Night fell as promised, bearing a fog thicker, more suffocating than the night before. Northam Town lapsed into silence early, every house shuttered, even the barking of dogs scarce, as if the entire place held its breath, awaiting some unknown judgment. Only the wind's moan through narrow alleys and broken eaves, and the distant roar of the Blackwood Forest like some great beast's growl, broke the deathly stillness.
Isolde did not wait. When the last shred of daylight was swallowed by leaden clouds and spreading mist, she had already left the inn, a shadow merging with the night, slipping once more towards the town's western edge, towards the cursed border of the forest. This time, her target was clearer, her preparations more thorough. Beyond her usual silver dagger, throwing knives, and holy water, the pack on her back held several long strips of cloth embroidered with silver wire and exorcism runes, several vials of specially blessed, highly concentrated holy water with potent corrosive effects on dark creatures, and a pouch of powder mixing silver dust, blessed salt, and sulfur—an ancient formula from the Thorne journals for setting fixed traps.
Her chosen ambush site was a small, abandoned graveyard about a hundred yards from the Blackwood's edge. It belonged to Northam's long-forgotten burial grounds, tilting headstones half-lost in weeds and slick moss, a few dead, skeletal old trees standing like phantoms. It was remote enough, away from people, yet not so deep in the forest as to be beyond her control. More importantly, it was permeated with a faint aura of death and negative energy, good for masking the slight pulse of sanctified power from her trap's runes when activated—to a sensitive high-level vampire, any unconcealed gathering of positive energy would be like a bonfire in the dark.
Isolde worked swiftly and silently. First, using the special silver-mixed powder, she traced a complex circle about ten feet in diameter on a relatively flat patch of earth at the graveyard's center. The Thorne crest of briar and broken spear was at its heart, surrounded by layered runes of binding, purification, and revelation. Each line was infused with her refined will and a thread of faint power. The silver dust glowed with a cold white light in the dark for a moment before subsiding into the damp soil and weeds, only perceptible to her as a latent, coiled force.
Next, she hung the rune-embroidered cloth strips at specific angles and intervals from the surrounding dead trees and headstones, forming an invisible energy web. Finally, she carefully placed the vials of concentrated holy water at key nodal points of the circle, their stoppers removed, connected to trigger mechanisms by hair-thin silver wires—if a dark creature of sufficient mass stepped into the circle's core, the wires would snap, the vials would tip, dousing the area in a cascade of liquid while activating the entire runic trap.
Once set, Isolde retreated behind a half-collapsed, ivy-choked headstone at the graveyard's edge. It offered a good view of the entire trap area and the path from the forest, with ample cover. She crouched, melting into the shadow, slowing her breath to near stillness. Her grey eyes, like those of the most patient hunter, remained fixed on the deathly silent clearing. In her hands, she held a finely crafted hand crossbow, already spanned and loaded with a silver-tipped bolt. A second layer of insurance.
Time crawled in the cold, viscous mist. Each minute felt like a century. The forest wind occasionally brought distant sounds—an owl's cry, the rustle of a small animal—each one tightening Isolde's nerves further. She could feel her trap like a slumbering predator, lurking beneath the dark, waiting for prey to take that fatal step.
Silas Valentian. She repeated the name in her mind, along with the memory of that pale, handsome face contorted in pain under last night's moon. Tonight, she would expose him. With silver and fire, holy water and runes, she would force out the true monster's fangs hidden behind that mask of false piety. Would he come? Based on her observations and the townsfolk's fragments, he often patrolled the forest's edge at night, especially near areas of recent attacks. This old graveyard, bordering the woods, desolate and unvisited, was a likely spot.
She waited nearly two hours. Just as Isolde began to doubt her judgment, or worry the trap's aura had been detected, her keen senses caught a faint disturbance.
Not from the forest.
It came from the direction of the town, along a path almost swallowed by weeds. Light, hurried footsteps, mixed with stifled, childlike sobs and panting.
Isolde's brow furrowed instantly. Children? Here? Now?
Soon, two small figures stumbled into the graveyard's bounds. They looked no more than seven or eight, a boy and a girl, in thin, mud-stained nightclothes, barefoot. The girl's face was streaked with tears; the boy held her hand tightly, running while casting terrified glances backward as if something dreadful pursued them.
"Hurry, hurry, Emily! It's coming!" the boy urged, voice choked with tears.
"I can't, Tom... I'm scared..." the girl's voice hitched with fear and exhaustion.
