Three days.
Northam Town passed three days of relative, eerie calm. The brief commotion from the "incident" in Old Mill Lane was quickly replaced by deeper silence and wariness. Townsfolk no longer discussed it openly, only locked their doors faster at night, the fear in their eyes settling into a numb caution. By day, the town maintained its damp, gloomy, barely-functioning facade.
Isolde used these three days methodically. She frequented the shabby little church library, its shelves stacked with dusty religious tomes, local histories, and handwritten manuscripts of old Northam legends. The librarian, an almost-blind, hard-of-hearing old friar, paid little mind to this "passing scholar interested in local history."
She searched the yellowed, fragile pages and scribbled notes for clues. Records of the Valentian family were scarce and vague. Only a brief appendix in an early 19th-century genealogy of northern nobility mentioned: "Valentian, ancient bloodline, secluded in the northern reaches, aloof from mortal affairs." For Northam itself, records were slightly more plentiful, speaking of "ancient bindings" beneath the earth, "a silence as old as the mistwoods," and an "unbroken pact." These phrases, thick with mysticism, echoed the Council's file mentioning an "ancient sealed place."
She also probed the townsfolk in various ways. Complaining to the grocer's wife about sleepless nights, asking for calming herbs, and casually inquiring if the nights were always so noisy; ordering a "hunting knife for protection" from the elderly blacksmith, and in conversation, mentioning "I heard there's a Lord Valentian in town, perhaps he could advise on good hunting grounds." The responses were similar: vague evasion, nervous glances, and the ultimate dismissal: "Just don't go out at night."
Yet, it wasn't fruitless. On the evening of the third day, from a half-drunk old man in the tavern who seemed to have been a hunter once, she gleaned a fragmented but information-rich ramble.
"...when the moon's brightest... the fork on the old hunter's path west, go in, there's an old watchpost... stone, half-collapsed... saw it once as a lad, hunting wildcat with my father... a white shadow flitted past, fast, not like a man..." The old man hiccuped, eyes unfocused. "Father went pale then, dragged me away... said it was where the 'Lord of the Mists' rested... mustn't go near... Went to look myself a couple times later, never saw anyone, but always felt... something watching, cold-like..."
Isolde bought him another strong drink. More intoxicated, his words became more disjointed, but Isolde locked onto key details: west, old hunter's path, fork, abandoned stone watchpost, brightest moonlight. And the title—"Lord of the Mists." Clearly pointing to the same entity as "Lord Valentian" or "Guardian of the Night."
A possible lair, or at least a frequent haunt. Silas Valentian, the silver-haired vampire, likely went there at night. A watchpost, deep in the forest, on higher ground with a view—it fit the habits of a creature with a long lifespan, needing to observe and control its territory (or hunting grounds).
Target location set. Next, weapons. Isolde knew ordinary silver knives and daggers might work on lower vampires, but for Silas, clearly of a higher order, stronger, even somewhat resistant to holy water (though wounded), she needed something with more destructive power. A weapon to ensure a crippling, if not fatal, blow, especially if he was alert.
From the very bottom of her pack, she retrieved a long, narrow object wrapped in layers of oilcloth and soft leather. Unwrapped, it revealed a strangely shaped, intricately constructed metal crossbow. Larger and heavier than a hand crossbow, nearly the length of a short bow. The stock was dark-stained wood, inlaid with fine silver wire tracing the Thorne crest of briar and spear. The prod was a tough black alloy, strung with a nearly transparent blend of specially treated sinew and metal wire. Most striking was the trigger mechanism—a complex assembly with multiple notches and tiny engraved runes.
This was one of the Thorne family's legendary hunting tools—the "Dawnbreaker" bow. It didn't fire ordinary bolts, but specialized "Ward-Breaker" quarrels: hollow shafts filled with concentrated sanctified power, pure silver dust, and阳性 reagents. The runes and unique construction dramatically enhanced the bolt's velocity, penetration, and added purification effects against dark creatures upon release. Each Ward-Breaker quarrel was costly and complex to make. Isolde had only three. It was one of her trump cards against true high-level threats.
Since her parents' death, she had cleaned and maintained it daily, but never used it in combat. Tonight might be its time.
Isolde spent the entire afternoon in her room, meticulously inspecting and tuning the heavy crossbow. She carefully filled the hollow shafts of the three special quarrels with silver dust and阳性 reagents, checked every rune for clarity, tested the draw weight. The arrowheads weren't simple cones, but spiraled, barbed designs—once embedded, terribly hard to remove, causing continuous tearing and sanctified energy seepage.
