Blood.
Dark, viscous, trailing intermittently over damp moss, exposed rock, and rotting leaves—a desperate signpost pointing towards a deeper hell. Under sparse moonlight and thick mist, the trail wasn't obvious, but to the tracker Isolde, it was as clear as ink on paper.
Her heart beat steadily in her chest, not from fear, but from a cold, hyper-focused intensity. Her right hand held the re-spanned "Dawnbreaker" steadily; her left hand held two silver throwing knives between her fingers. Crouched low, she moved swiftly and silently through the dark forest, following the blood's direction. Each breath was controlled, sound minimized, while keenly detecting any abnormal disturbance in the air.
The source of the blood was clearly in terrible shape. The frequency and volume of drops were increasing, indicating continued blood loss and likely tearing from violent movement. The trail was no longer straight, becoming erratic, messy, sometimes pausing briefly, pooling by a root or rock before staggering onward. This meant Silas was not only grievously wounded, but his strength was likely failing rapidly from the sanctified energy and silver's erosion, perhaps even his consciousness fading.
Isolde's grey eyes shone with a predator's light in the dark. She wouldn't let her guard down. A wounded beast was often more dangerous, especially a high-level being like Silas. A death throes counterattack could be unimaginable. But she felt no pity, only a near-cruel calm. Her arrow had caused this wound. She had shot the bolt. She would see the prey fall with her own eyes, or deliver the final blow herself.
The pursuit lasted about twenty minutes, deeper into the Blackwood's more shadowy, primal heart. The trees were older, more immense, branches tangled like monstrous limbs. The mist was almost solid, flowing sluggishly underfoot. Light vanished almost completely. Isolde had to occasionally light a small piece of specially treated phosphorescent wood that gave off almost no flame, only a weak, sickly green glow, to see the blood and the path ahead.
Finally, the trail led to the base of a hidden cliff. Not a natural cave, but a narrow fissure from ancient rock fracture, almost completely concealed by dense, dark green vines and ferns. If not for the blood disappearing at the vines' roots, she might have missed it.
She stopped, held her breath, listening intently. The air was thick with damp and humus, but mixed with a familiar, icy dark presence and a stronger scent of blood. The presence was faint, chaotic, and seemed... stagnant, no longer moving.
He was inside. And likely unable to move.
Her heartbeat quickened slightly. She gently set down the glow stick, letting it roll by her feet, its light mostly blocked by her body. She crept closer to the vine-covered fissure, listening. No sound from within, not even breathing—vampires might not need to breathe, but when injured, there was usually the subtle disturbance of chaotic energy. Now, only dead silence.
She took a deep breath. Her left hand snapped forward. Two silver knives flashed, severing several thick vines, revealing a black opening. Simultaneously, she dodged sideways, the crossbow aimed at the entrance, ready for an attack.
None came. Only a stronger wave of blood and an indescribable, stale smell—ancient dust, old ink, and a faint, cold fragrance—wafted out.
After a few seconds of confirming no movement, Isolde retrieved the glow stick, clenched it between her teeth, drew her silver dagger with her left hand, kept the "Dawnbreaker" level in her right, and bent low, entering the narrow fissure with extreme caution.
The fissure was deeper and slightly wider inside, allowing an adult to pass hunched over. After about five or six steps, it opened into a small, irregular cavern, roughly ten feet square. The ceiling was low, forcing Isolde to duck. The air was damp and cold, walls covered in dark moss and water stains.
The sight inside made Isolde freeze, her grey eyes contracting sharply in the glow stick's sickly green light.
In one corner of the cave, a simple "bed" was made of dry, seemingly frequently changed moss and straw. And there lay Silas.
He was on his side, facing the wall, curled up. Silver hair fanned messily over the straw, matted with dark blood. The black coat was torn at the right chest, the area saturated with dark, partially congealed blood. The quarrel seemed to have been forcibly removed (she saw a broken, blood-blackened, rune-dimmed bolt at the straw's edge), but the wound clearly hadn't healed, still oozing slowly. His face was a deathly grey-white, eyes closed, brows knotted in pain, lips bloodless. The once quiet, ancient dark presence was now faint as a candle in the wind, chaotic and flickering, as if about to extinguish.
He seemed a hair's breadth from true death. The Ward-Breaker's power, combined with his unhealed holy water burns, had clearly dealt this powerful vampire a devastating blow.
Isolde didn't approach immediately. She stood, the bolt still aimed at him, but her gaze was irresistibly drawn to other things in the cave.
This temporary hideout was shockingly简陋, bearing almost none of the luxury or mystery of a "high-level vampire lord." No coffin, no ornate decor, no piled treasures or ancient scrolls. Only a few simple, even shabby items: a leather water skin (its contents likely not water), a rough wooden bowl, a small pile of neatly folded, old-fashioned spare clothes in a corner. Most notable, in a slightly dry recess in the wall, were a few ancient-looking books wrapped carefully in oilcloth, and beside them, a flat box edged with dark wood and metal.
