Night fell, swallowing Northam Town whole like thick, viscous ink. Unlike the gray, oppressive gloom of day, the town at night seemed drained of its last vestige of life, sinking into a deathly, unnerving silence. The wind died; even the usual chorus of insects vanished. Only the occasional, sharp cry of a distant owl from the direction of the Blackwood Forest pierced the suffocating stillness.
Isolde had not lit a lamp. She stood by the window of her inn room, a cold statue gazing into the all-consuming darkness outside. The silver dagger in her hand had been polished repeatedly; its sharp edge caught the faint, pallid moonlight that occasionally broke through the clouds, reflecting a starlike glint. She sheathed the dagger at her thigh with precise, steady movements. Next, she checked the seal on the holy water skin at her waist, arranged the silver throwing knives in a row on her belt, and finally, with swift, silent efficiency, assembled the parts of the specialized rifle, loaded with silver-laced rounds, and slung it across her back. Every motion, practiced a thousand times, flowed as naturally as breath.
It was time.
She did not use the front door. The third-floor window opened without a sound. She slipped out with agile grace, fingers finding purchase in the stonework, her body landing as lightly as a cat on the lower, sloping roof below, making barely a whisper. A few more leaps and she melted into the shadows of the alleyways, avoiding the few windows that still showed light, moving like a true phantom of the night towards the western edge of town, towards that Blackwood Forest that seemed to breathe and whisper.
The closer she got to the forest's edge, the colder and damper the air became. The smells of decay, damp earth, faint blood, and something much older grew stronger. At the forest's border, the trees were unnaturally tall and dense, their branches tangled into a natural, light-repelling black wall. Isolde paused in the shadow of the last row of houses, drawing a deep breath of the icy air. The Thorne blood in her veins stirred faintly—not with fear, but with the hunter's tremor, a mix of revulsion and adrenaline upon nearing the prey's lair.
She could feel it. Not just one source. Traces of darkness seeped from the forest's depths like drops of ink in clear water. There was a chaotic, brutal, low-born stench—the mark of Cassius's underlings. But there was another... quieter, more ancient, more elusive, like cold water flowing slowly in a deep pool. Was that the presence called the 'Guardian'? Or something else?
Isolde pushed down her doubts. Her grey eyes were hawk-sharp in the dark. Whatever it was, once she entered this forest, it was her hunting ground. From a small pouch at her waist, she took a pinch of powder mixed from silver dust and special herbs, lightly applying it to her eyelids and the pulse points on her wrists. A faint sting followed, and her vision shifted subtly. Faint, ghostly green trails—residual energy traces left by dark creatures, invisible to ordinary people—now glowed in the air, winding through the trees like will-o'-the-wisps.
One trail was fresher, leading deeper in. Another... fainter, more erratic, seemed to linger in a different direction along the forest's edge.
Isolde chose the newer trail. Like an experienced she-wolf, she slipped silently into the forest. Underfoot, deep layers of mulch felt soft and treacherous. Gnarled roots lay across the path like monstrous tentacles. Here, the fog became a tangible entity, coiling around tree trunks, obscuring sight. Only high above did fragmented moonlight occasionally struggle through the layered canopy, casting sporadic, mottled patches of sickly white light that made the forest seem even more eerie.
She followed the ghostly green trace. It was intermittent, showing the target hadn't moved in a straight line but had prowled, lingered, as if searching for something, or... waiting. The faint scent of fresh blood began to permeate the air. Isolde's heart beat a little faster; her fingers rested soundlessly on the rifle's strap.
Pushing through a particularly dense thicket of brambles, the way opened abruptly. A small clearing lay ahead, centered around a dark, stagnant-looking pond. Here, miraculously, the moonlight was not completely blocked. A shaft of cold silver light fell straight through a gap in the branches, bathing the pond's edge.
And in that shaft of moonlight, Isolde saw him.
A man.
No. Not a man.
He was kneeling on one knee by the water's edge, his back to her. He was tall and slender, wearing an old-fashioned black coat, his long silver hair flowing like liquid mercury in the moonlight. He was bent over what seemed to be a large animal—a mature stag, Isolde realized as the light fell upon it, already dead. The man had one hand on the wound at the stag's neck, the other... holding a container to catch the warm blood that welled from it.