When night again enveloped Northam, and the thick fog rolled in as promised, Isolde was ready. She wore dark grey close-fitting attire for stealth under a deep green cloak. The "Dawnbreaker" was secured on her back with a special harness, the quiver holding three coldly gleaming Ward-Breaker bolts. Her belt held the silver dagger, throwing knives, holy water, flash runes. Under her hood, only her tight lips and fiercely bright grey eyes were visible in the dark.
As previous nights, she left the inn silently, merging with the night. This time, her direction was clear—west out of town, into the Blackwood, following the nearly overgrown "old hunter's path."
The forest night was colder, more terrifying than the town's. The gnarled branches of ancient trees wove a black canopy overhead, blocking the already weak moonlight. Mist flowed along the forest floor like icy white rivers. Isolde slowed, each step cautious, avoiding dry leaves and twigs, moving like a true forest phantom. Her senses were heightened to the extreme, not just sight, but a hunter's intuition feeling for subtle shifts in the ambient energy.
The old hunter's path was harder to find than expected. Years of neglect left it nearly swallowed by thorns and fallen trees. She often stopped, using stars (through sparse canopy gaps) and barely perceptible, long-healed traces on the ground to judge direction. The air was thick with decay and damp, but no strong gathering of dark power was felt yet.
After about an hour, she found the fork. Two equally overgrown paths diverged, one plunging deeper into the forest's darker heart, the other subtly leading up a slight slope. Isolde chose the latter.
The slope wasn't steep, but the trees thinned, exposing pale grey rock. Like a stalking wildcat, she used rocks and shrubs for cover, ascending soundlessly. Higher up, the mist thinned slightly, allowing more moonlight, casting strange, mottled shadows on rock and sparse vegetation.
Then she saw it.
On a relatively flat clearing near the hilltop stood a low stone structure. As the old hunter said, half-collapsed. It looked more like a reinforced lookout or small fortress ruin than a comfortable dwelling. Walls of massive, roughly hewn grey stone, thick and crude, covered in dark moss and vines. Most of the roof had fallen in, revealing a black interior. A heavy, iron-bound but rust-perforated wooden door hung half-open at the only entrance, creaking faintly, unnervingly, in the night wind.
No light, no sound, no signs of life. Only an extremely still, ancient, yet faintly aloof presence emanated from the stone hut. A presence Isolde knew well—the same as in the graveyard, the same as the figure drinking deer blood under the moon, but now more subdued, more... withdrawn? Not weak, but restrained, like dormant蛰伏.
Silas was here. She was almost certain. This quiet darkness, merging with stone and ancient forest, belonged to him alone.
Isolde's heartbeat was steady, strong, with the cold excitement of a hunter nearing the ultimate prey. She took the "Dawnbreaker" from her back, movements slow and sure, fitted a Ward-Breaker quarrel into the groove, drew the heavy string. The weight felt solid in her hands. She knelt behind a suitably concealing rock, resting the crossbow on its edge. The quarrel's tip, through the simple iron sights, aimed steadily at the half-open door and the impenetrable dark beyond.
She waited. For the perfect moment. Moon's position, wind, the target's movement—or for the target to appear. She became like lifeless stone, one with the night, the mist, the cold rock. Only her grey eyes, unblinking as a patient viper's, fixed on the entrance.
Time passed. The wind moaned through trees, distant owls called. The stone hut remained silent.
Just as Isolde began to doubt if Silas was truly inside, or had left by another exit, the half-open door moved slightly inward.
Not from the wind. The wind was at her back, towards the hut. Something inside had touched it.
Isolde's muscles tensed instantly. Breath held. Now.
The door was pushed open a little wider from inside, the scraping sound clear, nerve-wracking. A tall, pale figure appeared in the doorway.
The moonlight was brighter here, clearly outlining him. Silas Valentian. He still wore the old-fashioned black longcoat, but it seemed different—replaced or somehow mended, no longer showing the charring from the other night. Silver hair cascaded over his shoulders, flowing coldly in the moonlight. His face was still pale, but less deathly than in the graveyard, though a deep, lingering weariness shadowed his brow. He stood in the doorway, head slightly tilted, as if listening to the wind, or sensing something. Those lilac eyes, nearly transparent silver-grey in the moonlight, swept over the clearing before him, over the direction of Isolde's hiding rock.
