The Rise Episode 002 - Wolf Hunt

 

The Rise Episode 002 - Wolf Hunt

The Vale of Shadows does not forgive trespass.

As hunters move in silence and old blood answers the call of family, unseen powers begin to reposition their pieces.

Some hunts are about rescue… others are about what the night is willing to take in return.

In the dark between myth and memory, the House watches—and waits.

---

Previously on The Rise

In the Vale of Shadows, hunters watched as a single invited guest entered Castle Dracula—a reminder that some doors only open for those already claimed. Hidden nearby, Carmilla Nocturne and the Wrenchester brothers uncovered proof that Garnett Hood, the White Wolf, had passed through the Vale… and been taken.

Within the castle, deception ruled. Grinch Heyman revealed himself not as a pawn, but as Count Vlad Daculescu, exposing fractures among the Five Houses while Lord Velkan Thorne maneuvered in service of something far older. In the dungeons, the truth was undeniable: the real Grinch was broken and imprisoned… and Garnett Hood lay bound in silver chains.

Deep beneath the castle, the Eternal One stirred. Plans were set in motion, blood was promised, and the Wolf’s bloodline was marked as nourishment—not leverage.

At the edge of the Vale, in the silent village of Veșnicel, Jaspar Fang demanded answers about his missing father. Instead, he was confronted by a living legend—Beowulf, the slayer who bound Dracula himself—who warned that the Vale cannot be forced… and that some truths awaken what should remain asleep.

The House has begun to move.
And it never loses.

Part 1 – Outside Castle Dracula

The Vale of Shadows pressed in close around Castle Dracula, mist curling like breath from something patient and old. The castle itself loomed above the treeline—black stone grown from the earth rather than built upon it, its towers jagged against a moonless sky.

Hidden among the roots and skeletal brush, Carmilla Nocturne lay still, eyes fixed on the battlements. Beside her, Gene and Cam Wrenchester crouched low, weapons ready but idle, waiting for the moment when waiting would end.

A shift in the air announced the newcomers before footsteps ever did.

The ground seemed to tighten as Beowulf emerged from the mist, massive and unhurried, his presence bending the quiet around him. At his side walked Jaspar Fang, jaw clenched, fury barely leashed, and just behind him Crimson Vane, her expression controlled but sharp with concern.

No greetings were exchanged at first. None were needed.

Carmilla rose slowly from her crouch. Her gaze met Crimson’s for a brief, loaded heartbeat—too long to be coincidence, too restrained to invite questions. Something unspoken passed between them: familiarity, history… restraint.

Crimson broke eye contact first.

Jaspar didn’t notice. His attention was fixed entirely on the castle.

“That’s it,” he muttered. “That’s where they’re holding him.”

Gene glanced up at the towering walls. “Bold choice for a holding cell. Very… dramatic villain.”

Jaspar rounded on him. “My father is in there.”

Cam stepped in calmly. “We know. That’s why we’re not rushing the front door.”

Jaspar ignored him, turning instead to Beowulf. “You said yourself—force is sometimes the only language monsters understand.”

Beowulf’s lips twitched, not quite a smile.
“There is merit in a direct approach,” he rumbled. “I have not stretched my arms properly in some time.”

Jaspar’s eyes lit with grim satisfaction. “Then let’s stop standing around.”

Crimson moved instantly, placing herself between her brother and the castle.
“No.”

Jaspar stared at her in disbelief. “No?”

“Storming the castle gets you killed,” she said flatly. “And it gets Father killed with you.”

“They have him,” Jaspar snapped. “Every second we wait—”

“Is a second they expect,” Carmilla cut in.

Jaspar turned on her, bristling. “And who asked you?”

Crimson tensed—but Carmilla didn’t rise to it. She stepped closer to Crimson instead, lowering her voice just enough that the others had to strain to hear.

“They built this place to be watched,” Carmilla said. “Walls like these aren’t just stone. They listen. They wait for noise.”

Her eyes flicked briefly to Crimson—another glance heavy with shared understanding.
“You want him alive? Then you don’t announce yourself.”

Crimson nodded once. “There’s a servant passage on the eastern face. Old. Narrow. Shielded by the rock itself. Two people can slip in unnoticed.”

Jaspar shook his head. “That’s suicide.”

