Anemoi 14 – Anemoi 15, Imperial Year 1645
The Eastern Plains – The Ruined Tower
The job had been simple. Escort a merchant caravan to the port. Collect silver. Avoid bandits. No one mentioned the witch.
Orin Blackwood – prince of fallen Valdria, now a mercenary with a price on his head – crouched behind a crumbling wall. His sword was drawn, but his arm was bleeding. Not deep, but enough.
"How many?" Dain Ironfoot asked. The dwarf hefted his axe, his breath steady despite the gash on his brow.
"Six. No, seven." Isolde Silverleaf, elf noble turned exile, peered through a gap in the stone. Her bow was strung, but she had only three arrows left. "They're not moving. They're waiting."
"For what?" Finnian Reed, gnome inventor, adjusted his goggles. A small mechanical spider scuttled from his pack and onto the floor.
"For us to tire," Selene Ashford said. The archmage's voice was thin. Her magic had been failing since Mesos fell; she could barely summon a spark. But her eyes were still sharp. "They want us alive."
"Alive?" Orin stared at her.
"Experiments. Sacrifices. Witches collect the strong."
A voice echoed across the courtyard – high, lilting, mocking.
"The archmage is clever. But clever doesn't stop my hounds."
The witch stepped into view. She was young, beautiful, with hair the color of rust and eyes like molten gold. Her dress was green silk, impractical, deliberate. Behind her, six figures in dark cloaks waited – thralls, bound to her will.
"You've done well to survive this long," she said. "But the game ends now."
The Trap – First Phase
Orin moved first. He was a prince, but he was also a swordsman. He had trained in the Valdrian style – quick, precise, lethal. He burst from cover, blade aimed at the witch's throat.
She didn't flinch. The ground between them erupted – not vines, but hands. Dozens of skeletal hands burst from the earth, clawing at Orin's boots, his ankles, his shins. He stumbled, slashing down, but for every hand he severed, two more rose.
"The dead remember," the witch said. "They remember pain. They remember hunger. They remember you."
Dain roared and charged, his axe cleaving through the hands. But the hands weren't the attack – they were a distraction. The real strike came from above.
A chunk of the ruined tower's upper floor – a slab of stone the size of a wagon wheel – broke free and plummeted toward Dain's head.
He saw it at the last second, dove aside. The stone crushed the spot where he'd been standing, sending a shockwave that knocked Isolde off her feet.
"She's controlling the tower itself," Selene said. "The whole ruin is her weapon."
"Then we can't stay here," Finnian said. He pulled a lever on his pack. The mechanical spider scuttled toward the witch, its legs clicking.
The witch noticed. She flicked a finger, and a shard of stone flew from the wall, impaling the spider. It sparked, twitched, and died.
"Toys," she said. "Children's toys."
The Second Phase – The Hunter
The witch raised her arms. The stones of the tower began to shift, grinding against each other, forming a spiral of debris around her. Dust filled the air. The light dimmed.
"I'll bury you all," she said. "And dig you up later."
Orin struggled to his feet, his sword still in his hand. "We need to break her concentration."
"How?" Isolde shouted over the grinding stone.
"Hit her. Hard."
He charged again, leaping over the skeletal hands, dodging a falling rock, closing the distance. The witch saw him coming and smiled.
A tendril of shadow shot from her palm – not a bolt, but a whip, black and barbed. It wrapped around Orin's sword arm and pulled.
He flew toward her, off balance, unable to stop. The whip tightened, the barbs digging into his flesh. He felt his arm go numb.
"You first, princeling," she said.
The shadow whip yanked him forward. A blade of black ice formed in her other hand, aimed at his chest.
The Entrance – Alucard
The blade never reached him.
A black shape dropped from the broken tower's upper floor – not silent this time, but loud, deliberate, a challenge. The figure landed between Orin and the witch, and a sword – long, dark, with a wolf‑head pommel – swept in a horizontal arc, severing the shadow whip.
Orin fell to the ground, free.
The witch staggered back. "Who—"
The figure straightened. A long black coat, silver buttons. A wide‑brimmed hat, shadowing his face. Silver hair tied back. Red eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light.
"Alucard," he said.
