On Adam's map, Sector 2 was breathing. While Adam tried to remove the fallen pawn of the nun from the map, a cold shiver ran through his fingers. On the edge near Sector 1, David's pawn began to emit a sharp hum, like a blade scratching glass. The parchment rose slightly under his fingers, swollen by an invisible pulse, and the ink that marked the borders had started to spread into black veins, like poisoned roots.
The hunter David does exactly what he knows best — to hunt. The hunter remains motionless, his breath barely audible, his eyes fixed on the mist wrapping the darkness. The air is cold, sharp, carrying with it a shiver of danger. He positions himself with care, every centimeter of his body controlled, every muscle stretched like a string ready to release the arrow at any moment. An old wall hides him. The cracks of the wall keep the secret of his presence.
He waits.
His guard, scattered among the trees, holds their breath. No sound, no clink of armor, no whisper. Only the moon, distant and merciless, pours a pale light over the dark plain. And in this light, a few silhouettes move like ghosts, slipping through the vapors of mist, approaching with stolen steps.
David does not blink. His eyes, trained to see what others cannot, follow every movement. The black tattoos on the thieves' hands glow under the moonlight, dark signs betraying their origin — Transylvania. The forbidden land of vampires, killers, and night thieves.
A gesture. Just that. A fine movement of David's hand, and the guard freezes even more in the darkness. He will take care of them.
The three approach, reckless, unaware they are being watched. Their shadows stretch on the ground, deformed, like monsters ready to commit wickedness. But David… David is quieter than death.
The bow is ready, tightened between his fingers like an extension of his body. David's gaze fixes on the three silhouettes, measures the distance, feels the beating of his own heart in the tips of his fingers. He chooses the target.
— It's time, whispered the thought inside him.
His thought gets lost in the wind, and the arrow flies silent, like a murderous shadow. The first thief collapses without a cry, only a muffled moan, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud.
But before the second can run, a movement behind froze his blood. Something was there. Something that made no sound, that betrayed its presence only through that icy sensation creeping along his spine.
— They are not the enemy, hunter…
The voice was low, rusty, like a saw dragged over old bones.
David turns, slowly, the bow still taut, fingers ready to release a second arrow. And then he sees it, the Silver Mask.
A single crack runs across it, like a scar shining under the moonlight. The eyes behind the mask are white, and yet he feels the hollow gaze, unmoving, fixed on him. The reflection of the hunter's face mirrors in the mask, his own fear, a dark stirring he had never confessed even to himself.
— Who are you?
The sound tears from his throat, sharper than he wished. The mask does not answer. Instead, from the shadows behind it, three more silhouettes detach, each wearing the same mask, the same crack, the same annihilating presence.
— I said… they are not the enemy.
This time, the voice is clearer, closer. A woman's. And yet just as hollow, like an echo from another world, a guidance that should have been in fact an answer: "Look closer, around you."
David casts a quick glance toward the Transylvanian thieves, his eyes pierced with fear. The first one his arrow had struck was not lying dead — he was writhing, muscles convulsing, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. And on his chest… on his chest, the black tattoos were twisting, coiling like living worms, tearing his flesh from the inside.
— What the hell…? — his voice was hoarse, full of a horror he barely recognized.
The Silver Mask laughed — a sharp, metallic sound:
— They were only bait.
That voice… too close, too intimate, like a knife slipped between his ribs.
— For you.
And then, his guard began to scream.
One by one, his men fell to the ground, hands clenched, and throats that no longer drew air, chests that could no longer hold hearts. One man tore his shirt — underneath, his veins turned black, swelling, pulsing like beasts trapped under the skin.
— NO…!
David leapt to his feet, bow still in hand, fury boiling inside him like venom. But the mask did not move. Only its crack gleamed, now red, like an open wound.
— What have you done to them?! — David roared like a cornered lion.
The stranger's long, skeletal hand rose, thin fingers pointing to the sky.
And David saw. The moon no longer seemed white. It was red.
Red and swollen, like an eye full of blood, splitting the dark vault.
— The Red Moon, the mask whispered, and its voice seemed to come from the mouths of all the silhouettes around. — The gates are open. And you, hunter, have been chosen to see what comes.
David felt something cold wrap around his ankle. He looked down. The blood of his comrades was crawling toward him.
It did not drip. It did not flow. It moved.
— No…
He drew the arrow, but his hand trembled too much — not from fear. From something deeper, darker. He felt it in his bones, in his marrow. Something had awakened.
The arrow flew weakly, stuck in the ground. And then, the mask laughed again. But now, the voice was no longer hers. It was David's.
— Run, the mask said, imitating his voice, his tones, his fear. — Run, if you can.
Behind him, a disturbing scraping of limbs moving against their will. His guard rose, slowly, mechanically, like puppets pulled by unseen strings. Their eyes were no longer eyes — they were two red holes, glowing with the same light as the cursed moon above. Their lips twitched into a familiar grin, the same silent laugh, the same laugh the Silver Mask wore.
David wanted to scream. To curse. To run. But the blood — no, not blood, something from the blood — had already coiled around his body like a thick rope, squeezing his chest until his bones creaked under the pressure. He fell to his knees with a dull thud, feeling the silence close over his ears.
And then he felt the thing slipping into his throat. It was cold. It was viscous. And it had a taste — the taste of old coins, of rusty nails, of flesh washed in forgotten cellars. He swallowed, and his mouth filled with something thick, black, dripping down his chin like a kind of living sludge.
The mask leaned over him.
Its crack was no longer just a crack. It widened, twisted, splitting the metal like a knife's thrust — and became a smile. A smile too wide, too full of sharp teeth, too joyful.
— Welcome to the Army, it whispered, and the voice sank into him deeper than the thing of blood had.
Then, darkness swallowed him, with a macabre sound.
The noise amplified suddenly when, in Sector 2, David's pawn melted — and on the map, in the area of Sector 2, a crooked question mark formed. Adam pressed his palm to the place where the question mark had appeared. The parchment was cold under his fingers — exactly like the Plateau of the Lost, where Anca, in Sector 3, was just drawing her dagger.