Chapter 22: A Saint… Why Would You Need Them?
"Are you hurt—Lord above, you look half dead!" His nostrils flared slightly as the metallic scent of their blood reached him, and he took an involuntary half-step back, lamp swinging with the movement.
Selena collapsed into tears, her knees buckling. The sound that escaped her was primal—half wail, half gasp. Her entire frame shook with each ragged breath.
"Please—please help us, sir! Monsters—vampire! The manor, everyone's—" Her voice broke, sobs wracking her body as she clutched at Evelyn's tattered sleeve, knuckles white with desperation.
Evelyn swallowed hard, the motion painful against her parched throat. She forced herself to meet the man's gaze, squaring her shoulders despite the tremor that ran through them.
Dried blood cracked at the corner of her mouth as she spoke, flaking away with each careful word. "We—our young lady, the manor—there is a vampire in there!" The last word emerged higher, cracking with hysteria she fought to contain. She pressed her teeth into her lower lip, biting down until she regained control.
"Please, we just need… we just need… somewhere safe—"
…
The only sounds were the faint crackling of remaining ashes in the stone fireplace, illuminated by the new morning light streaming through the window—golden shafts cutting through lingering wisps of smoke to pattern the worn floorboards.
The space was built of dark wood and stone, with heavy beams overhead bearing the patina of decades of hearth smoke.
The rich scents of herb bundles hanging from those beams mingled with pipe tobacco, leather oil and something sweetly medicinal.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with old books whose leather bindings exhaled the musty perfume of aged paper, alongside glass bottles of various shapes containing powders and liquids in a rainbow of earthy hues.
At the center stood a sturdy wooden table, its surface scarred by years of use, crowded with brass mechanisms that ticked and occasionally whirred, several clocks of different designs all showing slightly different times, glass flasks glowing faintly blue with mysterious contents, and stacks of leather-bound books whose pages were marked with dozens of faded ribbon bookmarks.
Evelyn and Selena sat at the table, their bandaged hands cradling earthenware mugs of spiced chicory coffee.
The village head's parlor was a narrow, shadowed room with blue-light lamps dangling from riveted pipes overhead.
The village head studied them from across the table, the blue light casting deep shadows beneath his prominent brow.
His eyes were calm, yet narrowed and his brows furrowed as he regarded their ragged condition, taking in every torn seam and bloodstain with careful consideration.
It was clear as day from their clothes—fine fabric beneath the filth, distinctive stitching along the cuffs—that these young women were not from his village, nor from the nearby city.
A noble… housemaid, perhaps… he thought, his gaze lingering on the remnants of embroidery near Evelyn's collar, where threads of silver still caught the blue lamplight. "So, what happened?"
Selena stared into her mug with shaking hands. Steam rose in lazy curls before her face, momentarily obscuring eyes that seemed fixed on something far beyond the dark liquid.
Her shoulders curved inward protectively, and she seemed to fold in on herself, shrinking from the world with each shallow breath.
Evelyn sat rigid beside her, spine straight despite her exhaustion, jaw clenched too tightly as she pressed her bitten lips together—a single bead of blood welled at the corner, unnoticed as it traced a crimson path to her chin.
They were guilty.
The knowledge reflected in the way Evelyn's gaze darted to the window and back, calculating distances and possibilities even now.
They had left their master, using the excuse of calling for reinforcements, but in their minds only intent on running from the horror they had witnessed.
Now, when asked about what happened, that guilt resurfaced, coloring their cheeks with shameful heat that contrasted with their otherwise pallid complexions.
The village head, Branks, stood at the window—shoulders unremarkable, posture easy beneath his weathered woolen coat, yet his eyes flickered with shrewd alertness as they traced the grime on the girls' silks and the ghost of a noble seal stitched beneath the blood.
Sunlight caught in his graying hair as he turned, casting a momentary halo that disappeared as he stepped back into the blue-lit room.
The floorboards creaked softly beneath his well-worn boots as he shifted his weight.
