The first Varghulf emerged from the mist not by running, but by landing with a crash that made the stagnant water tremble. It was an abomination of hypertrophied muscle, coarse fur, and atrophied leathery wings that folded along its flanks like tattered cloaks. Its face was a chiropteran nightmare: a flattened bat-like snout dominated by fangs as long as trench knives, and red eyes, bloodshot with a madness that had lasted for centuries. There was no intelligence in that gaze, only insatiable hunger and absolute territorial rage.
The monster ignored Geneviève. The residual aura of Vespers' Light and the metallic scent of her blood mixed with mud were not an inviting meal. The beast's attention was fixed on the Grand Master and his Crypt Horrors, whose black magic reeked of invasion.
With a roar that literally displaced the mist, the Varghulf lunged forward. One of the Horrors tried to intercept it, raising its bone claws. The Varghulf did not slow down. It overran the undead creature with the mass of a war chariot, sinking its fangs into the Horror's bull-like neck and tearing away a chunk of flesh and vertebrae the size of a barrel. Black blood splattered everywhere.
The Grand Master drew back, the composure of his silver mask finally cracked by animal panic. "Keep it away!" he screamed at the second Horror, while his hands moved frantically to weave a defensive spell. Grey flame whips erupted from his fingers, striking the Varghulf's back, scorching the fur but only succeeding in further infuriating the beast. A second howl echoed from the forest. Another Varghulf was coming.
Geneviève, leaning against the base of the Old Stone, spat out a thick clot of blood. Her left leg tingled painfully, a sign that the nerves were beginning to function again after the impact. She saw Duraz trotting toward her through the mud, his ears pinned back but his eyes fixed on her, ready to defend her. "Stay back, you big lug," Geneviève gasped, stroking the horse's muzzle.
The battle just a few meters away was a chaos of broken limbs and dark magic. The Grand Master was retreating, forced to use all his power to hold the primordial beast at bay. But the obsidian obelisk Geneviève was leaning against still pulsed. The runes etched into the stone vibrated with a sickly heat. The ritual had been interrupted, but the connection to Altdorf was still open. As long as that dark antenna remained intact, the Grand Master, or someone else, could resume the attack on the Prince's mind.
Geneviève gripped the hilt of Vespers' Light. Her arms trembled with exhaustion. The Gromril armor felt twice its weight. But she hadn't crossed half the world to leave the job half-finished. She dug her right boot into the mud, ignoring the blinding pain in her left leg, and used the obelisk to pull herself up. "You are a scar upon this land," she whispered to the black stone.
She closed her eyes. There was no need to look. She called upon the power of the Grail. She did not use it to heal her wounds, nor to give strength to her muscles. She channeled it entirely into the blade of her sword. The steel became incandescent. The blue gave way to a blinding white, the absolute purity of holy water brought to a spiritual boiling point. The sword began to sing, a high and crystalline note that pierced the din of the snarling monsters.
The Grand Master, who was struggling to keep the Varghulf at bay with a kinetic force barrier, turned as he heard that song. "Stop!" he cried, his voice distorted by panic. "You don't know what you're breaking!"
"I'm breaking you," Geneviève replied.
She raised Vespers' Light with both hands and, with a cry that tore at her throat, brought down a horizontal slash against the obsidian obelisk. The impact did not produce the sound of metal against stone. It produced the sound of thunder.
A crack of white light opened on the black surface of the Old Stone, racing along the cursed runes. The obsidian shrieked. Then, the obelisk exploded. There were no lethal shards. The stone disintegrated in a shockwave of purifying energy. A wind of light swept the swamp, burning away the poisoned mist and turning the black mud into dry earth for dozens of meters.
The Varghulf, struck by the divine light, emitted a high-pitched shriek, covering its eyes with its claws. Its skin began to smoke. Unable to endure that sacred agony, the monster turned and fled blindly toward the forest, crashing through the dead trees in its desperate flight. Its companion, about to emerge from the vegetation, didn't even show itself, fleeing in turn.
Geneviève was thrown backward by the force of the detonation, landing heavily on her back. The sword slipped from her hand, its light fading back to a faint blue glow. She coughed, gasping for air, her lungs burning. Ten meters away, the Grand Master lay in the white dust left by the explosion. His smoky tunic was shredded, revealing grey leather armor beneath. But it was his face that caught Geneviève's weary gaze. The explosion had shattered what remained of the silver mask.