The moonlight clearly illuminated his profile. His skin was bloodlessly pale, nearly translucent under the moon's glow, revealing faint blue-green veins beneath. His movements held an ancient, graceful rhythm, forming a bizarre and terrifying contrast with the primitive, bloody scene. The air was thick with that quiet, ancient dark presence, now mixed with the sweet, metallic scent of fresh blood, curling into Isolde's nostrils.
Him. The 'Guardian'? That vague presence in the townsfolk's whispers. And here he was, drinking blood. An animal's blood, but blood nonetheless. The image struck her hatred-tempered retinas with the force of the darkest fairy tale, the most direct evidence of guilt.
All doubt, all ambiguity, evaporated in that instant. Hypocrisy? Protection? Complex ambiguity? All lies! A vampire was a vampire, a monster that fed on blood. Whether it drank from deer or men made no difference. The vicious wound on the woodcutter's neck at the clinic, the blood on Cassius's lips as her parents died, and this scene of elegant feeding under the moon all overlapped and burned in her mind.
The thread of reason snapped. The fire of hatred consumed everything.
No warning. No testing. Isolde moved.
Her eruption from the shadows was lightning-fast, the rifle already snug against her shoulder as she surged forward. The muzzle flashed as it leveled! A deafening CRACK tore the forest's silence. The specialized silver-laced round spiraled through the air, aimed at the figure's back in the moonlight! She hadn't aimed for a non-vital area—for vampires, only the heart or head were true weaknesses.
Almost simultaneously with the gunshot, the figure shifted sideways with a speed that defied human perception. The bullet grazed his shoulder, slamming into the trunk of an ancient tree behind him, splintering wood mixed with silvery light (the silver's reaction to darkness). The container fell from his hand, dark red deer blood spilling on the damp earth.
He turned.
Isolde saw his face. It was extraordinarily handsome, yet extraordinarily non-human. Strong features, a high-bridged nose, lips pale in color. And his eyes—in the moonlight, they were a strange, almost silvery shade of pale lilac, now clearly reflecting her image. They held not the expected rage or cruelty, but a deep, almost weary... shock? And a fleeting, complex pain?
The look lasted only an instant. Isolde gave him no chance. The first shot missed, but she didn't pause. Her left hand flicked, three silver throwing knives whistling towards his face and chest in a triangular pattern! Simultaneously, her right hand dropped the rifle, drawing the silver dagger from her waist. She lunged forward, a she-panther pouncing, the silver blade carving a deadly arc in the moonlight, aimed straight for his heart!
"Wait—" The man seemed to try to speak, his voice a low, pleasant baritone tinged with a faint, almost imperceptible strain. But his movements were unbelievably fast. Facing the oncoming knives, he didn't even dodge widely, merely shifting his torso and tilting his head, letting the blades whisk past his clothes and cheek to thud deep into the tree behind. And for the heart-seeking dagger, he simply extended two fingers, pinching the blade's tip with impossible precision at the last possible moment!
A cold, non-human chill traveled up the dagger. Isolde's heart jolted; his strength was terrifying. But her assault didn't stop. The pinned dagger twisted in her grip, trying to slice his fingers, while her left knee drove viciously towards his abdomen!
The man seemed to sigh. He released the blade, his form gliding back half a step like a phantom, just evading the knee strike. But as he released it, the dagger's edge traced a shallow but definite line across his forearm.
No blood gushed forth. Only a dark, nearly black, viscous fluid welled slowly, gleaming oddly in the moonlight. The air around the wound emitted a faint hiss, like water on hot oil—the natural scorching of silver on vampire blood.
The man grunted, his brows knitting tightly in an expression of suppressed, immense pain. He retreated several steps, putting distance between them, his silvery eyes fixed intently on Isolde. Emotions churned violently within them, but what finally settled was a look of near-resigned gravity.
"Leave this place," his voice remained low but held a new tension, as if he was restraining something with great effort. "Now. Immediately. It is... exceedingly dangerous here."
Dangerous? Isolde's mind held only cold derision. You are the danger! She steadied her stance, dagger held before her, her other hand secretly moving towards the holy water skin. In the moonlight, her face was pale, only her grey eyes blazing with fierce hatred and killing intent, frighteningly bright.