The witch laughed. "A hunter. Alone. How brave."
"Not alone."
He drew his sword and raised it – not in a standard guard, but low, almost lazy, the tip tracing a small circle on the ground.
"Let's dance."
The Dance – Phase One: The Stones
The witch didn't wait. She raised her arms, and the spiral of debris around her shot outward – a storm of jagged stones, each one aimed at Vlad.
He didn't dodge. He stepped into the storm.
His sword moved in tight, precise arcs – not cutting the stones, but redirecting them. A Kron to deflect a shard aimed at his head. A Wechsel to guide another past his shoulder. A Zwerchhau to spin a third into the ground. The stones flew around him, past him, through the space where he'd been a heartbeat before.
The witch's eyes widened. "How?"
"You're predictable," Vlad said. "You use the environment because you're afraid to face steel."
He closed the distance.
The Dance – Phase Two: The Hands
She shrieked and stomped her foot. The skeletal hands erupted again – not just beneath him, but from the walls, the ceiling, reaching for his limbs, his throat.
Vlad did not stop moving. He leaped onto a protruding stone, then onto a fallen pillar, then onto the witch's own platform of debris. The hands grasped empty air.
He dropped from above, sword first.
She barely parried with a blade of black ice. The impact shattered the ice, but the shards flew into Vlad's face. He turned his head, let them cut his cheek, and kept pressing.
"You're bleeding," she said.
"So are you."
He kicked her knee. She buckled.
The Dance – Phase Three: The Shadow
The witch screamed and dissolved into shadow – not disappearing, but splitting. A dozen copies of her, each made of darkness, each holding a blade, surrounded Vlad.
"Now you're surrounded," all twelve voices said in unison. "Now you die."
Vlad closed his eyes.
He listened.
The copies moved differently – their footsteps on the stone were echoes, not real. Only one set of footsteps had weight. Only one had a heartbeat.
He opened his eyes, turned, and thrust.
The blade passed through a copy – but the copy was the real one, disguised. She gasped as the steel entered her shoulder, not deep, but enough to break her concentration.
The copies vanished.
"How?" she whispered.
"You forgot to hide your heartbeat."
The Dance – Final Exchange
She stumbled back, clutching her shoulder. Green fire flickered around her free hand.
"I'll burn you. I'll burn all of you."
Vlad stepped forward, his sword low.
"You can try."
She flung a bolt of witch‑light – not at him, but at the ground beneath his feet. The stone exploded, sending him off balance.
She lunged, a dagger of black ice in her hand.
Vlad fell – but he fell toward her, not away. He reversed his grip, held the sword by the blade – Mordhau – and drove the pommel into her chest as he went down.
She crashed to the ground, her dagger skittering away.
He rolled to his feet, sword point at her throat.
"Who hired you?"
"I'll never tell."
"Then you're useless."
He thrust. Quick. Clean. Through the throat, angled up through the brainstem. She fell without a sound.
The Aftermath – Recognition
The stones stopped moving. The skeletal hands crumbled to dust. The thralls collapsed, their eyes clearing for a moment before they died.
Orin pulled himself free. He stared at the figure in black.
"Alucard."
Vlad turned. His face was half‑hidden by the hat brim, but his red eyes were unmistakable.
"You're bleeding," he said.
"It's shallow."
"Bind it."
Dain limped over. "That was… something."
"He fights like a dancer," Isolde said.
"He fights like a demon," Finnian added.
Selene leaned against the wall, catching her breath. "He fights like someone who's done this before."
Orin stepped closer. "Who are you?"
Vlad looked at him. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then: "Someone who hunts witches."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you get."
He sheathed his sword and walked toward the tower's exit.
"Wait," Orin called. "We're in your debt."
"Then repay me by staying alive."
He disappeared into the shadows.
The mercenaries stood in silence.
"Alucard," Dain said. "Stupid name."
"Effective name," Isolde said.
Finnian picked up the remains of his mechanical spider. "I want to know how he does that."
Selene shook her head. "You wouldn't understand."
Orin watched the door where Vlad had vanished.
Alucard, he thought. Where have I heard that before?
He would remember. Later.
End of Chapter One Hundred One