“It’s precision,” Crimson replied. “And it’s our best chance.”

“Our?” Jaspar scoffed. “You’re not going in there.”

Crimson’s gaze hardened. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You’re my sister!”

“And he’s my father.”

The words hung heavy between them.

Beowulf watched the exchange in silence, arms crossed, weighing more than just strategy. Finally, he spoke.

“The boy wants war,” he said calmly. “And war would answer him.”

Jaspar straightened.

“But,” Beowulf continued, turning his gaze toward Carmilla and Crimson, “war is not always the hunt.”

He took a slow step forward, eyes lifting to the castle once more.

“If the Wolf is bound,” he said, “then breaking chains quietly is wiser than shattering walls loudly.”

Jaspar opened his mouth to protest—

Beowulf raised a single hand.
“You will wait.”

Jaspar froze, fury warring with respect.

Beowulf turned fully to Carmilla and Crimson. “You two move like shadows. Go. Find him. Free him if you can.”

“And if we’re discovered?” Gene asked.

Beowulf’s expression darkened with something close to anticipation.
“Then I will hear it.”

Crimson exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Carmilla was already moving, adjusting her gear, her focus absolute.

As they prepared to slip away, Carmilla paused just long enough to murmur to Crimson—quiet, guarded.

“Still running toward danger.”

Crimson allowed herself the faintest smile. “Still pretending you don’t.”

Their eyes met once more—unfinished, unresolved—before both women vanished into the mist, heading for the eastern face of the castle.

Jaspar watched them go, fists clenched, torn between trust and terror.

Beowulf rested a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Patience, pup,” he said. “The hunt has begun.”

Above them, Castle Dracula remained silent.

Watching.

Part 2 – Inside the Castle

Castle Dracula did not echo.

Sound was absorbed here—by stone, by sigil, by centuries of blood-soaked intention. Torchlight burned without warmth as Crimson Vane and Carmilla Nocturne slipped along a narrow servant passage, their movements precise, measured, silent. Every step was a negotiation with the castle itself.

Above them—far above—plans were already unfolding.

---

The Grand Chamber

The great chamber breathed power.

Black marble pillars rose like the ribs of some immense carcass, etched with runes that pulsed faintly, as though the castle remembered every vow sworn within its walls. At the chamber’s center stood Lord Velkan Thorne, immaculate as ever, crimson gloves folded neatly behind his back.

To one side lounged Vlad Daculescu, elegant, amused, eyes glittering with a predator’s intelligence. Opposite him stood Vlad Țepeș-Corvinus, armored even in council, posture rigid with militant pride. Near the edge of the torchlight lingered Jonathan Harker, hands clasped, shoulders tight—present, but never truly included.

Thorne spoke first, his voice smooth, precise, unhurried.

“Count Daculescu,” he said, “you will return to the North Pole.”

Daculescu’s smile widened slightly. “Of course I will. The cold sharpens the mind.”

“You will continue your efforts to keep Dragomir contained,” Thorne continued. “His ambitions stretch too far north. He must remain occupied—entangled in politics, spectacle, and his own delusions of grandeur.”

Țepeș-Corvinus scoffed. “Dragomir overreaches. Always has.”

“Which makes him useful,” Thorne replied coolly. “And dangerous, if left unchecked.”

Daculescu inclined his head. “And Krampus?”

Thorne’s eyes flickered with mild disdain. “Krampus thrives on chaos, not clarity. Keep him busy. Let him believe himself unobserved. Monsters grow sloppy when they think no one is watching.”

Țepeș-Corvinus folded his arms. “And the Circle?”

The name hung heavier than the rest.

“What of Ardan Vantrell?” Țepeș-Corvinus pressed. “The Circle of the False Light does not move without consequence.”

Thorne allowed himself the faintest smile—one devoid of humor.

“Dragomir, in his arrogance, has awakened something he does not understand,” Thorne said. “Vantrell is not a rival seeking power. He is a man who believes himself ordained by it.”

Daculescu chuckled softly. “A dangerous kind of fool.”

“Indeed,” Thorne agreed. “But not your concern. Nor yours,” he added, glancing at Țepeș-Corvinus. “Vantrell is… mine to manage.”

Neither vampire pressed further.

At the chamber’s edge, Jonathan Harker shifted. He cleared his throat—quietly, deferentially.

