A few miles from the royal castle, four black steeds thundered along the narrow, dust-choked road, hooves kicking up clouds that hung in the late afternoon sun like smoke from a pyre. Three of the riders were uniformed guards, their armor glinting faintly in the waning light. The fourth, a shadow among shadows, sat a little apart from them. Crown Prince Leonard's midnight eyes were fixed on the road ahead, his jaw tense, fingers clenched tightly around the reins. Every muscle in his body hummed with anticipation, alert to the slightest movement or sound. The road twisted and turned beneath the horses' hooves, leading them further away from the comfort and order of the castle into the unknown.
The night prior had been long and dark. After summoning Madam Sandra in the palace maze and delivering his silent commands, Leonard had returned to the dungeon where the market vendor had been imprisoned. In less than a minute of expertly applied torment, the man had confessed everything he knew about the werewolf that had bitten the King. Names, places, hidden alliances—everything spilled like blood from a wound. The man's testimony had led Leonard to a witch, one known for performing sacrifices on werewolves, both in the wilds and within human settlements.
For a normal vampire, a simple compulsion at the market would have sufficed. The vendor would have walked away, obedient and silenced. But Leonard was not content with simple obedience. He thrived on domination, on fear, on the taste of terror. He wanted the world to understand that crossing him had consequences, that no one—man, vampire, or witch—was untouchable. And the cries, the pleading of those who resisted, the sharp sound of desperation in their voices… those were music to him.
The vendor had no knowledge of the witch's exact residence, but he had enough experience to make an educated guess. And news traveled fast, especially among the magical and mortal alike. The witch, once aware that her usual prey had been seized, would retreat to a place most would not dare venture: the Shrine, a cursed forest so feared that even the most reckless vampire, werewolf, or witch avoided it unless absolutely necessary. Tales of humans entering the forest only to vanish without a trace were countless, whispered from village to village. It was a place of decay, of death, of ancient, restless magic.
With a sharp nudge of his heels, Leonard's horse veered from the road, the other riders following without question. Soon, the dense green canopy of the Shrine loomed ahead. The horses slowed, their hooves sinking slightly into the damp earth at the forest's edge. The guards had worked with the prince before in dangerous situations. They were well aware of the stakes and of Leonard's unerring ability to survive where others would falter. Still, a faint twinge of unease passed through them as the stench of decay and rot from the forest hit their senses.
The four dismounted, boots sinking slightly into the soft, wet soil. The forest felt alive with menace. Thick spiderwebs hung in the air, shimmering faintly in the dying light, and the oppressive stench of something long dead clung to every branch and leaf. Leonard's midnight eyes swept across the tall oak trees, his ears straining to catch every subtle shift, every faint sound of movement. The occasional hoot of an owl sounded like a scream in the eerie silence of the Shrine.
"Shall we split up, Your Highness?" one guard asked, voice steady but tinged with awareness of the danger. All eyes turned to Leonard, awaiting his command.
"No," Leonard replied, voice calm but laced with authority. "Too dangerous. We form a circle. Eyes everywhere. Be ready to mount at my signal. Swords drawn."
In a fluid motion, the three guards drew their weapons, the flash of metal slicing through the dim light. They repositioned themselves, reins gripped tightly, backs turned to each other, until they formed a perfect defensive circle. Leonard, ever calculating, drew a smaller blade from his boot rather than his sword, eyes scanning for any movement in the shadows.
A sound from behind—a subtle rustle—drew his attention. In one smooth motion, he hurled the knife toward the noise. It struck its target: a figure clinging to the shadows of a tree. A slow, unnatural red seeped out, and the body fell, the ash-colored skin revealing itself fully beneath the thick, wet blood. Leonard approached, squatting down with predatory grace, and pulled the knife free from the chest. Gripping a clump of hair, he tilted the head back, revealing the cracked, pale face. Its light green eyes stared wide and unseeing, corners streaked with dried blood.
A high, piercing wail suddenly split the air. The guards flinched instinctively, ears covered instinctively. From another tree, a figure dropped to the ground, moving with an eerie, unnatural fluidity. Dark frizzy hair framed a pale face, ashen skin cracked and dry, and light green eyes burned with a fury that seemed to pierce the very air.
"You demons!" she hissed, her voice stretching unnaturally, "You killed my sister! I shall have your head! And I will eat your heart!" Her gaze locked onto Leonard, unwavering, a promise of vengeance in her every movement.
Leonard's expression remained unreadable, almost detached. He drew his sword with a smooth motion, tilting his head, the corner of his lips curling into a faint, almost cruel smirk. "Let's dance," he said, voice low, confident, as if the chaos around him delighted rather than disturbed him.
In the blink of an eye, the witch's hands elongated into jagged claws, flying toward him with a speed that made the guards flinch. Leonard moved fluidly, slicing them cleanly in half before they could reach him. The witch, undeterred, summoned new claws almost instantly, but this time, she did not strike at him. Her hands pressed into the bark of a nearby tree, sending tiny roots crawling outward. The earth itself seemed to twist and buckle, thick green vines bursting forth from the ground like serpents, seeking to ensnare Leonard's feet.
With a graceful flip, Leonard avoided the writhing vines, slicing through them with his sword as they surged upward. Timing, precision, and foresight—every movement was calculated. Before she could react again, he drew the small knife from his waist, hurling it with deadly accuracy. The blade embedded itself into her head, pinning her against the tree.
The guards knew the kind of witch they were facing. She would not die from such a strike. One of them moved carefully from the circle, retrieving a thick rope and wrapping it around the witch's torso, binding her tightly to the tree. She thrashed violently, clawing at the ropes, but the effort was futile. Leonard's gaze never wavered as he approached, sword at the ready.
The witch's scream tore through the forest, high and desperate, more wail than human sound. The guards flinched, bringing their hands to their ears as the raw pitch of it rattled their bones. Yet Leonard remained calm, unshaken, as if the world around him existed only to challenge and amuse him.
Every movement, every breath, every measured step demonstrated a mastery born of centuries of practice and an unflinching understanding of fear and violence. This was no ordinary hunt, no simple capture. This was a symphony of death, orchestrated by a prince who had never known mercy and never intended to. The witch, furious, powerful, and unrelenting, was only another obstacle to him—another piece in the cruel, deliberate puzzle that was Leonard's dominion.