantly dimming. It gave a final, wet gurgle before collapsing into a pile of ash and tattered cloth, rustling to the forest floor. One strike, lethal. Against such low-grade filth, silver and basic exorcism were enough.
But killing one didn't solve the crisis. The other dark shapes were closing in, flanking her from different directions, their red eyes locked on her, shrieks filled with fury at their fallen kin. They seemed more cautious now, no longer charging headlong, but beginning to use the tree shadows to circle.
Isolde panted, cold sweat tracing a line down her temple. The burst had taken its toll, and she knew her position was compromised. A stand-up fight was impossible. Her target was the silver-haired, more dangerous one, not expending all her energy on his underlings here.
She glanced once more at the red eyes flickering among the trees, then turned decisively and sprinted with all her strength towards the remembered direction of the town. This time, she didn't run a straight line. Using the forest's complex terrain, she changed direction constantly, occasionally throwing a knife or a small flash-rune to disrupt her pursuers. The chase lasted nearly twenty minutes before the shrieks and crimson eyes gradually fell behind, finally disappearing into the depths of fog and dark.
By the time Isolde stumbled out of the Blackwood's edge, catching sight of Northam's sparse, dim lights in the distance, the first pallor of dawn tinged the eastern sky. The darkest hour before morning was ending, but the oppression hanging over the town felt heavier than in the dead of night.
She leaned against the last tree at the forest's border, gasping for air. Sweat had soaked through her underclothes, chilling her skin. Fresh scratches from thorns and branches stung on her arms and legs. But worse was the churning turmoil inside—rage, belated fear, and a sharp, humiliating sense of having been played.
That silver-haired vampire... Silas Valentian. The name had come to her, pieced together from fragments of his low speech during the fight and later, in the tense clarity of adrenaline, from memories of the town's rumors. Valentian... an ancient vampire lineage, it seemed. And "Silas"—a name that sounded almost pleasant, now only made her nauseous.
She pushed herself upright, slowly, and looked back at the Blackwood, still deep and shadowy even in the growing light. Morning mist flowed between the trees like white shrouds. There, she had faced her target directly for the first time, drawn first blood on a high-level vampire with her silver, and also encountered for the first time... such a perplexing, contradictory "enemy."
No. No contradiction. Isolde shook her head hard, dislodging the treacherous thoughts. All contradiction was illusion, part of an elaborately set trap. How could a creature that fed on blood, possessed inhuman speed and strength, feared silver and holy fire, harbor any goodwill? He had shoved her away only because he didn't want her killed by his lesser kin—perhaps he wanted the kill himself, perhaps there was another scheme. He'd said "danger" because he was the danger, or because he sensed Cassius's minions approaching and didn't want his "prey" stolen.
Yes. It had to be. That was the only logic, the only thing that fit the worldview she had built over six years of blood and hatred.
She touched the Thorne family crest on her dagger's hilt. The cold metal solidified her resolve. The images of her parents' deaths surfaced again, vivid as yesterday. Compared to that hellish memory, any so-called "anomalies" she'd witnessed tonight seemed pale, laughable, insignificant.
Silas Valentian. She repeated the name silently. The last shred of confusion in her grey eyes was crushed, replaced by a purer, fiercer killing intent.
Good. You have my full attention. From now on, you are my primary target. Before I find Cassius and tear him apart, I will see you—and that false mask of yours—nailed to the light of day.
She straightened her disheveled clothes and gear, wiped the dagger clean of ash and dirt on a tuft of grass, and sheathed it. Then, pulling the hood of her cloak low to hide her pale face and sharp eyes, she walked with tired but unwavering steps back towards the Rimewood Inn.
______
By day, Northam Town seemed to stir slightly from its nocturnal stupor, but the awakening was that of a convalescent—weak and skittish. More people were on the streets, but they moved with purpose, spoke little and in hushed tones when they did, their eyes darting, especially when they noticed Isolde, the obvious outsider. Their gazes would slide away, their pace quicken.
Isolde had changed into a more ordinary dark grey dress under her cloak, looking like a solitary female traveler with a mild interest in northern towns. She went first to a small, sparsely populated tavern, ordered a simple stew and black bread, and took a corner seat. She ate slowly, her ears straining to catch every snippet of conversation.