“My lords,” he said. “The prisoner…”

All eyes turned to him.

Harker swallowed. “The White Wolf. Garnett Hood. What is to be done with him?”

Thorne regarded Harker the way one might regard a clerk asking about inventory.

“He remains exactly where he is,” Thorne replied. “Alive. Angry. Visible.”

Daculescu arched a brow. “Bait, then.”

“Precisely,” Thorne said. “His children will come. Blood always answers blood.”

Harker stiffened. “His… children?”

Thorne’s gaze hardened, just enough to silence further protest.

“When they come,” Thorne continued, “we will not stop them. We will guide them. And in doing so, we will take the eldest daughter.”

A quiet satisfaction threaded through his voice.

“The Eternal One requires nourishment,” Thorne said. “Her blood will restore him.”

Silence followed—thick, reverent, terrible.

Țepeș-Corvinus broke it first. “And when he wakes?”

Thorne turned toward the far end of the chamber—toward the sealed doors that led deeper still.

“We prepare,” he said simply. “As we always have.”

Daculescu smiled, smooth and sharp. “The House always wins.”

Thorne did not smile back.

“The House endures,” he corrected. “Winning is merely a symptom.”

---

Far below, unseen and unheard, Crimson Vane and Carmilla Nocturne reached a narrow stone door—old, unguarded, warded just enough to discourage the careless.

Carmilla pressed her palm to the stone, listening.

Something deep within the castle shifted.

The trap was set.

Part 3 – Beneath the Castle

The hidden tunnels of Castle Dracula were not meant for the living.

They were narrow, uneven passages carved into the stone like scars, forcing Carmilla Nocturne and Crimson Vane into close, uncomfortable proximity as they crawled forward. The air was cold and old, heavy with iron and dust and something faintly animal.

Carmilla moved first—silent, fluid, utterly certain. She never hesitated, never checked her bearings, never slowed.

Crimson noticed.

After several turns taken without pause, she finally whispered, her breath brushing far too close to Carmilla’s ear,
“You walk these tunnels like you’ve lived in them.”

Carmilla did not look back.
“Not lived,” she replied softly. “Survived.”

They crawled on in silence for several seconds, the stone pressing close, the sound of their breathing the only thing that existed.

Crimson tried again. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

Carmilla exhaled through her nose—controlled, restrained.
“Adventures from another lifetime,” she said. “One I don’t revisit.”

Her tone made it clear the door was closed.

Crimson let it drop… though the tension lingered, unresolved, humming between them.

At last, Carmilla slowed and raised a hand. Stop.

Ahead, a rusted iron gate barred their path. Beyond it, torchlight flickered.

Below the gate, two Crimson Hand guards stood outside a heavy, reinforced iron door—relaxed, unaware, utterly confident in the castle’s inviolability.

Carmilla’s eyes narrowed.

She eased the gate loose with a precision born of long practice—metal kissing stone without a sound. With a single fluid motion, she dropped from the shadows.

The first guard never saw her.

The second barely had time to gasp before Crimson Vane followed—knife flashing, movement sharp and economical. Together, they dispatched the guards in seconds, bodies lowered gently to the floor like discarded cloaks.

No alarm. No shout.

Carmilla straightened. “Behind that door,” she whispered, “are the holding cells. Twelve of them. We don’t have long.”

Crimson nodded—then paused.

“Wait.”

She closed her eyes.

Carmilla watched, curious despite herself, as Crimson inhaled slowly. Not deeply—carefully. Her expression changed, focus sharpening into something almost feral.

“He’s here,” Crimson said quietly. “Third cell on the right.”

Carmilla’s lips curved faintly.
“Hm. It seems you have secrets of your own.”

Crimson opened her eyes, meeting Carmilla’s gaze. “Everyone does.”

They moved fast.

The iron door opened without resistance—no guards inside, only a dim corridor lined with cells. Moans and whispers echoed from within some of them, but Crimson didn’t slow. She walked straight to the third cell, as if drawn by an invisible thread.

Inside, bound in silver chains that bit into flesh, sat Garnett Hood.

His head was bowed. His breathing slow.

Then the door creaked.

Garnett’s eyes snapped open.

“Crimson?” His voice was rough, disbelieving. “What are you doing here? Where are your sisters?”