Disoriented, they were running straight towards the center of the clearing where Isolde had laid her trap! A dozen more steps, and they'd cross into the silver-dust runes, triggering everything!
Damn it! Isolde's heart plummeted. The trap was designed for a vampire's dark energy. It wouldn't have the same lethal purifying effect on ordinary human children, but the concentrated holy water and the activated exorcism runes' positive energy surge could still seriously harm two frail, terrified children, possibly searing their very souls! Not to mention the physical danger of the trigger mechanisms and hidden wires themselves.
She almost lunged out to shout a warning. But at that moment, a chillingly familiar, ancient dark presence, like a silent tide, washed over the graveyard from the direction of the Blackwood!
He was here.
Isolde held her breath, finger tightening on the crossbow's trigger. Her grey eyes sharp as blades looked past the children, locking onto the far edge of the clearing.
There, the dense shadows seemed to take on life, cohering, stretching. Moonlight struggled through the fog, outlining a tall, slender figure. Silver hair seemed to glow with its own faint light in the dark. The pale face, those lilac eyes appearing almost silvery-grey in the night, now held a distinct, almost frantic intensity, fixed on the two children who had stumbled into danger.
Silas Valentian.
He had come, as predicted. A cold smirk formed in Isolde's mind, but a thread of doubt also rose—his attention seemed entirely on the children, not immediately noticing the carefully laid trap meant for him? No, impossible. He must sense it. This is part of the performance.
The children saw Silas appear. They froze, clinging to each other, even their tears halted, just staring wide-eyed with terror at the tall, eerily non-human figure in the night.
Silas's gaze swept over the children, then flickered with impossible speed over the seemingly calm ground before them. Isolde noted his brow furrowing for an instant, a flash of clear, almost pained understanding in his lilac eyes. He saw the trap. He absolutely saw it.
What would he do next? Isolde held her breath. Would he ignore the children, as she expected, or use some evil means to control them, to test or sabotage the trap? Or...
Silas moved. His speed was a blur. But contrary to Isolde's expectation, he didn't charge the children, nor retreat. His target was precisely the area directly in front of the children, the very heart of the trap!
"Don't move!" Silas's voice, low and urgent, cut the graveyard's silence, carrying an undeniable authority that, strangely, didn't frighten the children further but seemed to freeze them in place.
His form solidified less than five paces from the children. Then, to Isolde's utter disbelief, he stepped, without the slightest hesitation, into the center of the hidden runic circle!
HUM—!
As if an invisible string had been plucked. The very air over the graveyard trembled faintly. The silver-dust runes hidden in the soil erupted in a blinding, rippling wave of silvery-white light! From the point where Silas's foot landed, the complex runic lines appeared in the air like lit fuses, instantly connecting, expanding! Forces of binding and purification burst from the ground and the hanging cloth strips, coiling towards him like intangible chains!
Almost simultaneously, several nearly inaudible snaps—the trigger wires broke. The vials of concentrated holy water placed at the key nodes, pulled by a clever mechanism, tipped towards Silas at the circle's center!
The silvery, almost living holy water traced gleaming arcs in the moonlight, like several small waterfalls, pouring down upon Silas's head and body!
"Ugh—ah!"
A strangled, agonized groan, twisted by unbearable pain, tore from Silas's throat. Where the holy water touched his skin, his clothes, it erupted in a far more violent, more horrifying hiss than the night before! Thick, acrid white smoke billowed up! His slender frame shuddered violently, as if enduring the torture of a thousand cuts. The fine black coat charred, blackened, crumbled in visible seconds, revealing skin beneath that was seared open, showing strange blackened textures. Strands of his silver hair, splashed by the water, curled and turned to ash instantly.
The binding runes' power fully manifested then. Silvery chains of light, tangible as rope, wrapped around his limbs and torso, further restricting his movement, pumping purifying energy into him ceaselessly. He was forced to one knee, hands braced on the ground, knuckles white with strain, the blackish-blue veins on his hands and forearms bulging grotesquely. He hung his head, silver hair falling to hide most of his face, but Isolde could see his clenched jaw, the muscles twitching uncontrollably with supreme agony.
Yet, from beginning to end, he did not move an inch towards the two children, frozen just steps away. He even turned slightly, using his own broad shoulders and back to shield them from any stray droplets of holy water or flying embers. His body was a silent, burning dam, holding all the danger and pain squarely before himself.
