Pyra 30 – Anemoi 3, Imperial Year 1645
The Capital, Luminara – The Hunters' Hall
The Hunters' Hall was a narrow building squeezed between a tannery and a clothier's shop. Its sign was a simple iron wolf's head, weathered by rain. Inside, the air smelled of old wood, oiled steel, and the faint tang of dried blood.
A handful of hunters sat at rough tables, nursing ales, sharpening blades, or mending leather. They were a rough lot – scarred, silent, watchful. A few glanced up as Vlad entered, then returned to their business.
But not all.
A man with a patch over one eye elbowed his companion. "Look at that coat."
The companion, a woman with a missing ear, squinted. "What is he, a noble?"
"Nobles don't hunt."
"Maybe he's lost."
"With that hat? He's not lost. He's performing."
They laughed, low and rough.
Another hunter – a thin man with a long scar down his cheek – leaned back in his chair. "No mask. Brave or stupid?"
"Maybe he's just that good," the woman replied.
"Or maybe he's too pretty to hide."
"Can't see his face under that brim."
"You can see the eyes. Red. Like a vampire."
"Vampires don't hunt witches."
"This one might."
Vlad ignored them. He walked to the counter.
The clerk behind it was a middle‑aged woman with grey streaks in her hair and a scar across her knuckles. She looked up, scanned his long black coat, his wide‑brimmed hat, his silver hair tied back, his pale face, those wine‑red eyes.
"You're new."
"I am."
"Name?"
"Alucard."
She wrote it down. "Specialty?"
"Witches."
She nodded. "Good. Those hags need to be taken care of." She opened a ledger. "There's a bounty on a witch in the eastern marshes. She's been taking travelers for months. Three hunters have tried. None came back."
"I'll take it."
"You don't want to know the price first?"
"The price is the witch's death."
The clerk smiled – a thin, knowing expression. "You'll fit in."
She handed him a folded parchment. "Her name is Morwen. Last seen near the village of Duskwood. The reward is five hundred silver."
Vlad took the parchment. "I'll be back."
"Most don't."
He left. The hunters watched him go. The man with the eye patch shook his head.
"Alucard. What kind of name is that?"
"One he'll have to earn," said the thin man.
The woman snorted. "With a coat like that, he'd better."
The Road to Duskwood – Day One
Vlad walked east, away from Luminara. The road narrowed, then became a track, then disappeared into marshland. The air grew thick, heavy with the smell of standing water and decay. He adjusted his hat, pulled his coat tighter.
He did not hurry. A witch hunter does not run. He walks. He lets the fear build.
Duskwood – Evening
The village was a cluster of huts on a dry rise. A few fishermen, a trapper, a part‑time priest. Vlad found the headman – a grizzled man named Orin, not the prince.
"You're the hunter?"
"Yes."
"We've lost three people this month. Two men, one woman. The woman was my wife."
"Where did she disappear?"
"The old mill, east of here. She went to fetch flour. Never came back."
Vlad nodded. "I'll find her."
"She's dead."
"Then I'll avenge her."
The Old Mill – Night
The mill was a ruin, its waterwheel broken, its walls moss‑eaten. A single light flickered inside – green, unnatural.
Vlad approached slowly. His boots made no sound on the wet ground. His sword was still sheathed. His revolver was in his pocket, but he would not use it. This was a witch. Witches deserved steel.
He stepped through the door.
The witch was waiting. Morwen – grey‑haired, her eyes glowing green, her fingers long and black‑nailed. She stood over a table where a body lay – the headman's wife, her chest cut open.
"Another hunter," Morwen said. "You people never learn."
Vlad drew his sword. The blade caught the green light, the wolf‑head pommel gleaming.
"I am not like the others."
He raised the sword in a high guard – the vom Tag, blade angled back, hilt above his right shoulder. A classic opening stance from the old manuals. He waited.
Morwen hissed. Her hands sparked with green fire. She flung a bolt of witch‑light at his chest.
Vlad stepped aside – a simple pass, weight shifting, body turning. The bolt struck the wall behind him, scorching the wood. He moved forward, closing the distance.
She threw another bolt. He cut it from the air – a Scheitelhau, the parting cut, blade descending vertically, splitting the spell. The green fire scattered.
Morwen's eyes widened.
"Impossible."
"No," Vlad said. "Just practiced."
He attacked.
The Duel – A Dance
The first cut was a Zornhau – a wrath cut, diagonal from his right shoulder to her left hip. She dodged, but he followed with a Krumphau – a crooked cut, blade curving around her guard, striking her shoulder.
She screamed. Black blood sprayed. The wound did not heal.
"What are you?"
"Your end."
She lunged, claws extended. Vlad performed a Wechsel – a change, lowering his blade to intercept her strike, then winding into a Durchwechseln – a thrust under her guard. The point entered her chest, shallow.
She stumbled back, clutching the wound. Vlad pressed forward, his footwork precise – passing steps, triple steps, the rhythm of the Lichtenauer tradition.
She threw a wild bolt. He answered with a Scheitelhau again, splitting it, then a Zwerchhau – a thwart cut, horizontal, striking her across the face.
She fell.
Vlad stood over her, sword point at her throat.
"You took three people from Duskwood. You took the headman's wife. You experimented on them."
She spat blood. "They were nothing."
"They were someone."
He thrust. The blade entered her throat, angled up through the brainstem. She convulsed once, then still.
Vlad withdrew the sword, wiped it on her dress, and sheathed it.
He looked at the body on the table – the headman's wife. He closed her eyes.
"Rest now."
Duskwood – Morning
Vlad returned to the village. The headman saw him coming and ran to meet him.
"My wife?"
"I'm sorry. She was dead when I arrived."
The headman's face crumbled. Then he straightened. "The witch?"
"Dead."
"Her body?"
"In the mill. Burn it."
The headman nodded. "The reward –"
"Keep it. Build a memorial."
Vlad turned and walked away.
The Hunters' Hall – Afternoon
The Hall was busier now. A few new hunters had come in – younger, eager, with clean armor and shiny swords. They stared as Vlad entered.
"That's him," whispered one.
"The one with the coat?"
"He killed Morwen. Alone."
"How do you know?"
"The headman sent word."
The thin man with the scar spoke up. "Told you. He's the real thing."
The woman with the missing ear nodded. "Look at him. No blood on that coat. Not a single drop."
"Maybe he's just careful."
"Or maybe he's that good."
Vlad walked to the counter. The clerk looked up.
"You're back."
"The witch is dead."
"I heard." She made a note in her ledger. "The reward?"
"Keep it. For the next hunter who needs supplies."
"You don't want it?"
"I need work. Not silver."
She smiled – a genuine expression this time. "There's a coven in the northern hills. They've been summoning something. The bounty's higher."
"I'll take it."
"You don't want to rest?"
"Witches don't rest."
She handed him a new parchment.
Vlad turned and walked out. The hunters watched him go. The whispers followed, but softer now – respect, not mockery.
"Alucard," someone said. "Remember that name."
"How could I forget? He walks like a ghost."
"And fights like a devil."
The door closed. The Hall returned to its murmur.
End of Chapter Ninety‑Seven