She rushed to him, gripping the bars. “Jaspar’s outside the castle. Scarlett and Ruby are safe—back home.”

Relief flickered across his face, quickly replaced by urgency.
“You shouldn’t be here.”

“We don’t have time,” Crimson said. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Carmilla stepped forward, silver tools already in hand. With practiced efficiency, she shattered the enchanted chains. Garnett stumbled as he rose, legs unsteady, muscles protesting captivity.

Crimson caught him. “Easy.”

“I’m fine,” Garnett growled—though his balance said otherwise.

They moved quickly, retracing their path, slipping back through the iron gate and into the tunnels above.

Then—

Shouts.

Boots striking stone.

The distant clang of alarms.

The castle had noticed.

“They know,” Garnett said grimly.

Carmilla didn’t slow. “Of course they do.”

They reached the secret exit—a narrow break in the rock face hidden by twisted roots. Cold night air rushed in as they emerged into the forest.

For half a heartbeat, it felt like freedom.

Then steel rang.

A line of Crimson Hand warriors stepped from the trees, forming a living wall.

At their center stood Vlad Țepeș-Corvinus, armored, composed, eyes burning with recognition.

“Well,” he said calmly, drawing his blade, “this became interesting.”

Crimson tightened her grip on her father.

Carmilla stepped forward, already calculating distances, exits, odds.

Behind them, the castle roared awake.

Ahead of them—war.

Part 4 – The Battle at the Tree Line

Steel sang in the cold night.

At the forest’s edge, Crimson Vane, Carmilla Nocturne, and Garnett Hood stood shoulder to shoulder, facing Vlad Țepeș-Corvinus and a disciplined line of Crimson Hand warriors. Twelve blades. Twelve red sigils glowing faintly against black armor.

Garnett rolled his shoulders, pain still lingering from the chains, but his stance was solid. Ready.

Carmilla glanced sideways, lips curling into a predatory smirk.
“Almost a fair fight,” she murmured. “Eh, Crimson?”

Crimson cocked her hand crossbow, knife already in her other hand.
“Don’t get cocky,” she shot back. “You die first, I’m haunting you.”

Țepeș-Corvinus smiled—and lifted one finger.

Six of the Crimson Hand advanced.

Before they reached striking distance, Garnett threw his head back and roared.

The sound was not human.

Bones cracked. Muscle surged. White fur burst through skin as his body expanded violently upward, reshaping into a towering humanoid white wolf, claws tearing into the frozen earth. His eyes burned with feral clarity.

For half a heartbeat, even the Crimson Hand hesitated.

Carmilla stared.
“…I didn’t know he could do that.”

Crimson’s eyes were wide.
“Neither did I.”

Then Garnett moved.

One massive swipe sent two of the Hand flying like broken dolls, bodies smashing into trees with sickening force. Carmilla launched herself forward, blades flashing as she dropped another in a blur of motion. Crimson fired—thwip—a bolt punching clean through a visor before she closed the distance, carving down a fourth.

The remaining two faltered.

Țepeș-Corvinus raised his arm to send the other six—

—and chaos erupted from the woods.

“FATHER!”

Jaspar Fang burst from the treeline, tackling one warrior to the ground, smashing another with pure, reckless fury. Bolts whistled past as Cam and Gene Wrenchester joined the fray, crossbows snapping, wooden stakes finding their marks with practiced efficiency.

The battlefield exploded outward.

Then the ground seemed to steady.

From the shadows emerged Beowulf.

Towering. Calm. A giant sword rested easily in his grip, its edge catching moonlight like judgment itself.

Țepeș-Corvinus turned fully, eyes lighting with savage delight.
“Finally,” he said, hefting his massive axe. “A worthy foe.”

Steel met steel.

Their clash rang like a bell struck by gods—axe against sword, power against inevitability. Trees splintered under missed blows. The ground churned beneath their feet. Once—only once—Corvinus’s axe grazed Beowulf’s arm, drawing a line of blood.

Beowulf did not flinch.

He answered with a single, devastating strike.

His blade tore through Corvinus’s armor, shattering it apart and biting deep. Corvinus staggered back, roaring in pain, blood spilling freely as his confidence cracked along with his plate.

From the castle gates, a new presence arrived.

