The torches burned low inside the village hall, their wavering light painting long shadows across the stone walls. Soldiers stood in rigid formation, their armor clinking softly each time one shifted. In the centre of the room, on his knees with his hands bound, a ragged thief was pushed forward by two guards. His clothes were torn, and his face was smeared with mud and dried blood, yet his eyes darted nervously, sharp as a rat cornered by hounds.
Dragomir sat upon the carved wooden chair that served as his throne, his face impassive, though his eyes gleamed with suspicion. He leaned forward, resting a heavy hand upon the armrest.
"Who is he?" Dragomir's voice echoed, deep and commanding.
One of the soldiers shoved the thief so that he fell flat on the ground. "My lord," the soldier said, "he is from a nearby town. He claims to have seen the vampire."
A low murmur rippled through the hall. The word alone carried fear, and many of the younger soldiers cast uneasy glances toward the prisoner. Dragomir's expression sharpened, his jaw tightening.
"What?" Dragomir's tone was razor-sharp. His gaze bore into the thief like a blade. "Have you really seen him? If you are lying…" His lips curled in disdain. "…then I will put you in prison for the rest of your miserable life."
The thief trembled, his knees knocking against the cold stone floor. He bowed his head so low it almost touched the ground. "No, my lord. I swear on my life. I have truly seen him."
Dragomir's eyes narrowed. He leaned back, measuring the man's words. "Speak, then. Do not waste my time."
The thief swallowed hard, his voice breaking with nervousness. "I… I can use a single type of magic—cloak magic. I only know one spell of it, but it lets me hide. Three months ago, in a nearby town called Lavenferr, a vampire had begun the same kind of killing spree you've heard of. People vanished in the night, their corpses drained and abandoned. One day, after I had robbed some travelers, I fled into the forest to hide. That was when I saw him."
He paused, shivering at the memory, his fingers twitching against the ropes.
Dragomir leaned forward again, his voice a low growl. "Describe him."
The thief's eyes widened as if the memory clawed its way back into his mind. "He was… handsome. Too handsome. Long hair like midnight silk, fair skin that glowed even in the shadows. At first, I thought he was just another rich man, lost in the woods. But then…" His voice cracked. "Then I saw him. He tore apart those travelers with his fangs. Drank their blood while they screamed. He was the very same vampire that terrorized Lavenferr."
Gasps filled the room. A soldier muttered a curse under his breath. Dragomir, however, sat in silence, his mind racing. For the past year, he had tracked Arthur relentlessly, certain he was the killer. Yet the thief's words cracked that certainty.
"How could Arthur be in two places at once?" Dragomir thought, his brows furrowed. "He was here in town the whole time. Witnesses, merchants, even guards saw him. Something is wrong."
His voice thundered again. "Do you remember his face?"
"Yes, my lord." The thief nodded quickly, desperation in his eyes. "I can never forget it."
"Then draw his likeness," Dragomir commanded.
At once, he motioned, and an expert was brought into the hall. Ink, parchment, and quill were set down before the thief. Hands still bound, he struggled, so one guard loosened the ropes enough for him to move his wrists. Guided by memory, the thief began to describe every detail while the artist's hand flew across the page. Slowly, the portrait took form: sharp features, long hair, a cruel elegance that almost felt inhuman.
When the picture was finally revealed, Dragomir's heart froze. It was not Arthur. It was someone else entirely.
Dragomir rose from his chair, his fists clenched at his sides. His voice trembled with restrained fury. "Thief. Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure this is the vampire you saw?"
The thief dared not look away. His voice was small but steady. "Yes, my lord. That is him. That is the vampire."
Dragomir stared at the poster, his mind reeling. His suspicion had been right all along. Arthur was not the killer. This man—the stranger whose face was now etched in ink—was the true monster. And yet… what of the blood found in that cottage outside town? What of Arthur's strange behavior, his connection to death and blood?
Dragomir's thoughts darkened further. "Unless… there are two vampires. One the thief saw. One tied to Arthur. Could that be the truth?"
