Geneviève's breath was a thin thread in the darkness of the duct. Below her, the circular catacomb looked like the stage of a theatrical nightmare. The vampires, as motionless as pale marble statues, listened to the flatteries of the Chaos entity. The lord of the Von Carsteins drummed fingers with nails sharp as razors on the armrest of his stone throne, clearly intrigued yet cautious.
"You ask the armies of the night to march in the light of the sun," the vampire murmured, his voice echoing cold and perfect. "You want my zombie dragons and my terrorgheists to tear through the Empire's skies while your... agents... open the gates of Altdorf. But Chaos is fickle by nature. What is my guarantee that you will not stab me in the back once the Imperial Throne is reduced to ash?"
The Shapeshifter, hidden behind his new mask of black iron, took a step forward. He reached out a smoke-shrouded hand and placed a small lead casket on the obsidian table. "The guarantee is blood, my lord," the creature hissed. "I have drawn the very essence of madness. I have infected the veins of the nobility. This casket contains the true names of the Reiksguard captains who have already sold their souls. You have their names; you have their lives."
Geneviève realized there would be no better opportunity. If the vampire opened that casket and read the names, the pact would be sealed. The Empire would be crushed in a vice between the undead to the east and traitors to the west. Without the Grail, she could not fight a room full of vampire lords. Her only weapon was the brutality of physics. Mass, gravity, and impenetrable steel forged by Dwarfs.
She positioned herself over the rusted grate. The poisoned wound under her armpit shrieked in pain as she tensed her shoulder muscles, but she ignored it, burying the suffering under a pour of pure military will. She wedged her Gromril boot between the iron bars. She calculated the distance: about five meters of empty space down to the black stone table. "Forgive me, My Lady," she thought, "for I am about to act like an orc."
Geneviève pushed off with both legs, using every ounce of her body's strength. The centuries-old hinges of the grate gave way with a sharp screech that sent the vampires' gazes snapping upward. But it was too late to stop her. The grate tore free from the ceiling, and Geneviève plummeted into the void.
She did not seek an elegant landing. She tucked herself into a ball, knees bent, bastard sword pointed downward. She became a cannonball of over a hundred kilograms of flesh and darkened metal. The impact was catastrophic.
Geneviève slammed exactly into the center of the obsidian table, landing both boots on the Shapeshifter's shoulders. The noise was deafening: the palm-thick stone table snapped in half under the kinetic shock. The Shapeshifter let out an inhuman shriek, crushed against the floor as his mimic bones shattered like dry twigs. The lead casket flew into the air, bouncing away across the dusty floor without opening.
The hall descended into chaos. Lesser vampires instantly drew long, thin swords, hissing with bared fangs, but the Von Carstein raised a gloved hand, halting them. His red eyes glowed with predatory curiosity. A human assassin dropping from the ceiling of his castle was an insult, but it interrupted an emissary he didn't like.
Geneviève didn't waste a fraction of a second. Her body was a bundle of nerves inflamed by the impact, but she ignored the daze. Beneath her, the Shapeshifter was already trying to dissolve into smoke to flee. Geneviève grabbed the creature's black iron mask and slammed it violently against the fragments of the table. "The deal is off," Geneviève growled, spitting mud and blood onto the demon's mask.
She raised her bastard sword and drove it with all her might directly into the entity's chest, pinning it to the stone below. The creature contorted, emitting a grey, acidic smoke from the wound. Its clawed hands tried to scratch Geneviève's armor, leaving shallow furrows on the blackened metal. "You are... tenacious..." the Shapeshifter gurgled, his body beginning to break apart—not into ash, but into a chaotic slurry of worms and pure darkness, trying to pull free from the blade. "But you cannot kill an idea..."
"But I can kill the messenger," Geneviève replied, drawing her heavy trench dagger and driving it into the creature's skull, right through the center of the mask. The entity gave one final, violent spasm. A wave of unnatural cold erupted from the corpse, freezing the blood on the floor, before the body imploded on itself, leaving only a black stain, the empty mask, and torn clothes. The Shapeshifter had been banished, his physical shell destroyed.
Geneviève stood up with difficulty. She left her sword and dagger embedded in the floor, for her arms no longer had the strength to lift them. She stood panting, covered in the dust of the fall and the corrosive remains of the demon, alone in the center of a room full of hungry immortals.
The lord of the Von Carsteins rose slowly from his throne. His crimson velvet cloak brushed the dark floor. He was smiling. Not a warm smile, but the expression of someone who had just found a very interesting toy. "A truly theatrical entrance," the vampire murmured, his seductive voice hiding lethal strength. "You have destroyed my guest and interrupted a tedious political conversation. Tell me, mortal... who has the courage to rain from the ceiling of Drakenhof without even a shadow of magic to protect them?"
Geneviève straightened her back, ignoring the wound tearing at her side. She had no Grail, she had no weapons, but she still had her dignity. "Someone who cannot stand bad company," she replied, looking him straight in his red eyes.
The lord of Drakenhof did not fly into a rage. He laughed. It was a low, joyless sound, like the noise of ice cracking on a winter lake. His laughter echoed against the skulls embedded in the walls, making the torch flames flicker.
Around him, six lesser vampires did not share the same amusement. Their perfect faces were contorted into masks of predatory ferocity. They drew their swords—slender blades of black steel—and took a step forward, closing the circle around Geneviève. The air filled with a collective hiss, the sound of fangs scraping lower lips in anticipation of the slaughter.
"Stop," the lord of the castle ordered. He did not raise his voice. He didn't need to. He spoke that single word with an authority so absolute and ancient that the lesser vampires froze instantly, like puppets whose strings had been cut. They sheathed their weapons, though they continued to stare at Geneviève with eyes full of hungry hatred.