Lord Velkan Thorne stepped into the firelight, immaculate as ever, followed by another dozen Crimson Hand. He took in the battlefield in a single glance—calculating, precise.

His eyes locked on the White Wolf.

With a measured motion, Thorne pressed a hidden mechanism in his cane. A silver spike slid free from its tip.

He threw it.

The weapon crossed the field in a blink and buried itself deep into Garnett’s chest.

The White Wolf roared—a sound of agony and rage—and collapsed, his massive form crashing into the earth.

“NO!” Jaspar and Crimson shouted together, sprinting to their father’s side.

Garnett convulsed once… then went still.

Around them, the fight faltered.

Carmilla whirled, eyes blazing, but Thorne merely raised his hand.

The Crimson Hand obeyed instantly, retreating in perfect order. Țepeș-Corvinus, wounded but grinning through blood, backed toward the castle, never taking his eyes off Beowulf.

The gates closed.

Silence rushed in where battle had raged.

The hunters gathered around Garnett’s fallen form—Crimson gripping his hand, Jaspar shaking with fury, Carmilla standing rigid, bloodied, unreadable.

The White Wolf did not move.

And somewhere behind the stone walls of Castle Dracula, plans adjusted.

Part 5 – The Passing of the White Wolf

The forest had gone quiet.

Not the calm of peace—but the stillness that follows violence, when the world itself seems to hold its breath.

Crimson Vane knelt in the churned earth, cradling her father’s head. Jaspar Fang was beside her, one arm around Garnett’s shoulders, the other trembling as he pressed uselessly against the wound in his chest. The towering White Wolf was gone now—his form returned to the man they had always known.

Their father.

Garnett Hood’s breathing was shallow, each breath a labor. His skin had already begun to pale, the silver’s work cruel and irreversible. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first—then sharpening as he saw his children.

“Father… we need to get you help,” Crimson said, her voice breaking despite her effort to steady it. “We can still—”

Garnett shook his head slowly.

“No,” he whispered. “The silver’s already won.”

Jaspar swallowed hard. “You don’t know that.”

Garnett managed the faintest smile. “I do.”

He lifted a trembling hand, brushing Crimson’s cheek, then Jaspar’s. His touch was warm—still here, if only for a moment longer.

“I love you both,” he said softly. “More than I ever knew how to say. And I am… so proud of you. Of the hunters you’ve become. Of the people.”

His gaze lingered on Jaspar, heavy with something unfinished.

“I’m sorry,” Garnett said. “With my death… the Curse passes to you.”

Jaspar’s jaw tightened. He shook his head once, fiercely.
“Not a curse,” he said. “An honor. Born of our blood. I’ll carry it with pride.”

Something like peace crossed Garnett’s face.

He turned to Crimson again, urgency breaking through the haze.
“Go to Abraham,” he said. “Tell him… Jonathan Harker is compromised. The Watchers—” His breath hitched. “They could be broken.”

Crimson nodded immediately, tears streaking down her face.
“I’ll tell him. I swear.”

Heavy footsteps approached.

Beowulf came to a stop before them, towering, solemn, his sword lowered in respect.
“And Dracula?” he asked quietly. “Did you sense him?”

Garnett exhaled slowly.
“No. I saw no sign of the Eternal One. He still sleeps.”
A pause.
“But they are plotting. They will try to free him.”

Beowulf inclined his head, accepting the truth.

Garnett reached out once more, taking both his children’s hands in his own. He squeezed—weakly, but deliberately.

“Walk in the light when you can,” he whispered. “And in the dark… be the wolf.”

His eyes closed.

They did not open again.

Crimson let out a sound she could not contain—a quiet, shattered sob. Jaspar bowed his head, teeth clenched, shoulders shaking as he fought the tears burning behind his eyes.

At last, he stood.

He turned toward the distant silhouette of Castle Dracula, fury blazing through his grief—

—and felt a massive hand settle on his shoulder.

Beowulf’s voice was calm. Steady. Unyielding.

“The time for vengeance is not now,” he said. “Now is for grieving. But the day will come when they will pay dearly.”

Jaspar nodded once. Slowly.

He bent down, lifting his father’s body with reverence and strength, cradling him as one last duty of blood and love. The others fell in around him—silent, solemn—as they began the long trek out of the Vale of Shadows.