The man tried desperately to cover his face with his hands, but for an instant, Geneviève saw clearly. The skin was a waxy pallor, almost transparent, stretched over bones that were too angular. He had no lips, only a jagged scar that served as a mouth. And the eyes... there were no irises or pupils. They were two spheres of liquid silver, cold and dead, identical to the metal of the mask he wore. He was not a vampire. He was not a human necromancer. He was something profoundly wrong, a creature forged from the shadows themselves, a shapeshifter or an entity from the Realm of Chaos that had taken residence in a humanoid shell.
"The light..." the creature hissed, its voice now unfiltered, like the sound of dry leaves being trampled. "It burns... but does not warm. You are... an anomaly."
Geneviève tried to crawl toward her sword, but her arm refused to support her. She was empty. The Grail within her was exhausted, reduced to a dormant ember. The Grand Master stood up, staggering. He looked at the remains of the obelisk, then at Geneviève. He knew that although the paladin was down, he himself was too wounded and vulnerable in this place to risk finishing the job, especially with the Varghulfs likely to return. His body began to contort, losing shape. The outlines of his figure blurred into filaments of darkness. "The prince will live," the entity whispered, its voice dissolving into the wind. "But the Empire is already rotting from within. Enjoy the mud, paladin. We will meet again in the dark."
The Grand Master collapsed into a swarm of black crows, their feathers seemingly made of smoke. The flock took flight, emitting discordant caws, and headed east toward the jagged peaks surrounding Castle Drakenhof.
Silence returned to the Dead Marshes. The air, for the first time in centuries, tasted of clean rain and not putrefaction, at least in that small circle of purified earth. Duraz approached Geneviève. The horse lowered his warm, rough muzzle against his mistress's cold cheek, blowing softly. "Yes, you're right," Geneviève murmured, closing her eyes for a long moment, listening to the beat of her own heart. "We must get up. If we stay here, we'll become part of the landscape."
With agonizing slowness, struggling against cramps and vertigo, she gripped the dwarf horse's saddle and pulled herself up. Every muscle protested, begging for rest. She retrieved her sword, sheathing it with trembling hands.
She had stopped the assassination of the imperial heir. She had revealed the face of the enemy. But she knew the war had only just begun. Sylvania was not just the lair of the undead; it was the hiding place of an evil that pulled the strings from afar. And she was alone, in the heart of enemy territory, with a broken mask and an enemy who now knew her scent. "Let's go," she told Duraz, pulling the reins to lead him away from the remains of the Old Stone. "Let's find a place to bleed in peace." And limping heavily, she walked into the mist that was already beginning to close behind them.
The pain, when divine magic fades, does not knock politely; it breaks down the door and takes possession of every fiber of the body. As soon as the adrenaline of the fight dissolved into the damp air of the Dead Marshes, Geneviève realized how close she was to collapse. The Grail inside her was silent, a dried-up well at the bottom of which remained only a distant echo. There was no longer the warm invulnerability that had protected her from fangs and blades. Now there were only torn muscles, bruised bones, and a cold that seeped directly into her marrow.
She limped, leaning heavily on Duraz's saddle. The dwarven horse walked with his head down, choosing his steps with a caution unnatural for a beast of his size, avoiding pools where the water stagnated with oily reflections. Sylvania was already closing the wound inflicted by the obelisk's explosion. The purple mist, driven away by the light, was creeping back toward them, reclaiming the purified ground inch by inch, like a silent and poisonous tide.
"Just a little further," Geneviève panted, her breath condensing into white clouds. Her own voice sounded foreign to her, raspy. "We must find solid stone. If we stop in the mud, it will swallow us before dawn."
They walked for what seemed like hours through a labyrinth of dead willows and black reeds. Every rustle in the dark made her muscles twitch, bracing for an attack that didn't come. The Varghulfs had fled, terrified by the sacred detonation, and the lesser creatures of the swamp were too disoriented to approach. But that truce would not last.