The Von Carstein slowly circled what remained of the obsidian table. He was tall, much taller than a normal man. Beneath his dark red velvet cloak, he wore black-enameled plate armor, finely chased with motifs of thorny roses. He stopped a meter from Geneviève, towering over her.
Geneviève did not lower her gaze. The muscles in her legs trembled from the effort of staying upright. The wound under her armpit burned as if she had been injected with molten lead, and she knew that if the vampire decided to attack, she wouldn't have the strength to parry even the first blow. But she kept her posture straight, her chin high, defying the immortal with the only weapon she had left: contempt.
The vampire leaned slightly forward, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. "Mud," he whispered, analyzing the scents with surgical precision. "Low-grade iron. Infected blood. Horse sweat." He opened his red eyes, narrowing them into slits. "And yet, beneath all this misery... there is an echo. A faint, distant scent of trampled lilies and pure water. You are no ordinary hired killer, are you, girl? You are a beacon that has extinguished its own light to crawl in the mud."
Geneviève did not answer. Every word was wasted breath, and she needed all her oxygen just to keep from fainting.
The Von Carstein turned toward the floor, where the shattered black iron mask and the corrosive remains of the Shapeshifter lay, already sublimating into a greyish powder. Then he leaned down to pick up the lead casket the Chaos entity had brought as a gift. He opened it, quickly flipping through the parchments inside. A cruel smile curled his lips.
"Names of generals, Elector Counts, and Reiksguard captains," he said, snapping the casket shut with a sharp click. "The nobility of the Empire is rotten to the core. Ready to sell themselves to the highest bidder." He looked back at Geneviève. "Chaos is vulgar. It is disordered. It wants to burn the world and reduce everything to an ocean of screaming madness. We of the Night-blood, however, are demanding hosts. We want the Empire to be ours, not to become ash. This... creature... thought it could use me as a watchdog for its cosmic wars."
The vampire took a step toward her, so close that Geneviève could feel the unnatural cold radiating from his body. There was no life-heat, only the frost of a deep grave. "By entering through my ceiling, you saved me the boredom of having to kill him myself. And you have left me a very useful gift," he said, tapping his fingers on the lead casket. "These names will allow me to manipulate the court of Altdorf without having to move a single skeleton across the border."
Geneviève understood. The Chaos entity had tried to unite two ancient evils but had underestimated the arrogance of undeath. Vampires served no one. "The deal is dead," Geneviève said, her voice broken and thick. "Your kingdom stays in this graveyard."
The vampire laughed again, a dry sound. "For now, mortal. For now. But you have shown a grit I haven't seen in a human for centuries. It is almost a pity to have to bleed you dry." He flicked his hand. The lesser vampires tensed, ready to spring.
Geneviève did not close her eyes. She waited for the end, staring death in the face. But the order did not come.
"However," the lord of Drakenhof continued, his tone suddenly bored, "we Von Carsteins are famous for our hospitality, and you have rendered a service to my house by eliminating a parasite. I grant you a gift that has never been offered to any mortal in these halls."
The vampire pointed toward the catacomb door. "Leave. Walk out of this room, down the corridors, across the courtyard, and over the drawbridge. None of my guards will stop you. I give you until sunrise. If you are still within the borders of Sylvania by then... my hounds will come for you, and your head will adorn my battlements."
The lesser vampires hissed in indignation, but none dared contest their lord's decision. Geneviève knew it was not an act of mercy. It was pure arrogance. The vampire considered her so insignificant, so utterly harmless in her exhaustion, that letting her go was merely a cruel game. He wanted to watch her run.
She did not move immediately. With a slowness that cost her every ounce of remaining will, she leaned forward. She grasped the hilt of her bastard sword, still embedded in the stone floor where it had transfixed the demon. She gritted her teeth, her back muscles screaming in pain, and pulled. The steel broke free from the rock with a dry scrape. She did not retrieve the dagger. She straightened up, used the sword as a staff to support her weight, and turned.
She began to walk. Every step echoed in the silent catacomb. She did not look back, even though she felt the vampire's red gaze piercing the back of her neck. She passed through the stone door. The corridors of Drakenhof were a nightmare of Gothic architecture and silent statues that seemed to follow her with their eyes. She encountered skeletal guards and ghouls perched on the ceiling beams, but, obeying their lord's command, the creatures stepped aside, letting that shadow of soiled metal pass.
When she reached the main courtyard, the night air hit her, cold and biting. She crossed the drawbridge, her footsteps dragging on the cobblestones. Only when the enormous stone maw of the castle was behind her and the dead forest of Sylvania welcomed her into its dark embrace did Geneviève allow herself to fall.
Her knees buckled. Her armor struck heavily against the roots of a blackened tree. Her mission was accomplished. The alliance was broken; the Empire was safe, or at least it had bought time. Lying face down on the damp leaves, she closed her eyes. The sun would not rise for hours, but she didn't have the strength to take another step. If the Wild Hunt was to take her, it would find her there.
Then, she heard a sound. A warm huff. The unmistakable sound of broad hooves trampling foliage. A rough muzzle pushed hard against her shoulder, nearly rolling her over. Geneviève opened her eyes, her vision blurred. The stout, armored silhouette of Duraz stood against the leaden sky. The dwarven horse had not fled west. He had waited.
With a weak smile, encrusted with dried blood and mud, Geneviève reached out a trembling hand toward the animal's mane. "Good boy," she whispered. "Take me away from this graveyard." Clinging to the stirrups with the strength of desperation, she began the long, agonizing climb back into the saddle, while to the east, invisible behind the perpetual mist, the time granted by the vampire lord began inexorably to tick away.