Anemoi 26 – Anemoi 28, Imperial Year 1645
The North Valley – The Ruined Mill
The mill had been dead for years. Its waterwheel hung crooked, half‑rotted. The stream below ran red – not with blood, but with rust from an old iron sluice. Birds were silent. The air was thick.
Vlad stood at the edge of the clearing. He could feel her inside. Not magic. Not yet. Just the weight of a predator who knew she was hunted.
He drew his sword. The blade caught the grey light.
He walked toward the door.
First Exchange – The Explosion
The door didn't open. It exploded.
Splinters flew like shrapnel. He twisted – too slow. A shard caught his shoulder. Shallow. He didn't slow.
She stood in the doorway, framed by darkness. Tall, thin, white hair, black eyes. No pupils. Just dark.
"Alucard." Her voice was calm. "The hunter who burns my sisters."
"I burn witches."
"Same thing."
She raised her hands. Rubble from the mill's collapsed corner rose behind her – stones, broken beams, rusted iron teeth from the mill wheel – and shot toward him.
Not a wave. A storm. Each piece moved independently, curving, looping, striking from different angles.
He didn't block. He moved. Left – a stone passed his ear. Right – a beam scraped his shoulder. Duck – an iron tooth whistled over his head. Roll – another stone struck the ground where he'd been.
He came up swinging. Zornhau – diagonal, right shoulder to left hip.
She wasn't there. She had stepped sideways, fast, too fast, and the rubble reformed into a shield. His blade struck stone. Sparks flew.
"You're fast," she said. "But you follow the blade."
"You're alive," he replied. "That will change."
Second Exchange – The Jagged Blade
She discarded the rubble. A blade appeared in her hand – black iron, curved, jagged, like a broken saw. She came at him in a blur. No rhythm. No pattern. High, low, high again – but the high was a feint, the low was a stab, the high again was a cut.
He tracked her. His sword traced small circles – Winden, winding, binding. She broke free, stabbed at his thigh. He parried with the crossguard, stepped back.
She pressed forward. Wild. Desperate. Her attacks came faster, each one different from the last. She was trying to be unpredictable.
He changed the tempo.
Zwerchhau – thwart cut, horizontal – aimed at her neck. She ducked. He followed with Krumphau – crooked cut – blade curving around her guard. It struck her shoulder.
She screamed. Black blood. The wound didn't close.
She hissed, "You're not human."
"No."
He drove a Durchwechseln – thrust under her guard. She twisted away, but his point drew blood from her ribs.
She stumbled. He pressed.
Third Exchange – The Roots
She was losing. She knew it.
She threw the black iron blade at his face. He batted it aside with his sword. It clattered against the mill wall.
Then she raised her hands. Not at him – at the ground between them.
The earth cracked. Roots burst from the soil – thick, black, thorned. They wrapped around his ankles, his knees, his sword arm. They pulled.
He cut at them. They regrew faster than he could sever.
She screamed, "You're mine!" and walked toward him, another jagged blade forming in her hand.
He stopped cutting. He reversed his grip – Mordhau – held the blade, used the crossguard and pommel as a hammer. He struck the roots. Not cut – crushed. They shattered.
She stared. "How?"
He stepped free. Raised his sword.
"No."
Fourth Exchange – The Fire
She screamed. Green fire poured from her hands – not bolts, not a wave. A vortex. It spun around her, growing, then exploded outward in all directions.
The clearing ignited. Grass burned. The mill's wooden wall caught flame. The heat was instant, searing.
He dropped to one knee, sword flat against the ground, using the blade as a partial barrier. He pulled his coat over his face. The fire‑resistant wool held – barely.
But his hat.
The brim caught. The felt blackened, curled, then smoldered. He tore it off, beat the flames with his gloved hand. The fire died, but the brim was scorched, the crown singed, a hole burned through one side. He shoved it into his belt.
The fire passed. The witch stood panting, her hands smoking, her black eyes dim.
"Die," she whispered.
He stood. His coat was scorched. His cloak was burning – he tore it off, threw it aside. His hair was singed. His face was bare.
"No."
He charged.
She raised her hands for another vortex. Too slow.
He closed the distance. Zornhau to her head. She parried with a forearm – the blade bit deep. She screamed. Krumphau to her legs. She collapsed.
He stood over her. Sword point at her throat.
"You killed twelve people."
She didn't flinch. Her black eyes burned, even as her blood pooled on the scorched grass.
"Twelve?" Her voice cracked into a laugh – dry, bitter, hateful. "You count them like coins. Like I'm supposed to feel their weight."
She spat. Not blood – venom.
"They were nothing. Farmers. Traders. A priest who turned his back when my mother burned. A father who sold his daughter for a bag of grain." Her lips curled. "The children? They threw stones at me. Called me witch long before I was one."
Vlad did not move.
"I learned from them," she hissed. "Cruelty. It's the only language they understand. So I gave it back. Every death was a lesson. Every scream was a prayer."
She smiled. Blood on her teeth.
"They deserved worse."
Vlad looked at her. His face was bare, his hair singed.
"No one deserves that."
He thrust. Quick. Clean. Through the throat, angled up through the brainstem. She fell without a sound.
The Mill – Aftermath
He stood in the scorched clearing. The mill was burning now – the fire had spread from the wall. The roof groaned.
He searched her body quickly. A pouch. Coins. A letter in a language he didn't recognize. He took it all.
He picked up his hat. The brim was charred, the crown had a hole, the felt was stiff with heat. He turned it over in his hands.
He did not put it on.
Instead, he tucked it under his arm – a ruined thing, barely a hat anymore. He would carry it back. Why? He wasn't sure. Habit, perhaps. Or something else.
He walked away. The flames rose behind him.
He sat on a rock a safe distance away and watched the mill collapse. The smoke curled into the grey sky. His face was bare. The wind touched his singed hair.
The hat rested beside him on the rock.
One witch.
He would return to Luminara. Collect the bounty. He would not wear the hat. But he would keep it.
End of Chapter One Hundred Ten