Isolde's heart nearly stopped. Did he sense her? No, his gaze seemed to pass over casually, not lingering. Perhaps just routine vigilance. He didn't look fully recovered; the weariness and withdrawn aura suggested the holy water and runes still affected him.
Silas stood in the doorway a moment, then stepped out. He walked to the clearing's edge, facing the forest, standing quietly as if gazing towards Northam in the night. Moonlight fell on him, casting a long shadow merging with the hut's darkness behind. He tilted his head back slightly, eyes closed, as if feeling the night breeze, or enduring some silent pain or煎熬. This posture left his entire side, especially the area of his heart, utterly exposed to Isolde's aimed quarrel.
Range about sixty yards. No wind. Target stationary. Perfect.
The last shred of hesitation in Isolde's grey eyes was crushed by cold, hard killing intent. She exhaled slowly, emptying her lungs, body entering the steadiest firing stance. Her finger rested steadily on the "Dawnbreaker's" cold, finely grooved trigger.
Now.
She pulled the trigger.
THUMP—!
A deep, penetrating thud tore the forest's night silence! Not the twang of a string, but the sound of immense tension released—a suppressed crack of energy! Simultaneously, the silver wire runes on the "Dawnbreaker" blazed with piercing white light! A powerful recoil jolted her shoulder, even braced as she was.
As the Ward-Breaker quarrel left the groove, runes along its shaft ignited in sequence, trailing a brilliant wake of silvery-white shot with pale gold—like a meteor, a lightning bolt rending darkness—crossing sixty yards at nearly invisible speed, aimed at the pale figure standing in the moonlight!
At the sound, Silas jolted violently! Those lilac eyes snapped open, filled with utter shock, and a fleeting, deeper emotion too quick to decipher. His reaction was preternaturally fast. In the last possible instant before impact, he wrenched his body sideways!
THWOCK—!
Not the wet thud of metal piercing flesh, but a duller, more terrible sound—like hot metal plunging into rotten wood mixed with the sizzle of liquid vaporizing!
The quarrel missed the heart. Silas's极限闪避 at the last microsecond deflected it slightly. But it still slammed into his right chest, below the collarbone, near the shoulder blade! The specialized spiral-grooved, barbed tip tore through cloth and skin, burying deep! The glowing runes on the shaft clashed violently with the dark power within him, emitting a dreadful hiss-sss! Dark, nearly black blood welled instantly from the wound, dripping down the shaft, gleaming weirdly in the moonlight.
"Ugh—!" A choked, agonized groan was forced from Silas. The quarrel's momentum drove him back three, four stumbling steps before he caught himself with his left hand against a protruding rock, barely staying upright. His face went paper-white in the moonlight, veins standing out at his temple. His right side trembled uncontrollably from pain and the sanctified energy's erosion. His head snapped up, gaze like lightning, instantly locking onto Isolde's rock!
That gaze held no rage, no killing intent, only a profound, near-despairing pain, and a...浓烈悲哀 Isolde couldn't comprehend.
But Isolde gave him no chance to recover or speak. A hit, though not lethal. She knew the Ward-Breaker's power—the持续渗透 sanctified energy and silver dust would continuously erode a vampire's dark essence, causing great pain and severely weakening him. Without hesitation, she drew a second Ward-Breaker quarrel from her quiver, working the heavy mechanism with practiced speed! The prod creaked with strain.
Silas watched her movements. His bloodied lips parted as if to speak, but it became a near-soundless sigh. He looked at her deeply, a look so complex it sent an inexplicable pang through her. Then, with his uninjured left hand, he shoved hard against the rock, propelling himself backward with ghostly lightness! Simultaneously, his right arm—the wounded one seemingly sluggish with pain—raised with immense difficulty, making a sweeping gesture towards Isolde!
No energy blast, no spell-light. But the air before Isolde warped violently. An intangible, bone-chilling cold swept over her—not an attack, more like interference or obfuscation. And Silas's retreating form melted swiftly into the deeper shadows and mist behind the stone hut, vanishing.
Isolde fired the second quarrel! Another silvery streak cut the night, striking the shadows where Silas vanished, but only the thud of impact on rock or wood, no sense of striking flesh.
Without a pause, she leaped from behind the rock, heavy crossbow in hand, sprinting towards where Silas disappeared! On the ground, drops of dark, viscous blood stood out starkly against the moonlight and pale moss, a winding trail leading deeper into the forest.
The hunt had entered the chase. And the blood trail left by the prey was a desperate marker in the dark.
(End of Chapter 8)