Novel Chapter
When the name "Dumbledore" slipped so lightly from Douglas's lips, the last dam of hope in Valerius's heart finally burst.
He wasn't afraid of Dumbledore himself—the legendary white wizard was far too distant, too far above his world.
What terrified him was that the man before him could so casually claim such a legend as his own backing.
It meant that, even if he were torn to pieces tonight, his family would never dare—never even consider—knocking on Hogwarts' doors for the sake of a traitor.
And the family would never risk provoking Dumbledore for an exile, let alone face this infamous vampire hunter—Heaven's Net.
He had lost. Completely.
Utterly defeated, with not even the strength left for one last struggle.
Valerius's proud head, which had never bowed to anyone, slowly, slowly drooped.
"I..."
His voice was barely more than a breath.
"I choose... to sign the contract."
He reached out his hand—the same hand that once held crystal goblets with elegance, that once snapped an enemy's neck without mercy—now shaking like a leaf in a storm.
He accepted the pen made from dragon nerve.
Biting his fingertip, he let the black, sweet-scented blood well up.
He dipped the pen in his own blood and, on the parchment writhing with runes, signed his name:
Valerius.
As the final stroke fell, the parchment burst into flames, dissolving into a blinding red light.
The light carried no heat, but it bore an irresistible will, shooting straight into his chest.
Valerius let out a muffled groan, stumbling back a step.
He could feel his soul seized by an invisible hand, forced into a cold shackle spun from pure concept.
He could sense every clause of the contract with terrifying clarity:
Absolute obedience.
No betrayal.
No harm, in any form, to Douglas Holmes or any of his chosen allies.
Any rebellious thought would awaken the brand deep within his soul.
But then... what?
What happened after the brand was triggered?
Would it be fire, or soul-rending agony?
The contract gave no answer.
That blank space was more terrifying than any torture.
Douglas withdrew his hand, satisfied, as if he'd just completed some trivial task.
He stepped to Valerius's side and patted his rigid shoulder, almost kindly.
The gesture was like comforting a startled student.
"Welcome to my research team," Douglas said, his smile warm and sincere.
"Assistant Valerius."
The wind in the valley carried the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves.
Douglas walked ahead, his pace unhurried, as if simply out for a stroll beneath the moon.
His polished dragonhide shoes crunched rhythmically on dead branches and leaves, the sound ticking off the countdown for the ruined heart trailing behind him.
Valerius followed, trying to straighten his spine and preserve the last dignity of an ancient bloodline, but in his tattered silk robes, he looked more like a disgraced noble clawing his way out of the grave.
Three steps separated them—not far, not close, but as insurmountable as a chasm.
He had walked this forest a hundred times, always as the predator, always relishing the night's protection.
Tonight, he was the prey, pinned by moonlight to the earth.
"Assistant Valerius."
Douglas's voice rang out suddenly, calm and gentle, shattering the silence of the woods.
Valerius flinched, instinctively replying, "Yes, Mr. Holmes."
"Relax. We're colleagues now," Douglas said, not turning back, his tone tinged with a faint amusement. "Colleagues should talk more—get to know each other."
Valerius was silent, uncertain how to respond to this game of cat and mouse.
"I'm just curious," Douglas continued, still lighthearted. "That kinsman of yours in Bucharest—the one I trained—how is he these days?"
His voice was as casual as asking after an old friend. But the word "trained" stabbed into Valerius's ear like a red-hot silver needle.
He could feel the contract's brand in his soul warming, as if scrutinizing every word he was about to utter.
He glanced at the family crest on his finger—his cousin had worn the same ring.
He realized at once that Douglas had linked him to that unfortunate cousin from the very first moment.
Valerius's Adam's apple bobbed; a storm of emotion flickered in his eyes—fear, pity, and above all… revulsion.
He remembered the deepest chamber of the Red Moon Brotherhood, that place where daylight never reached.
No screams echoed there—only the thick, wet squelch of rotting flesh.
His cousin, once as proud and handsome as himself, was now little more than that: a heap of unrecognizable meat, clinging to life only by the monstrous vitality of a vampire.
"He... he's my cousin," Valerius said hoarsely. "He's still alive."
He felt the brand in his soul—like a sleeping beast—remain dormant. He exhaled quietly, grateful he hadn't lied.
Every word was true.
He had simply omitted the most crucial detail—that pile of rotting flesh was the Red Moon Brotherhood's most coveted holy grail, their key to a new era.
"Only..."
He paused, choosing his words with care, seeking the most objective phrasing to slip past the contract's judgment.
"Only, he hasn't... regained human form."
Douglas never broke stride.
He caught the reservation, the deeper terror carefully masked beneath the words—like a trace of blood beneath perfume, impossible to conceal from him.
But he didn't pry. He didn't use Legilimency.
He knew: a beast freshly shackled is always at its most wary.
Try to force its jaws open, and it becomes all the harder to tame.
There was time.
Plenty of time for this new assistant to cough up everything inside, piece by piece.
He was in no hurry.
"The Red Moon Brotherhood is quite an interesting organization," Douglas remarked, changing the subject, his tone still light.
"A vampire and a totem werewolf, sitting down for tea together—tell me, who do you all actually listen to?"
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