Back in the dense, shadowed forest, multiple witches fell from the treetops, landing silently on their feet. Their green eyes glimmered like poisoned gems, fixed with malice on the crown prince and his men. Yet the vampires, experienced and battle-hardened, showed no fear. They had faced ambushes, traps, and arcane curses before—this was just another challenge, and one they were prepared for. Leonard's eyes, sharp and calculating, swept the forest with precision, noting every movement, every whisper of rustling leaves.
The crown prince joined his men in the circle, a protective formation designed to neutralize the witches' numerical advantage. If they were separated, even briefly, the witches could overwhelm them with their coordinated attacks. Each of Leonard's men held their swords high, boots planted firmly into the damp, moss-covered earth. Silence descended like a thick shroud, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl or the cracking of a twig underfoot.
The key to victory was the leader. These shrine witches, unique in their design, had a peculiar hierarchy: their leader could not cast spells herself but could create them telepathically, directing her followers' magic. Protecting her was paramount, and she always positioned herself at the center to maintain that mental link. Spotting her was no challenge for Leonard—the faint difference in aura and posture set her apart immediately.
"Go afterrrr the ones who murrrrderrr ourrr sisterrr!" the leader's hiss rang through the trees. Her nails elongated into claws, reflecting the dim forest light, as one by one her followers leapt forward with shrieks and growls.
Maintaining the circle, Leonard's men struck with deadly precision. Each swing of their swords cleaved through attacking witches with practiced ease. Their vampire reflexes allowed them to anticipate the movements of their supernatural opponents, cutting them down before they even reached striking distance.
Leonard's eyes never left the leader's. In a low, almost imperceptible tone, audible only to his men, he instructed:
"Get me closer to the leader. She can lead us to the witch responsible for the king's werewolf incident."
Silently, the men shifted, inching toward the center, their movements fluid and synchronized, avoiding detection by the witches. The attacks continued, but each assault met with precise countermeasures—blades slicing through claws, parries timed to perfection.
Finally, Leonard acted. In a move no one anticipated, he leapt above the throng of witches, somersaulting through the air with supernatural grace, landing directly in front of the leader. Her eyes widened in surprise, as did her followers', but it was already too late.
Leonard seized her by the collar with one hand while producing a small green vial from his pocket with the other. With controlled force, he drove it into her chest. It shattered against her heart. A piercing scream tore from her throat, echoing through the forest. The effect was immediate—the sharp pain coursing through her body radiated outward, incapacitating her followers. They dropped to their knees, clutching their chests, writhing in agony as if salt had been poured on raw wounds.
Leonard crouched, his crimson eyes boring into hers. Calm, controlled, and terrifyingly precise, he spoke:
"You know the witch who led the werewolf to bite the king. Summon her."
The leader's face twisted in pain, yet she refused to yield. Her gaze flickered away, defiance still burning in her green eyes. Leonard's lips curled in a small, cruel smile. He released his grip, letting her fall hard onto the muddy ground.
Not giving her time to recover, he retrieved another green vial. His leg pressed down firmly on her chest, forcing her to the ground. Blood bubbled from her mouth and eyes as veins stood out on her neck. Leonard's arm balanced on his leg as he shook the vial close to her face. Fear finally flickered in her eyes. With a grudging nod, she whispered:
"She's in a place… deep in the forest. You'll know it when you see it."
Leonard's expression remained calm, almost indifferent. "Just give me directions." His voice was low, a quiet command that brooked no argument.
The witch's lips twisted into a sly, eerie smile. "Go Norrrth. Even my elders wouldn't dare step there. You… and your men are very cocky."
Leonard's smile was faint, calculating, and inhuman. "Dear, we aren't humans." A flash of crimson in his eyes, just enough to reveal the predator beneath the prince's calm exterior, made her smirk falter. Before she could react, Leonard shoved the vial into her mouth. It erupted instantly, the liquid burning through her from mouth to skull. Her scream was choked, mutilated by the chemical agony of the potion, and she died swiftly. Her followers, incapacitated and weak from the earlier effect, collapsed lifelessly beside her.
Leonard straightened, brushing the mud from his coat. His men, already mounted, fell into formation behind him. With a swift swing of the reins, his horse surged forward, the others following his lead. All headed north, cutting through the forest at terrifying speed, leaves and branches whipping past them.
Unbeknownst to them, a single pair of green eyes watched silently from high above, hidden in the twisted branches of an ancient oak. Another shrine witch, cloaked in shadow, observed the prince and his men, recording every move. She had survived the carnage, and she would remember. She would wait.
The forest seemed to hold its breath, a quiet witness to the massacre that had just occurred, as Leonard led his pack northward, toward the witch who had orchestrated the werewolf's attack on the king. The hunt had only just begun.