The mercenaries staggered into Blackthorn Keep well past midnight, pale as ghosts and shaking like beaten dogs.
Baron Aldric Vantor sat in his hall with a goblet of wine, already irritated at being disturbed—until he saw their faces.
"Report," he said coldly.
The captain swallowed, his voice cracking.
"Milord… Ridgebrook defied us."
Vantor snorted. "A village of dirt farmers did what?"
"There was a man," the captain whispered. "Tall. Pale. From the northern frontiers. He—he lifted me with one hand, milord. Like I weighed nothing."
The amusement drained from Vantor's eyes.
Another mercenary spoke quickly. "He looked at us like we were already dead."
"And the chief," the captain added, trembling, "the villagers trusted him. They stood behind him."
Vantor's jaw tightened.
"Send a formal enforcer group," he ordered. "Twelve men. Captain Dresmar will lead them. He has full authority to discipline Ridgebrook."
His voice hardened.
"If a child chief wants war," he said, "then we will give him one."
By dusk the next day, Captain Dresmar and his twelve trained enforcers reached the forest near Ridgebrook. They didn't approach the village gates—not at night. Instead, they set up camp in a clearing, torches planted around the perimeter.
Thirteen tents stood in a wide circle.
Two guards took the night watch.
They weren't relaxed.
"I think those mercs were exaggerating," one guard muttered.
"The last men who doubted stories like that got torn apart by beasts," the other replied. "Maybe that 'northern ghost' is real."
They laughed, nervous and thin.
The moon rose high.
The fire crackled softly.
Crickets chirped.
Then the forest went silent.
They didn't notice.
They were too busy talking to see the shadows behind them shift—stretch, slide, and take form.
A presence stepped out of the darkness.
Vlad Dracul III.
Silent as breath.
Calm as a grave.
He wore no armor. No helmet. No heavy weapon. Only bloodstained clothes from earlier hunts and a short knife that caught the moonlight.
The first guard stiffened.
"Did you hear something?"
"No," the other said. "Probably an owl."
"It sounded like footsteps."
"Relax."
A whisper brushed the first man's ear.
"You should have trusted your instinct."
Vlad's arm locked around the guard's mouth, smothering the scream. The knife slid cleanly beneath the jaw, severing sound and breath in one motion. The body went limp. Vlad lowered it gently to the ground.
The second guard turned, confused.
"Hey? What's taking so—"
He never finished.
Vlad stepped briefly into the torchlight, just long enough for the man to see pale skin, cold eyes, and a faint, horrifying smile.
Then Vlad was gone.
Steel flashed.
A choked sound escaped.
The body collapsed.
Both guards lay still, the forest swallowing their deaths without a sound.
Vlad exhaled softly, wiped the blade clean on the grass, and studied the camp.
Thirteen tents.
Too many men awake.
Too many weapons.
Rank 1 could not butcher them all cleanly.
Efficiency mattered more than carnage.
That was the difference between chaos and strategy.
He lifted both corpses with ease and slipped back into the trees, unseen.
At Ridgebrook, I paced near the village gate, heart hammering.
Vlad was gone.
The Summoner's Ledger pulsed warnings in my head.
[SUMMON NOT WITHIN PROXIMITY]
[SUMMON ENGAGED IN HOSTILE ACTIVITY]
Lira approached, fear etched across her face.
"Liam… we can't stop him. We can only hope he comes back."
"I swear if he kills them all—" I groaned.
The forest shifted.
Vlad emerged from the darkness.
Two bodies hung over his shoulders.
Blood dripped onto the dirt.
He walked into the village as casually as a man carrying firewood.
Screams erupted. Children hid behind adults. Even Borrik recoiled.
"Vlad," I whispered, horrified. "You killed them?"
"Two," he replied, dropping the corpses. "More would alert the camp. Striking too deeply alone is poor strategy."
"That's not the point!"
He ignored me and dragged the bodies toward the gate.
"No—Vlad—STOP—"
He didn't.
He took two sharpened defensive stakes, planted them into the ground with brutal force, then lifted each corpse and drove them down onto the spikes.
Bone cracked.
Flesh tore.
Villagers screamed.
Lira staggered back, trembling.
I nearly vomited.
Vlad stepped away, studying his work like a craftsman.
"This will frighten the rest," he said calmly. "Fear is protection."
"THIS ISN'T HOW YOU PROTECT PEOPLE!" I shouted
"It will be," he replied, "when they see it."
Back at the enemy camp, the patrol returned to find the watch posts empty.
"Where are the guards?" one muttered.
They searched.
No answer.
No tracks—only their own.
Panic spread fast.
"Captain!" someone shouted. "Two missing from the night watch!"
Captain Dresmar stormed from his tent. "Spread out!" he ordered.
Torches moved through the trees. Faces grew tense.
"Tracks!" a soldier called
They followed them to the edge of the forest—
And found nothing.
"It's like they vanished," someone whispered.
Dresmar's expression hardened.
"This is no beast," he said. "Someone took them."
He pointed his sword toward Ridgebrook.
"Form up," he commanded. "At first light, we march."