The tavern smelled of ale, smoke, and gloom. A few local regulars sat by the hearth, murmuring about the wretched weather, the harvest, and the recent troubles.
"...Old John's wall, heard it took days to fix, the claw marks were that deep..."
"That lad Hans still hasn't woken. Old Harvey says he might not last the night... A curse, it is..."
"Heard there was noise in the Blackwood again last night. Gunshots! I swear I heard 'em, and strange cries too..."
"Hush! Keep it down! Don't go inviting trouble..."
Isolde sipped her weak ale, eyes downcast. The tavern keeper—a bald, portly man in a greasy apron—came over to refill her water, making casual conversation. "Miss is from out of town? Not common, traveling alone to Northam."
"Heard the forest here is ancient. Thought to do some sketching." Isolde offered the excuse offhandedly, her tone flat.
"Ancient? Hah, that it is," the keeper lowered his voice, leaning in with a wave of garlic breath, "and queer with it. Listen, miss, a bit of sightseeing by day is fine, but once that sun's down, you get inside and bolt the door. The night... it's not clean out there."
"Not clean?" Isolde looked up, showing just the right mix of confusion and a touch of fear. "You mean... beasts? I heard there were wolves?"
The keeper's jowls quivered. His eyes shifted. "Wolves? Heh... worse than wolves. It's... 'things of the night.'" His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Some of the old-timers say it's the 'Guardian' that keeps 'em in check, stops 'em from getting too rowdy... But others say the Guardian himself is... ah, hard to say. Just keep your head down, that's the thing. Don't go out at night."
The Guardian again. Isolde's heart constricted faintly, but her face showed increased fear and curiosity. "A guardian? A person, then? A knight? A woodsman?"
The keeper straightened as if burned, waving his hands. "Oh, no, wouldn't dare guess! Nobody's seen—I mean, those who might have... Just don't ask! Remember, stay in at night!" Clearly unwilling to say more, he hurried off to attend other customers.
Isolde lowered her gaze, slowly cutting the now-cold stew on her plate. Fear, secrecy, and that strange, complex attitude towards the so-called Guardian—both reliant and deeply fearful... The reactions of these townsfolk were like thick paint, daubed over the creature named Silas, making him seem more mysterious and more despicable.
A mask. A clever mask. He'd used some method to instill this twisted awe, even dependence, in these ignorant people, better to hide himself, perhaps better to keep them as a ready blood supply. Cassius enjoyed the thrill of the kill; this Silas enjoyed the game of manipulating hearts, playing the "protector"? Disgusting.
Leaving the tavern, Isolde wandered the town with apparent aimlessness. She passed the church, its worn stone grim in the overcast light, doors and windows shut tight. She tried speaking to an old fisherman mending nets by the wharf. At her question about night safety, his face paled, and he muttered, "Lord Valentian will see to it," before hastily gathering his nets and leaving. Isolde stood there, her eyes cold.
Lord Valentian. So, even the address carried a stale, old-world reverence. How long had this vampire been cultivating this place? How deep did his influence run?
She went to the town's edge near the Blackwood, studying the ground closely. In muddy patches, she found footprints—not human, slender and elongated, matching the stride she remembered from the silver-haired creature. On the leaves of some bushes, she even found a strand or two of silvery-white fiber that caught the light oddly—like hair.
He frequented this area. Perhaps even had a fixed lair, not far from town.
Isolde's heartbeat quickened slightly. Hatred, like poison ivy, coiled around her reason, but it also granted it a terrible focus. All the clues, the townsfolk's vague words, the details of last night's clash—they all converged and wove together in her mind, pointing towards an increasingly clear plan of action.
Silas Valentian. The shadowy "Guardian" of Northam Town. A powerful, ancient, cunning high-level vampire.
And the first head that Isolde Thorne, on her path of vengeance, would sever with her own hands.
She looked up at the sky, once more heavy with leaden clouds. The day was short. Night would come again.
The next meeting would have no warnings, no hesitation. She would be ready. Traps, every means at her disposal. Silver, holy water, runes, explosives... all the hunting arts of the Thorne line, and all she had honed in six years.
She would tear away that mask of falsehood, watch him writhe in silver and fire, and then send him where he belonged.
Let the night fall, and swiftly.
(End of Chapter 4)