His hand tightened on the poster until the paper crumpled. "I must know," he muttered under his breath.
Meanwhile, deep within the forest, the night was heavy with silence. The trees stood tall and twisted, their shadows clawing at the earth. On the forest floor, both Eamon and Arthur lay broken, their bodies bruised and bloodied. Every breath was agony, every movement a war against pain.
Before them, Winston stood tall, a sneer carved across his flawless face. His crimson eyes glowed in the darkness, cold and merciless. He spread his arms, the moonlight glinting against the blood magic that pulsed from his veins.
"You weaklings," Winston spat. "You should have known your place. Now… die."
Raising both hands high, he chanted, "Noctis Death Rush!"
Above him, two enormous spheres of blood materialized, each ringed by jagged spikes. They throbbed like living hearts, radiating death itself. The forest seemed to hold its breath as he prepared to unleash them.
But before he could strike, a blur of silver fur leapt into the air. With a snarl that shook the night, Skarn launched himself at Winston, his fangs bared.
"You again," Winston hissed, fury flashing across his face. "Damn this wolf!"
With a brutal movement, Winston caught Skarn by the throat mid-leap. His grip was iron, crushing, and with a vicious swing, he slammed the wolf into the earth. The impact split the ground, sending dirt and roots flying. A pit opened beneath Skarn's body, the air vibrating with the force of the blow.
Eamon's heart stopped. His eyes went wide, horror consuming him. "No!" His scream tore through the forest. "How dare you…!"
Rage overtook him. He stumbled forward, raising his hand. Words of fire burned on his tongue. "Arcana Heat Mirage!"
At once, waves of shimmering heat rippled through the air, distorting Winston's vision. The vampire cursed, momentarily blinded. Seizing the chance, Eamon dove, snatching his fallen sword from the dirt. With a roar, he swung it in a deadly arc, slicing through Winston's arm. Blood hissed and burned as the blade cut deep.
Winston screamed, the sound shaking the leaves. His vision cleared, just in time to see Eamon's blade thrust forward, piercing into his chest.
The vampire staggered back, clutching the wound, his face twisting in shock. "What… what did you do?" His voice cracked into a roar. "What did you do to me?!"
His eyes fell to the weapon in Eamon's hands. Recognition flared, and for the first time, fear darkened Winston's face. "Is that… is that a Vixterium sword?!"
With a desperate leap, Winston pulled back, blood dripping from his chest. His perfect composure faltered, his arrogance cracking.
Arthur, though broken and bleeding, watched it all. His breaths came ragged, his chest heaving. In a voice barely more than a whisper, he spoke. "Pure-blood vampires… they are the true Obsidian Seraphs. When the world split, some were worshipped as Empyrean Seraphs. Others were cast down, cursed to the dark realm… those became Obsidian Seraphs." He coughed blood, forcing the words out. "They are immortal. Truly immortal. But… they have a weakness. Vixterium. The metal burns us, slows our healing, leaves us vulnerable. And… if it is mixed with the blood of a sacred being, then driven into the heart… it can kill us. That is the only way to end one of them."
Eamon's head snapped toward him, rage and shock mingling. "And you're telling me this now?! I've had this sword since the day I came to town!"
Arthur coughed again, a grim smile curling his lips despite the blood. "I didn't know, you fool."
Eamon cursed under his breath, his grip on the sword tightening. "Fine. But then where in the hell are we supposed to find a sacred being now?"
Arthur's eyes flickered, weak but intent. His hand trembled as he tried to raise it, his finger pointing with great effort. His voice cracked, barely audible. "We had one… with us all along. I just… didn't know you had a Vixterium sword."
Eamon's breath caught. He followed Arthur's weak gesture, confusion clouding his mind—until his eyes landed on the wolf lying in the crater, his silver fur matted with dirt and blood.
Eamon's voice shook as realization struck him. "Skarn? Skarn… is a sacred being???"