Morning light—if the pale, feeble rays filtering through the thick, leaden clouds could be called that—stingily spilled onto the streets of Northam Town. Last night's rain had pooled in the potholes of the cobblestone paths, reflecting the low-hanging sky and the silent outlines of buildings on either side. The mist hadn't dissipated; it had merely shifted from the night's menacing churn to a stagnant, gauzy veil clinging to eaves and chimneys, rendering every view blurred and unreal.
Isolde had left the Rimewood Inn early. She wore more practical dark brown hunting attire under a nondescript grey-brown cloak, its hood pulled low. The long case remained hidden in the room, but she carried enough 'trinkets' on her person: the silver dagger close to her body, several throwing knives hidden in her sleeves and boot tops, a skin of holy water and a small coil of rope wound with silver wire hanging from her belt. Her pace was unhurried, like that of an ordinary traveler newly arrived in the damp northern town, mildly curious. Only her grey eyes, sharp under the shadow of her hood, swept keenly over every alley, every shuttered window, every passerby hurrying along.
The town's morning was lifeless. Occasionally, residents bundled in thick clothes passed by, heads down, carrying buckets of water or firewood, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the wet stone. They seldom spoke, and when they did, it was in hushed tones, their eyes darting quickly and warily around, especially towards the deeper shadows. An invisible tension gripped the entire town, like a string pulled taut.
Isolde's objective was clear: the households on the town's fringes rumored to have suffered 'beast attacks.' This was the only concrete lead she had gleaned from the innkeeper's vague warnings and the Council's ambiguous file. She needed to see those wounds for herself.
The first house was on the western edge, near the Blackwood Forest. It was typical northern stone-and-timber construction, low and sturdy, but the newly nailed wooden boards over the windows stood out starkly. A haggard, hollow-eyed middle-aged man was mending a broken section of fence on the porch, his movements sluggish, numb with exhaustion. At the sound of footsteps, he jerked his head up. Seeing Isolde, his eyes instantly filled with fear and wariness.
"Go away," he rasped, tightening his grip on the hammer. "Strangers aren't welcome here."
Isolde stopped a few meters away, making no move to approach. "Just passing through," she said, her voice deliberately even, laced with just the right amount of confusion. "Heard things haven't been peaceful lately? Is it... beasts?"
"None of your business!" the man nearly shouted, then flinched as if startled by his own volume, casting a nervous glance around, especially towards the dense edge of the Blackwood Forest. "Just go! Before it gets... just go!"
He refused to reveal anything, but his fear was palpable. Isolde noted the half-healed scratches on his exposed forearm, not deep, but tinged an unhealthy bluish-black. No ordinary beast left marks like that. She asked no more, nodded, and turned away. The man's gaze felt like needles in her back until she rounded the corner.
The second house was worse. It was half-destroyed, one wall visibly smashed in, charred beams exposed. A faint, peculiar odor of something burnt—and something else, coppery and old—lingered in the air. An old woman sat motionless on the stone step before the wreckage, clutching a ragged cloth doll, her eyes vacant, staring into nothing. She showed no reaction to Isolde's approach.
Isolde's heart sank. She approached slowly, her eyes scanning the ruins. The edges of the collapsed wall bore deep, parallel gouges, as if torn by massive claws. Dark brown, long-dried stains marred the wood. But what caught her attention most were the sparkling, glittering fragments scattered on the ground, catching the dim light. She crouched, using a gloved fingertip to pick up a piece. Glass, but of a strange texture, not ordinary window glass. The edges were unusually sharp, and it carried a faint, residual energy that made her skin prickle unpleasantly.
Shards from a holy water vial? Or something else?
"They're all gone," the old woman spoke suddenly, her voice dry as sandpaper. "My John, my little Mary... The thing that came at night... wasn't a beast... Eyes were red... red..." she muttered, clutching the doll tighter.
"What kind of thing?" Isolde asked softly, careful to keep any unusual emotion from her voice.
The old woman slowly turned her head. Her clouded eyes looked at Isolde, yet seemed to look through her, into the depths of some terrible memory. "Tall... pale... dressed in black... smiling... He was smiling..." Her body began to tremble violently. "Blood... so much blood... He liked seeing them afraid... liked it..."
Cassius. Isolde's nails dug into her palms. That cruel, amused face flashed vividly in her mind again. Him. It has to be. The sadistic, playful style was identical.
"The town's... guards? Or the priest at the church?" Isolde changed the subject, trying to piece together more.
A strange expression crossed the old woman's face—a mix of confusion, fear, and something else, indescribably complex. "Guards? At night... no one comes out... no one dares..." she mumbled. "But sometimes... sometimes it feels like... something's watching... in the dark... Not letting us all die? I don't know... Who can guess a demon's mind..."
The words were disjointed, but Isolde grasped the key point: something moved at night, likely the cause of the attacks, but perhaps something else was, in some way... limiting the scale? The thought struck her as absurd and alarming. Vampires protecting humans? Or was it a more cunning ploy, a way of corralling prey?