The children stared, dumbfounded. They couldn't comprehend the lights and runes, but they clearly saw the terrible white smoke when the water hit the "strange man," heard the awful sizzle, smelled the horrific scent of burning flesh, saw the man's instantly ashen face and pain-wracked trembling. After the peak of terror, a more primal confusion took their small faces. This suddenly appearing, frightening man... seemed to be protecting them? With... his own body?
Silas lifted his head with immense effort, looking at the children. His face, illuminated by the silvery runes and contorted by the holy water's burn, was pale as translucent marble. Dark, non-human blood seeped from his temple, tracing a line down his sharp jaw. But his eyes, those lilac eyes, even in this inhuman suffering, held a startling clarity and... urgency.
"Go..." His voice was a ragged, almost shattered whisper, each word seeming ripped from a seared chest, yet carrying undeniable force. "The way... you came... home... lock the door... Now!"
The final "Now!" was nearly a roar, edged with a tremor of失控 power. It finally broke the children's stupor. The boy, Tom, reacted first. He yanked his sister Emily's hand, forgetting even to cry, and with all his strength, dragged her stumbling back towards the path to town. They vanished into the weeds and darkness at the graveyard's edge.
Only when the sound of the children's fleeing footsteps faded completely did Silas seem to finally exhaust the last of his strength. His braced arms gave way; his body sagged, nearly collapsing fully into the silvery light that still burned him. Yet, with a final effort, he twisted slightly, avoiding falling face-forward—where the children had just stood.
In the trap area, the silvery light began to fade. The holy water was spent; the runes' power, after its initial burst, entered a declining phase. But the damage was done. Silas knelt, hunched on the charred, faintly smoking ground, his body still trembling with uncontrollable shudders, each slight movement pulling at the ghastly wounds. The smells of scorched cloth and a cold, non-human blood mingled in the air.
Isolde slowly rose from behind her headstone.
Her hand still held the crossbow, but her fingertips were icy, trembling faintly. Her grey eyes remained fixed, unblinking, on the dimming center of the light, on the silver-white figure curled in agony.
The expected scene had unfolded. She had successfully ambushed him, wounded him grievously with her trap, witnessed firsthand the terrible damage silver and holy water could inflict on a vampire. It proved he was a monster, a creature of darkness, a target she should eliminate.
But...
Why?
Why step into the trap he clearly saw?
Why use his body to shield the children from the holy water?
Why, in the midst of hellish torment, were his last, broken words a command for the children to run home?
False piety? An act? A masterful performance for any potential observer (if he thought one was present)? But the cost was too high. The pain of the holy water was real. The damage from the binding runes was real. His near-crippled state was real. If it was just an act, just to gain trust, why go this far? The moment he stepped into that circle, he must have known he might not leave alive. What scheme was worth a high-level vampire's life? Just to put on a show for two bewildered children?
No... That wasn't right.
A faint, cold dizziness spread from the depths of Isolde's mind. The seemingly impervious wall of her six-year hatred-forged worldview, after witnessing those ten seconds that defied all logic and vampire nature, had developed a hairline crack. So fine it was almost imperceptible.
So fine she immediately tried to cover it, plaster it over with stronger hatred and suspicion.
It's just a more sophisticated game. He must have a backup plan. Maybe he was certain he wouldn't die. Maybe he has allies lying in wait, ready to rescue him. Yes, that's it. It's a gambit, a ploy to weaken my resolve, or... to deceive any other possible observers.
But no matter how her rational mind analyzed, constructed plausible conspiracies, the image was seared into her memory: the pale figure striding into destructive light, using his burning back as a bulwark for children. It struck with a brutal, undeniable force, clashing violently with every "truth" she knew about vampires.
She tightened her grip on the crossbow. The bolt's tip was aimed steadily at the unprotected back, at the heart, of the still-trembling figure.
Now was the perfect chance. He was weakened, the trap's remnants still active. A simple pull of the trigger, and the silver bolt would pierce his heart, end this dangerous, deceptive monster.
Her finger rested on the cold metal trigger, applying slight pressure.
Silas seemed to sense something. With immense, painful slowness, with agonizing difficulty, he began to lift his head, turning it towards her hiding place. The movement was distorted, delayed by pain.
Kill him. Now. She commanded herself. It was the hunter's duty. The Thorne family's fate. The first step in avenging her parents.
Yet her finger, as if frozen by invisible ice, remained rigid on the trigger, unable to complete the motion.
The graveyard's mist flowed slowly, coiling around dead trees and broken stones, around the silently burning figure at the clearing's heart, and around the fresh, cold fissure now running through the heart of the hunter in the shadows.
(End of Chapter 5)