"Take your time," he said, "When you've gathered yourselves, perhaps you can tell me how two beautiful ladies turn up at the edge of the world, bleeding and half-mad with fear?" His tone remained gentle, but his eyes missed nothing—not the way Evelyn's fingers twitched toward the door handle, nor how Selena's breathing quickened at the mention of fear.
Selena's mouth moved once, twice—no sound came out, just the soft clicking of a dry throat attempting speech.
Her lower lip trembled visibly, and a single tear traced a clean path down her dirt-smudged cheek. She gripped her mug harder; coffee sloshed over, scalding her knuckles and leaving angry red blotches on already abused skin, but she didn't jerk away.
Her face was ashen, drained of all color save for the feverish spots of hectic red high on her cheekbones.
"I—I'm sorry. I…" The words emerged as barely more than a whisper, fracturing on the last syllable.
But remembering that towering vampire and the way those glinting eyes had looked at them—vertical pupils contracting with predatory interest, fangs gleaming with saliva—the hot coffee spilled over her hands and ragged clothes unchecked, yet that heat didn't even register against the frozen terror gripping her core
Evelyn made herself speak instead, "We left our master."
No 'we fled,' no 'we survived'; the worst part named, raw and unadorned in the quiet room. The confession hung in the air between them, almost visible in the blue-tinged light.
"Our lady... trapped. We... we ran. We thought to find help, but—" Her gaze pleaded, shoulders hunching forward as though bracing against a physical blow, but her voice faltered under the weight of what they'd done, trailing into silence.
Branks watched, expression unreadable behind his neatly trimmed beard. The fine lines around his eyes deepened slightly as he studied them, his breathing measured and calm while the clockwork fan marked each second with mechanical precision.
He smiled thinly, the gesture never reaching his eyes. "Brave, then, if nothing else. Most wouldn't make it through the woods on a night like this." He moved from the window, his shadow stretching across the worn floorboards, and settled into a creaking chair across from them, folding his hands on the table.
Selena's knuckles were white on the cup, the skin stretched so tight it seemed translucent in the eerie light.
Beneath the bandages, her injured ankle throbbed in time with her racing heart. "Brave?" she muttered, her voice breaking on a half-laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
Her chest heaved once, a spasm of bitter mirth or grief. "We ran and slammed the doors behind us. Left the others. Even Lady Lyra..."
Her eyes brimmed with tears, the blue light catching on the moisture, but she blinked hard, jaw clenching visibly beneath her skin—no tears would come, not after all they'd seen. Her body seemed to have forgotten how to perform even this basic function of grief.
Evelyn's nails dug into her skirt, leaving crescent-shaped impressions in the filthy fabric. "If shame counts as bravery." Her mouth twisted around the words, as though they tasted bitter on her tongue.
Branks placed a handkerchief by Selena's cup, the clean white square startling against the grimy tabletop.
The motion was casual but deliberate, his weathered fingers lingering for a moment as though hesitant to withdraw too quickly. "Sometimes survival's all you can manage."
The words resonated with a peculiar kindness, hanging in the air like the swirling motes of dust caught in the shaft of sunlight from the window. "You said you sought help. What, exactly, did you hope to find here? Knights? A priest?" His tone remained gentle, but beneath it ran a current of calculation, his eyes sharp as they assessed each reaction.
Evelyn straightened, her spine creaking in protest after hours of terror-induced tension.
She inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, forcing herself to sound strong despite the tremor in her hands that she concealed by clasping them tightly in her lap.
"A Saint, or anyone from the Church. Someone who could... fight." She faltered, a shadow passing over her face as memory threatened to overwhelm her.
Her pupils dilated briefly before she regained control, forcing her breathing to steady. "It—it's beyond us. There's a vampire in the manor. Sir Bastian—our butler—he tried. It tore through all of them."
A Saint...
Branks' eyes sharpened despite his serene face, the sudden intensity at odds with his relaxed posture. A small vertical line appeared between his brows, there and gone in an instant.
