In the dead of night.
A sharp, piercing whistle sliced through the silence of the mine, like the final, strangled cry of a night bird.
Douglas opened his eyes from meditation—there was not a trace of sleep in those deep green irises.
He exchanged a look with Marco; both men rose at once and strode briskly toward the entrance.
Lupin followed close behind, his steps light and silent, every muscle taut like a bow drawn to its limit.
They moved swiftly through the shadowed tunnels. The mouth of the cave grew clearer in the flicker of torchlight ahead.
Moonlight, pale as a corpse's cheek, spilled through the entrance, painting the ground with a ghastly glow.
The scene outside was almost grotesquely absurd.
Two werewolf sentries stood like forgotten statues on either side of the entrance.
Spears in hand, eyes vigilant and fixed ahead, their bodies were utterly motionless—even their breathing seemed to have stopped, as they glared forward.
Opposite them, beneath the moon, stood three figures.
They, too, were frozen.
But their posture was rife with confusion and disbelief, heads bowed as they stared at the ground by their feet—
As if something that should be there had inexplicably vanished.
Mirage.
As long as you didn't move, you became nothing more than a blurred, ungraspable phantom in your enemy's eyes.
Any deadly curse hurled your way would strike only empty air, missing the mark.
At the same time, the enemy would see an illusory shadow struck down—so long as the charm-bearer remained perfectly still.
The trio of intruders was clearly baffled.
They stared at the ground, eyes wide with disbelief.
To them, their previous attack had been light—just a probing hex.
So why had these two werewolves not even tried to dodge, simply collapsing on the spot, dead as squashed bugs?
It was like some kind of insurance scam.
The guards themselves had no idea what had happened.
They simply followed Mr. Holmes's instructions: if you spot the enemy, hold perfectly still to survive, then sound the alarm.
They wore the Mirage charms that Douglas had given them.
Marco let out a low, rumbling snarl and strode out of the tunnel, placing himself between Douglas, Lupin, and the threat.
At his appearance, the three uninvited guests finally looked up.
At the front stood a tall, pale-skinned man.
His black hair was immaculately styled, his features handsome and cold. He wore a perfectly tailored dark robe that shimmered like silk in the moonlight—a vision utterly out of place in these wild mountains.
A vampire.
And a pureblood, at that.
Douglas made the assessment in a single glance.
Beside him stood a hulking brute with a piggish face, muscles bulging, breath heavy—like a wild boar ready to charge.
On the other side was a witch with venomous, sunken eyes. Her fingers twitched restlessly on her wand, itching to hurl another curse at any moment.
"Marco."
The handsome vampire spoke, his voice as smooth as silk and twice as cold.
"My lost canine friend, is this how you welcome potential allies?"
He flashed a thin smile—two sharp canines glinting in the moonlight.
"Allow me to introduce myself: Valerius, blood clan leader of the Red Moon Brotherhood. Or perhaps you'd prefer to call me 'Count.'"
Marco leveled his spear, its tip gleaming with Douglas's enchanted silver light.
"We've nothing to discuss with you, Valerius."
"While that pretty head's still on your shoulders, I suggest you get off our land."
Valerius seemed not to hear Marco at all. His gaze slid past, settling on the two men behind.
His eyes lingered on Lupin for a moment, as if appraising a rare specimen.
"Ah, the celebrity. A walking miracle."
He spoke softly, lips curled in mockery.
"Honestly, I'm disappointed. I expected more… wildfire. Instead, you look as tame as a house pet."
Then his gaze shifted to Douglas.
In that instant, the haughty arrogance in Valerius's eyes froze.
It was replaced by something else—something buried deep, almost imperceptible: a flicker of fear.
Like a tiger, patrolling its domain, suddenly catching the scent of something older and deadlier in the grass.
This British wizard… what is he doing here?
Valerius forced down the chill crawling up his spine, clinging to his aristocratic composure.
Douglas stepped forward, subtly shielding Lupin.
"Valerius… hmm… Count."
His tone was light, almost as if greeting an old acquaintance.
"I'm Douglas Holmes. If you want an autograph, I'm afraid you'll have to get in line—we're actually waiting for a much more important guest."
The casual dismissal utterly infuriated the witch beside Valerius.
"Who do you think you are?!"
She shrieked, raising her wand as a cold green light gathered at its tip.
But Valerius merely flicked his gaze at her, and she lowered her wand, as if her throat had been seized by an invisible hand.
Valerius's eyes, cold as steel, locked onto Douglas.
"The potion maker. The meddler. I didn't expect to find you here as well."
Much of the theatricality had faded from his voice, leaving it dry and raw.
"This is a matter for magical creatures. You shouldn't be involved."
He paused, searching for sharper words.
"You're spreading a gospel of weakness, Professor. Teaching predators to blunt their claws, to beg for scraps. You're a plague. You're taming them—"
"So you have heard of me."
Douglas's smile widened, a glint of mischief in his eyes at the note of wariness in the other's voice.
"Oh, now I remember."
He tapped his forehead lightly.
"Years ago, in the old quarter of Bucharest, I trained a rather unruly little bat."
"He loved boasting of his bloodline, and wore clothes just like yours. Pity he managed to escape in the end."
Douglas's gaze drifted over Valerius, finally settling on the family crest ring on his finger.
"You must know him. Quite well, I'd wager?"
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