Finally, the ground began to rise. The squelching mud gave way to firm earth and dark rock. Emerging from the low mist, the silhouette of a ruined structure came into view. It was not a castle or a watchtower, but an old circular ossuary, topped by a shattered dome. On either side of the doorless entrance, two statues corroded by time and acid rain held broken hourglasses. It was an ancient shrine to Morr, the god of the dead, erected perhaps centuries ago when the Empire still held hope of purifying this region.
Geneviève dragged herself across the threshold, Duraz following with a snort, reluctant but obedient. The interior smelled of ancient dust and bat guano, but it was dry. And more importantly, the protective runes etched into the floor, though faded and covered in moss, still held a shadow of their ancient power. In here, the air did not taste of necromancy. It was just old, dead air.
Geneviève let herself slide down a stone wall until she was sitting on the floor. She let go of the reins. Duraz shook himself vigorously, scattering clumps of dried mud everywhere, then crouched near her, tucking his stout legs under him with a heavy sigh, offering her the warmth of his massive body.
It was the moment of truth. The moment every warrior fears when the battle ends in the dark. With trembling, numb fingers, Geneviève began to unbuckle the straps of her armor. The Gromril, usually a second skin, now felt like a prison of ice. She managed to remove her helmet, dropping it to the ground with a dull clink. Then the left pauldron and the breastplate. The cold air of the crypt hit her tunic, soaked in sweat, blood, and swamp water, making her shiver violently.
She inspected herself. Her left thigh was one massive, dark purple bruise where she had been thrown against the obelisk. But it was the wound under her armpit, the one inflicted by the Harvester's dagger days before, that frightened her. The cut had reopened from the exertion. The edges of the flesh were grey and cold, an unnatural necrosis creeping under the skin.
She fumbled through her bag with clumsy movements, pulling out the pouch of herbs that Madame Katerina, the old Strigany woman, had given her. Garlic and Nightshade. She had no clean water for a poultice, nor magic to purify the wound. She could only use pain. She took her flask, which still contained a dreg of the strong Bugman's dwarf liquor Captain Gorim had given her. She poured a generous swig directly onto the open wound. Geneviève bit her wrist to keep from screaming. The burn was so intense it made her eyes water, a liquid flame trying to devour the grey of the poison. Gasping, she chewed a handful of bitter herbs into a pulp, then smeared them onto the gash, binding it crudely with a strip torn from her own tunic.
She leaned back against the cold stone, exhausted, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. "We are only flesh, after all," she whispered in the dark, a bitter and lonely realization.
She closed her eyes, but sleep did not come. In its place, the image of the shattered silver mask returned. That entity. It was not undead. Necromancy is a grotesque imitation of life, a puppeteer moving inert flesh. But that Grand Master... his undone body, those liquid metal eyes, that ability to turn into smoke and crows. That creature had never been human. It was an emanation of Chaos, or perhaps a demon bound to the shadows, who had manipulated corrupt nobles in Altdorf into believing they were part of an elite cult, while in reality, it was using them to destabilize the Empire from within.
Geneviève clenched her fists, ignoring her scraped knuckles. She had stopped the assassination of the Crown Prince. But if such an entity was converging toward Castle Drakenhof, it meant the shadows were seeking the vampires. Not to destroy them, but to strike a bargain. If the manipulative intelligence of that thing joined the endless armies of Von Carstein corpses, the Empire would have no hope. Their walls and cannons would be useless against an enemy that attacked their leaders' minds and their borders simultaneously.
She felt Duraz's muzzle brush her cheek. The horse let out a warm breath, a gesture of silent comfort. Geneviève opened her eyes and stroked the thick, coarse mane. "We can't go back," she told him, her voice growing firmer as determination replaced shock. "I can't warn Altdorf. They wouldn't believe me, and they'd burn me before they listened." She looked out from the stone archway toward the east. Beyond the swamp, beyond the dead forest, where the sky never knew blue.
The Lady had forged her to be a sword, but swords cannot strike ghosts and cannot cut shadows. To face what awaited her at Drakenhof, she would not need shining armor or a white cloak. She would have to learn to move like the creatures she hunted.
She picked up her soiled tunic and began slowly reattaching the metal plates. The cold metal against her wounds kept her awake. There was no time to bleed. The sun, wherever it was, would not rise to help her. Beneath the shattered dome of the god of the dead, Geneviève prepared to march toward the capital of monsters, no longer as a savior, but as an assassin.