The next morning, the dim, cold air of the cave hung heavy and still. John sat vigil, his own battered body forgotten, his eyes fixed on Elena's wound. Her condition, far from improving, seemed to be getting visibly worse. The jagged bite marks on her shoulder were angry and inflamed, and the venom of the werewolf had clearly spread. Dark, ropy black veins were now visibly snaking away from the wound and across her collarbone. Even the blood that had seeped into the cave floor had taken on a terrifying darker, almost tar-like colour.
Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. Elena was instantly aware of the oppressive silence and the ache of her shattered body. She saw John immediately, his face drawn with exhaustion and deep worry, positioned right next to her. She attempted to move, but the simple action was met with a rush of searing pain.
She forced her gaze down to her shoulder. The sight—the deep, venomous wound—told her more than any words could. Elena gently reached up and touched the bite with her index finger. When she drew it back, her blood was undeniably darker, thicker. This must be a bite from a werewolf, she thought with a cold certainty that settled in her gut.
When John noticed the subtle movement of her hand, he instantly rushed closer, relief and anxiety warring on his face.
"Where are we, Young Master?" Elena managed to ask, her voice a rough whisper.
"We managed to escape," John said, his voice quiet but firm. "I ran as fast as I could. I didn't know where to go; I just knew we had to get far away from that man, and I found this cave by a stream."
Elena, despite her pain, looked confused. "But… how did that man not chase us down? I don't think, at this stage, that the Young Master can outrun that kind of enemy."
John's bruised mouth curved into a proud, if wry, smile. "I'll have you know, Elena, that I am very smart. The dagger I stabbed him with yesterday was coated by the silvereye spider's venom. I knew I was going to have a need for that thing eventually; I just didn't know it was going to be this soon."
When Elena heard his explanation, a genuine, albeit light, smile touched her lips. To know the boy was not only brave but capable of such necessary resourcefulness brought a small comfort.
"Why didn't the Young Master head for the Crimson castle? I am sure you would have made it back faster than running into the deep forest?" she asked, a small note of tactical confusion in her voice.
John's smile faltered, becoming a wry grimace. "Well, I was in a panic state, okay? I did not think rationally. Also, I didn't know exactly how fast the venom was going to work, and I thought he was going to give chase right away. But that venom probably worked best when you kicked him through all those trees." John's enthusiasm briefly returned. "Seriously, that kick was fucking awesome."
As John became momentarily excited thinking about the brutal scene, Elena let out a soft, pained moan, pulling him back to the devastating reality. John became instantly serious.
"Elena, how are you feeling? Your wound, it isn't closing. I tried giving you blood, but it was no help. Do you… do you probably know what the problem is?" he asked, the desperation returning to his eyes.
She nodded slowly, the movement sending stabs of pain through her neck. "Yes. That man who attacked us is a werewolf. He bit me in the shoulder." She paused, gathering her strength. "They taught us at the Crimson castle many years ago how a bite from a werewolf is fatal to our kind. The venom poisons our regenerative abilities. I never thought I would experience it firsthand. It also explains how physically powerful he was… it was my first time seeing a werewolf."
A deeply worried expression settled on John's face. "Now what should we do about the venom? Should I suck it out?"
Elena shook her head slowly, the movement bringing a fresh wave of agony. "No, Young Master. The venom has already spread through my entire system. I am probably going to die in a few days. You must leave me and find a way to get to the castle."
"No! I would never leave you," John countered immediately, his resolve hard as stone. He grabbed her cold hand, holding it tightly. "There must be a way to save you, but how?"
Elena responded, her gaze distant and resigned. "There is an antidote to a werewolf's bite at the Crimson's castle, but we will probably not make it in time, and the man that attacked us is out there. He is probably going to smell us out."
John carefully helped Elena sit up and positioned her against the cave wall, trying to make her comfortable. "He is not going to smell us out, thank God. It rained heavily yesterday when we ran, and my guess is that the rain washed our scent away."
"That's good," Elena whispered, allowing a flicker of hope. "Master, I think we should wait until they send help. I'm sure Master Thomas delivered the news of a mysterious guy that attacked us, and they would most likely send men to look for us."
What Elena said gave John hope, but his optimism was shattered by the brutal reality of the timeline. He had traveled too deep into the forest, and it would take the search parties far too long to reach them in time.