But what truly made Isolde's blood run cold was an object fixed to the wall above the "bed."
A piece of paper.
Yellowed, edges curled, marked by age. But it was carefully pinned to the rough rock with thin, rusted silver nails, clearly of great significance to its owner.
On the paper was a sketch.
Drawn in charcoal or some ancient pigment. The technique was masterful, lines fluid and full of feeling. At the center was a young woman in centuries-old attire. She had dark hair in a simple bun, a gentle, lovely face with a faint, seemingly mist-dispelling smile. Her eyes were rendered with particular life—bright and resolute—even across the gulf of time and yellowed paper, one could sense vibrant vitality and an inner strength.
The woman leaned against a giant oak, a book in her hand. The background was blurred forest and distant mountains, vaguely reminiscent of the terrain around Northam.
The sketch alone was enough to stir a strange, sharp pang in Isolde. The woman's features gave her an elusive, yet persistent sense of familiarity.
But what truly struck her like lightning, making her hands holding the "Dawnbreaker" and silver dagger tremble faintly, was the small emblem meticulously drawn in the sketch's lower right corner.
A briar entwined around a broken spear.
The Thorne family crest.
Identical to the one on her dagger's hilt, on the pendant against her skin, branded into her soul!
Time seemed to stop. The cave's cold, damp air solidified, choking her. Her eyes fixed on the small emblem, her mind blank, then flooded with a tsunami of questions, guesses, chaotic fragments!
The Thorne family crest! Why here? In this high-level vampire's hiding place? On a sketch that looked centuries old?
Who was the woman? What was her connection to the Thorne family? Why would her portrait be so cherished by Silas, even pinned above where he rested?
Silas Valentian... and the Thorne family... what was their connection?
Her parents had never mentioned any家族 ties to vampires, only世代 of hunting and hatred. The Council's files held no such records. This emblem's appearance was like a rusted key, thrust into a locked door she never knew existed.
Her gaze involuntarily shifted from the sketch to the unconscious, dying Silas on the floor. Mixed light from the fissure and the glow stick fell on his pallid face, his knit brows, his bloodied silver hair. This inhuman, monstrous face now contrasted grotesquely, painfully, with the gentle, smiling woman in the faded sketch.
False piety? A plot? A sacrificial gambit?
None seemed to fully explain the sketch's presence. Why would a vampire cherish a centuries-old portrait of a human woman bearing the crest of his ancestral enemies? If it were mockery or a trophy, it wouldn't be preserved so preciously, placed so near. It seemed more like... a memento? Or a...寄托?
No! Impossible!
Isolde shook her head violently, forcing herself from the chaotic thoughts. Another trick! Perhaps Silas acquired some Thorne家族 relic, placed it here precisely to unsettle her, to sow confusion and misdirection even in his possible death! Yes, that had to be it! This cunning monster, laying traps even in his dying moments!
But... deep down, a small, cold voice questioned: If just to mislead, why not choose more obvious, "stronger" "evidence"? Why just a seemingly innocuous sketch? And the sketch's own sense of age, the genuine feeling in the strokes... it didn't seem a forgery.
Her eyes returned to Silas. Still unconscious, aura faint, oblivious. The Ward-Breaker's damage was real. His near-death state was real. Did a dying monster need to lay such an intricate, yet subtle, trap?
Confusion. Unprecedented confusion, like icy poison ivy, coiled around her reason. The fire of hatred still burned, but its foundation, shaken by the sudden sketch, now trembled violently. The black-and-white world she had believed in so absolutely cracked open, revealing a chasm of雾般 unsettling unknowns.
Her hand holding the "Dawnbreaker" felt heavy for the first time. The bolt's tip still pointed at Silas's heart, but her finger on the trigger was stiff, powerless.
Kill him? Now? After seeing this? While疑问毒蛇般 ate at her?
Not kill him? Let this vampire, this monster possibly connected to Cassius, possibly with blood on his hands (her parents'? No, Cassius was the killer, but they were the same kind!), slowly die from her attack? Or... wait for him to recover, to continue his deception and schemes?
Isolde stood in the dark cave, between the dying vampire and the faded family sketch, like a statue frozen in ice. The glow stick's light danced on her pale face, illuminating fierce struggle and bottomless迷茫.
Time passed. Silas's presence seemed fainter. Outside, from the mist-shrouded forest depths, came the wind's moan through treetops, like the whispers of countless lost souls.
She had to decide. But now, she found herself holding a lethal weapon, with no clear answer in her heart.
The faded sketch, those gentle yet resolute eyes, and that small emblem of briar and broken spear stood across her path of vengeance like the deepest nightmare, and the brightest riddle, leaving her utterly paralyzed.
(End of Chapter 9)