"Dangerous?" Her voice trembled slightly with adrenaline and fury, yet each word was ice. "For whom? For monsters like you that feed on blood?"
The man—Silas Valentian—gazed at the young hunter before him, taut with tension and boiling rage. The hatred in her eyes was so pure, so scorching, it felt like a brand. He saw the dagger's hilt, engraved with the briar-and-broken-spear crest, saw the faint, familiar resemblance in her features to a face from memory a century past. A century of guilt intertwined with the searing agony of the silver in his arm, sending a heavy, dull throb through the place where his heart had once beat. But clearer still was his perception of another presence—malicious, chaotic, powerful—closing rapidly on the clearing. Cassius's minions... drawn by the gunshot.
"Listen to me," Silas's voice grew more urgent. He glanced towards the deeper woods where ominous darkness stirred. "You are no match for them. Leave Northam now. Never return!"
"Silence!" Isolde cut him off sharply, the stopper of the holy water skin already pulled free. "Tonight, one of us dies!"
Her wrist flicked. The blessed water within arced out in a crystalline spray towards Silas! At the same time, she threw herself forward again, dagger aiming for his potentially slowed right side!
A complex emotion flashed in Silas's eyes—disappointment? Resolve? He did not try to evade the holy water completely—that would have driven him into her attack path. Instead, he twisted violently, using his uninjured right arm to shield his head. Most of the holy water splashed across his coat and arm.
HISSSSS—!
A much fiercer sizzling sound erupted, mixed with the terrible scent of scorching fabric and searing flesh. Silas's body convulsed violently; a choked sound of agony was stifled in his throat. His face went even paler, nearly translucent. But he forced himself to remain upright. As Isolde's dagger thrust home, his left hand shot out, not to block, but to seize her wrist in an iron, icy grip, forcing her strike off course.
"Go!" he snarled, and using the momentum of his grip, he shoved her hard—not back towards the forest depths, but towards the clearing's edge, away from the oncoming threat! The push was deft, using her own momentum. Isolde felt an irresistible force, stumbling back seven or eight steps, nearly falling.
She looked up, stunned, meeting Silas's silvery eyes, which even through the pain of the holy water's burn clearly held her reflection. They held no desire to counterattack, only a heavy, almost pleading warning.
The next instant, Silas's form seemed to waver, merging with the shadows under the moon, vanishing from the spot. He left behind only the faint scent of scorched cloth and an odd, cold fragrance in the air, and on the ground, the dark, viscous pool of his own blood.
Isolde stood there, chest heaving, her knuckles white around the dagger's hilt. Silver had struck. Holy water had burned. The target had fled. It should have been a successful encounter, proof this vampire was not invincible. So why... why had his final act been to shove her away with a command to "Go"? Why had his eyes held not the cruel mockery she knew from Cassius, but pain and... warning?
Then, from the deep forest, came several sharp, inhuman shrieks, rapidly approaching! A thick, brutal, hungry darkness washed towards the clearing from the direction Silas had been watching!
Every hair on Isolde's body stood on end. Hunting instinct crushed the momentary confusion. She whirled towards the sound. At least four or five dark shapes were moving through the trees at terrifying speed, their crimson eyes glowing like malevolent will-o'-the-wisps in the dark, fixed unerringly on her position.
Not one. A pack. And their aura was utterly different from the previous one—chaotic, savage, brimming with undisguised bloodlust.
The vampire... was this the 'danger' he had meant?
The thought flashed and was gone, drowned by stronger hostility. Maybe this was all a trap! One playing at mercy to lower her guard, the others moving in for the kill!
No time to think. Isolde spat a curse, turned without hesitation, and sprinted in the opposite direction from the oncoming shadows—the way Silas had vanished! Her form was quickly swallowed by the fog and dark of the forest. Behind her, inhuman shrieks and the sound of violently thrashed undergrowth gave close pursuit.
The moonlight still shone coldly on the clearing, on the dead stag, and on the two distinct pools of blood on the ground—one dark red and warm, belonging to the deer; one dark and viscous, belonging to the pale figure who had vanished under the moon.
The hunt had begun. But in the mist-shrouded Blackwood, the roles of hunter and hunted seemed, from the very start, cloaked in a disturbing ambiguity.
(End of Chapter 3)