"Elena, do you think you can last up to three days?" John asked her, tightening his grip on her hand.
Elena met his gaze, the dark shade of the venom now visible beneath her skin. Her voice was flat. "I am probably going to die tomorrow, Young Master."
John felt a brutal tightening in his chest, his heart clenching with grief and urgency. He had already given Elena the last of the bottled blood he carried, and now he knew it hadn't mattered. She would die regardless of its nourishment.
"I am going to save you, Elena," John declared, his voice ringing with fierce determination. He let go of her hand and rose quickly to his feet, turning toward the cave mouth.
"Young Master, where are you going? It is not safe outside!" she called after him.
John paused at the mouth of the cave, turning his head back just enough to see her pale, worried face. "Don't worry. I'll be back." He left the cave, the soft, desperate sound of Elena calling his name fading behind him.
When John got out of the cave, he moved deliberately, his mind focused. He first found cover, checking the vicinity to ensure they were completely alone. He then moved down toward the river and began looking for a particular size and shape of rock. While he searched, he noticed a few deer drinking water upstream. He briefly considered hunting one for sustenance but discarded the idea, calculating it would be too time-consuming. His current task was more urgent.
After a few minutes, he found a suitable flat rock. He then found a larger, rougher stone and began grinding the flat rock against it to create a sharp, flat edge. Due to his newly awakened, increased strength, this work that would have taken hours for a normal human took only minutes. He continued grinding until the center of the flat rock was thin and broad, with the front tip shaped into a rounded point.
Next, John searched for a tree of the correct size to serve as a handle. The forest was dense, and it didn't take him long to find what he needed. He used his fixed-blade knife to cut the tree down. Finally, he tore strips of cloth from his own tunic and used them to make a primitive rope, securing the ground rock head to the wooden handle to form a crude, yet effective, primitive shovel.
With the shovel now complete, John turned and rushed back toward the cave. As he neared the entrance, however, he heard a piercing scream.
He sprinted the last few feet. When he burst into the cave, he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
====
Meanwhile, hours later, a figure in black moved silently through the ravaged section of the forest. Caden, the vampire tracker, arrived at the exact spot where John and his group had been ambushed. The scene, despite the heavy rain, told a clear story of brutal violence. He halted near the base of the damaged hill, his deep crimson eyes calmly assessing the carnage. He could see the physical damages—shattered undergrowth, gouged earth, and the splintered remains of several small trees.
His enhanced senses, specifically trained for decades in tracking, allowed him to pick up the faint, coppery scent of vampire blood that the deluge had not entirely washed away.
He moved with quiet efficiency to the end of the hill overlooking the running river. Caden stopped there, narrowing his focus to scan the whole area with hyper-acute detail. That's when he noticed a slight, metallic glint on the ground near the water's edge.
Without relying on any visible run, he disappeared from his position and instantly reappeared, crouched, near the riverbank. He walked to the spot he had observed and found a dagger, half-buried in the damp soil. He picked up the weapon, inspecting the hilt and the blade. He immediately noticed the residual yellowish residue near the tip.
A low sound of recognition escaped him. "Hmm, silvereye spider poison," he mused aloud. He turned the weapon over in his hand, his sharp mind racing through possibilities. I wonder who this dagger belonged to. Is it John's, or the attacker's?
He quickly settled on the more likely conclusion. "It's probably John's. Why would the attacker—a being powerful enough to cause this damage—use a small dagger coated with poison on a kid if he most likely came to kill him quickly?" The dagger was a weapon of desperation and last resort. This meant John had fought back and survived, at least long enough to escape.
Caden then looked in the direction where multiple trees were cleanly broken—the path of the fierce struggle and the eventual escape. He moved along that path and arrived at a particular spot where the mud was scuffed and flattened, an area where his tracking skills told him somebody had lain immobile for a while. The evidence confirmed his hypothesis: the poison had worked, creating a necessary, life-saving delay.
Caden looked out over the desolate forest, a flicker of determined hope in his eyes. "Don't worry, John," he whispered, his voice crisp and clear. "If you are alive, then I will find you. Hold on a little longer."
He lifted his gaze and began to track the faint remnants of the escape path, a silent hunter now following a trail that was hours cold.