Behind them, the castle stood unmoving.

Ahead of them, the road grew darker.

Epilogue I – Through the Vale of Shadows

The Vale of Shadows did not resist their passage.

Mist rolled back in slow, reluctant waves as the group moved forward—no longer hunted, but not yet safe. Carmilla Nocturne and Beowulf led the procession, alert, watchful, their silhouettes cutting through the gray like blades. Behind them walked Jaspar Fang, carrying the still form of his father with grim resolve, Crimson Vane close at his side, one hand never leaving Jaspar’s arm. Bringing up the rear, Gene and Cam Wrenchester kept quiet vigil, weapons ready, eyes scanning the shifting gloom.

Hours passed in near silence.

Then the mist ahead thickened.

Not darker—greener.

The air took on a faint luminescence, a jade hue threading through the fog like veins of light. Shapes began to form within it. Carmilla raised a fist. Beowulf halted instantly, his grip tightening on his sword.

From the emerald haze stepped a woman.

She moved with unshakable dignity, clad in a fusion of ancient Chinese lamellar armor and sleek modern tactical gear. Jade-green energy shimmered across her plates. In one hand she carried a glowing jade-tipped spear; at her hip rested a curved dao blade. Her eyes shone subtly with spirit-sight as cherry blossom petals swirled around her, lit by divine jadefire.

Beowulf’s stern expression softened into something like respect.

“Commander Mulan,” he said.

Hua Mulan did not smile.

Her gaze swept the group with clinical precision—Carmilla, the Wrenchesters, Crimson—until it settled on Jaspar… and the body in his arms. She slowed, then stopped.

“The White Wolf?” she asked quietly.

Beowulf nodded once.

Mulan approached Jaspar and Crimson, her presence calm, grounded, immovable. She inclined her head.

“You have my condolences,” she said.

Crimson swallowed and managed a nod. “Thank you, Commander.”

Jaspar said nothing.

The mist parted further as more figures emerged—six hunters of the Hunter’s Enclave, weapons lowered but ready. Two stepped forward instinctively, reaching to help Jaspar carry his father.

He shook his head.

They understood and stepped back.

The procession reformed—larger now, steadier—and resumed its march toward the edge of the Vale.

Mulan fell into step beside Beowulf. Her eyes flicked to his arm, where blood had dried beneath torn leather.

She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s just a scratch,” Beowulf said evenly.

“Van Helsing was a fool to send you,” Mulan replied. “And you were a fool to go.”

Beowulf’s lips twitched. “Even if enough of my blood had spilled,” he said, “it would take the magic of a very powerful sorcerer to break the seal.”

Mulan exhaled through her nose and shook her head once.
“Then we were lucky.”

Ahead, the green mist thinned. The Vale loosened its grip.

Behind them, it watched in silence.

The group moved on—out of shadow, carrying grief, resolve, and the quiet knowledge that luck would not always be enough.

Epilogue II – Blood on the Blade

Castle Dracula endured.

The great meeting chamber burned with low crimson firelight, shadows stretching long across black marble as if unwilling to let go of what had transpired beyond the walls. The doors had sealed. The Vale had swallowed the intruders. But the consequences remained.

Lord Velkan Thorne stood at the chamber’s center, hands clasped behind his back, immaculate as ever.

Nearby, Vlad Țepeș-Corvinus sat rigidly in a high-backed chair, jaw clenched in fury as two silent attendants worked quickly. Torn armor had been removed. Bandages—dark with alchemical salves—were wrapped around the deep gash in his torso.

The wound was already changing.

Flesh knit slowly beneath the wrappings. Veins darkened, pulsing with renewed strength. Each shallow breath steadied faster than any mortal healing should allow.

Corvinus snarled.
“Had he not been Beowulf—”

“He was,” Thorne interrupted calmly. “And you survived.”

Corvinus’s eyes burned, but he said nothing. The pain was receding. That alone unsettled him.

At the far end of the chamber, Vlad Daculescu observed with idle interest, swirling a glass of dark wine, his smile thin and unreadable.

Jonathan Harker stood apart, uneasy, fingers interlaced too tightly.

“The White Wolf’s daughter escaped,” Harker said at last, breaking the silence.

Thorne turned his head slightly.
“Yes.”