She gained no direct information about the wounds. The bodies here had clearly been dealt with. Isolde stood, leaving a few silver coins beside the unresponsive old woman, and silently departed the sad ruin.
The third and final place with potential clues was a relatively isolated hunter's cabin on the town's eastern edge. Rumor had it the sole survivor—a young woodcutter—though gravely injured, was still alive, taken to the town's small clinic.
Northam's clinic was a low stone building, a worn wooden sign hanging by the door. The smells of medicine, blood, and rotting wood wafted out. When Isolde entered, only a white-haired, bespectacled old doctor was there, grinding herbs behind a counter. He looked up, adjusting his glasses.
"Seeking treatment? Are you injured?" The doctor's voice was flat, carrying the weariness of long years.
"No. I'm inquiring about someone. The woodcutter injured the other night, Hans?" Isolde gave the name she'd gleaned from the innkeeper.
The doctor's hand paused. His eyes behind the lenses sharpened as he assessed her. "You're not from the town. Why ask?"
"I'm a distant cousin," Isolde lied without blinking, injecting just the right note of concern into her voice. "The family heard he was hurt, sent me to check."
The doctor was silent for a moment, weighing something. Finally, he sighed and gestured towards a small curtained-off area in the back. "In there. His condition... isn't good. Prepare yourself."
Isolde thanked him and pushed aside the curtain.
The space inside was dim, lit only by a small oil lamp. A strong mix of herbal and putrid smells assaulted her. A young man, deathly pale, lay on a simple plank bed, his chest swathed in thick bandages stained yellowish-brown. His eyes were closed, breathing shallow and rapid, sweat beading on his forehead. Even in unconsciousness, his brows were knit in pain.
Isolde approached quietly. She didn't look at his face. Her gaze went directly to the edge of the bandages at his neck, where a patch of hideous, blackened, festering skin was exposed.
Her breath caught.
Not because of the wound's gruesomeness. But because... its shape, its location, even the web-like pattern of necrotic blood vessels around it... were nearly identical to the fatal wound on her father's neck in her memory.
Fragments of memory exploded. The dark living room, firelight, Cassius raising a graceful hand, fingertips tracing a line across her father's throat... that thin red line, the rapidly spreading blackish-blue, the bizarre rupture and necrosis of vessels beneath the skin...
She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself back from the bloody recollection. When she opened them, her grey eyes held only a cold, nearly tangible frost. She gently pulled the bandage aside for a better look. Yes. The puncture points, the tearing, the residual, chilling energy ordinary medicine couldn't dispel... Every detail screamed the same truth.
This wasn't imitation or coincidence. It was the same perpetrator, the same method, the same cruel 'signature' of sadistic pleasure.
Cassius. He was here. In Northam, or at least, his minions were. He had never left her nightmares; now, he had brought the nightmare to this fog-shrouded land.
"Miss?" The doctor's voice came from beyond the curtain, tinged with caution. "Are you finished? He needs rest."
Isolde slowly released the bandage, letting it fall back. She turned, all expression wiped from her face, leaving only stillness. "How... was he found? Who saved him?"
The doctor entered the space, looking at the unconscious woodcutter, and sighed again. "Found near the woods in the morning, not far from the Blackwood. Badly hurt, lost a lot of blood, but... strange thing is, the bleeding had stopped. As if crudely treated by something. Wouldn't have lasted until he was found otherwise." He shook his head, lowering his voice. "Folks in town say it was the 'Guardian of the Night' showing mercy... Hah. A demon's mercy, who knows?"
Guardian of the Night. It was the second time Isolde had heard this vague title. First from the innkeeper's vague words, now from this doctor who had clearly treated the victim. The tone was similarly complex—a mix of fear, puzzlement, and a hint of something like incredulous... reliance?
"A demon?" Isolde repeated, her tone flat.
The doctor glanced at her, seeming to realize he'd said too much, and changed the subject abruptly. "Anyway, whether he pulls through is up to the gods now. Since you're kin, you've seen him. Best not to disturb him further."
Isolde asked no more. She nodded, cast one last look at the unconscious woodcutter and the wound on his neck that seared her eyes, then turned and left the clinic.
Outside, the sky remained gloomy, the mist unbroken. But the fog in her mind felt parted by a bolt of crimson lightning. The target of her hatred had never been clearer. Cassius was here. And other vampires roamed this land, including that ambiguously intentioned entity called the 'Guardian of the Night.'
Whoever, whatever. If they walked with darkness, if they fed on blood, they were her enemy.
She pulled her hood tighter and stepped into Northam's damp, cold streets. Her grey eyes swept over the shuttered windows, over the silhouette of the Blackwood Forest at the street's end that seemed to swallow all light. The old scar on her palm ached faintly, the mark left by her blood oath six years ago.
The investigation was over. The hunt was about to begin.
Next, the forest. That was where she sensed the densest darkness. She would find them. All of them.
Especially that cunning one trying to pose as a 'guardian.' She would see how well that mask of false benevolence held up when silver pierced its heart.
(End of Chapter 2)