Harker hesitated. “Does that… complicate matters?”

Thorne faced him fully now, eyes cool, dismissive.
“No. It merely delays a preference.”

He stepped toward Corvinus, his gaze drifting—not to the wound—but to the massive axe resting nearby. With measured ease, Thorne lifted it.

Blood still stained the blade.

Fresh. Potent.

“Blood freely given in battle,” Thorne said softly. “Spilled by a Titan-class hunter. Not drained. Not corrupted.”

He examined the edge with something approaching reverence.

“We did not gain the daughter,” he continued. “But we gained something more valuable.”

Daculescu raised a brow. “You speak of ritual quality.”

“I speak of inevitability.”

Thorne turned toward a darkened corner of the chamber—one the firelight had never fully touched.

“Will this be enough?” he asked, extending the axe.

The shadows shifted.

A figure stepped forward, boots clicking lightly against stone.

Green skin.
A tall, crooked black hat.
Eyes glittering with ancient, gleeful malice.

She grinned wide, crooked fingers reaching for the weapon.

“Oh, dearie,” she crooned, voice thick with delight, “it most certainly is.”

She ran her hand lovingly along the bloodstained blade, shivering as power hummed beneath her touch.

“It’s time,” she continued, laughter bubbling up, sharp and delighted, “to conjure some wickedness.”

Her cackle echoed through the chamber—shrill, triumphant, inevitable.

Behind her, Corvinus flexed his fingers as strength returned. Beneath the bandages, the wound was nearly gone.

Thorne watched it all without expression.

Plans adjusted.
Blood remembered.

The House endured.

Epilogue III – The Chamber of Whispers

High in the Carpathian Mountains, where the stone itself remembered prayer and penance, the former monastery of the Circle of the False Light clung to the mountainside like a deliberate scar.

Snow gathered on broken statues of saints whose faces had been carefully erased.

Within the uppermost level—far from the chanting halls and hidden laboratories—lay The Chamber of Whispers.

---

Mistress Isolda Tynell stood alone upon a raised dais of black marble. Before her rested a glass globe, flawless and impossibly thin, its surface alive with drifting light and half-formed images. Her long fingers caressed it with intimate familiarity, as though soothing a living thing.

Within the globe, the Vale of Shadows twisted.

Mist curled unnaturally. Blood stained snow. A wolf fell.

Tynell’s eyes narrowed—not in fear, but calculation.

“So…” she murmured softly. “You are stirring.”

She withdrew her hands, the vision dissolving at once. The chamber dimmed, candle flames settling back into obedient stillness. For a moment, she allowed herself a quiet sigh—not of panic, but of irritation. The kind that came when pieces on the board moved sooner than expected.

A voice came from behind her, hesitant but reverent.

“Mistress… is everything all right?”

Tynell turned.

A young woman stood near the threshold, head bowed, cheeks flushed at having drawn her attention. One of the Veiled Choir—newer, eager, still unaware of how thoroughly her soul already belonged to the Circle.

Tynell smiled.

It was warm. Reassuring. Maternal.

“No, my dear,” she said gently, stepping down from the dais. “But that is hardly unusual.”

She lifted a finger, tilting the girl’s chin upward just enough to meet her gaze.

“Something stirs within the Vale,” Tynell continued, her voice low and melodic. “Something old. Something that was meant to sleep a while longer.”

The girl swallowed. “Should we alert the—”

“Not yet,” Tynell interrupted smoothly. “Panic is for those without foresight.”

She turned away, already finished with the thought—and the girl.

“Go,” she said lightly. “Find Delisandre. Tell her I have a mission that requires discretion… and imagination.”

The young woman nodded immediately and hurried from the chamber, relief and purpose warring on her face.

Alone once more, Tynell returned to the globe.

Her reflection stared back at her—elegant, composed, ageless. A woman who had worn prophecy like a crown and control like perfume. She placed her palm against the glass again, slower this time.

“Ardan,” she whispered to no one and everyone. “You always did underestimate how quickly the world remembers its monsters.”

Her lips curved—not in delight, but resolve.

“If the Vale awakens,” she said softly, “then we must ensure it awakens to us.”

The globe flickered.

Far away, unseen, unseen forces aligned.

Mistress Tynell watched.

And planned.