"A Saint? Here?" His tone was carefully measured, neither dismissive nor alarmed, but something subtle changed in the room's atmosphere. "Afraid you're out of luck. Nearest one's bound for the front lines—something about a demon incursion in the east." His fingers tapped once, twice against the table's edge, the sound almost lost beneath the ticking fan.
A Saint—one of the Church's higher fighters, a Saint equal to Tier 4 being. Not someone you found on a village border, he thought, studying the desperate hope fading from Evelyn's face with clinical detachment.
Meanwhile, Evelyn's hope guttered like a candle in a draft. The small, fragile flame of possibility that had sustained her through the forest died visibly in her eyes.
She bowed her head, a strand of hair falling forward to shield her expression, her shoulders sagging beneath an invisible weight.
Selena found her voice, brittle as frost-covered leaves. Her words emerged in short, staccato bursts between shallow breaths. "Sir, please... If not a Saint, a single fighter, someone—" Her fingertips traced the rim of her cup in nervous circles, leaving damp trails on the ceramic.
"We ran because we thought... we thought we could help," Evelyn broke in desperately, her voice rising with urgency.
"But it feels like… we just abandoned them."
"Even a Tier 4 like Sir Bastian couldn't help, I'm afraid… we need…" Selena added pleadingly, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush. Blood drained from her face as she spoke, leaving her lips almost colorless.
This time her desperate mention made Branks's eyes narrow with a glint of sharp interest, the blue lamplight reflecting like cold steel in his suddenly focused gaze.
So… a Tier 4… vampire? The thought sent a ripple of tension through his shoulders, carefully concealed beneath his weathered coat.
On the outside, the village head appeared calm—his breathing remained measured, his posture relaxed as he leaned back slightly in his chair, which creaked in protest beneath his weight.
After all, how could he or the other villagers possibly help in such a ridiculous situation?
Yet inwardly, he was bewildered, thoughts racing behind his carefully composed expression.
How could this be? As village head, I knew there was an abandoned manor nearby. I, along with other villagers, had inspected that manor and found it empty—no threat at all.
I know every inch of this land—we needed it safe for the tests, and now you're saying there's a vampire equal to a Tier 4? That just sounds unreal. It was as if he didn't know his own backyard, a disorienting sensation that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end despite his outward composure.
Branks finally drew up a chair, the wooden legs scraping against the floorboards with a sound that made Selena flinch.
The seat groaned softly as he settled his weight, leaning forward with elbows on the table. "You did what you could," he said softly, but his eyes were shadowed beneath his heavy brows, the blue light deepening every crease and line of concern on his weathered face.
His callused hand moved briefly toward Evelyn's trembling one before retreating, a gesture aborted mid-motion. "Sometimes the only sin left is living with the burden."
"Tell me," Branks said gently, reaching for his battered steam kettle. He poured another round of the bitter brew, the dark liquid steaming as it filled their cups with a soft gurgling sound. "Everything, from the beginning. I promise—no one outside this room will know a thing. Not unless you wish it."
...
The two young maids hurriedly recounted their story, words tumbling over each other in their haste.
As Branks listened to the opening details, even his calm composure slowly darkened, like storm clouds gathering on a clear horizon. The lines around his mouth deepened, and a vein became visible at his temple, pulsing with each new revelation.
D'Armande family… it was a well-known duke's house. His thumb traced a worried path along the rim of his untouched cup.
But how could he not have been notified if such a prestigious family was moving here? Not to mention, they found a vampire in a coffin? What coffin? He hadn't found any back then.
Branks's brows furrowed so deeply that new wrinkles creased his temple, casting sharp shadows across his face in the blue lamplight.
His breathing quickened almost imperceptibly, the only outward sign of his growing alarm. Suddenly, he stood up, the chair scraping backward with a harsh sound that startled both maids.
"S-sir?" Evelyn asked, her voice barely above a whisper, eyes wide with renewed fear.
Her hand instinctively moved to Selena's arm, gripping it protectively as they watched the village head take up a silver gun from a locked drawer with practiced movements.
The weapon gleamed with an oiled sheen that suggested regular maintenance, its intricate mechanisms clicking softly as he checked the chamber with deft fingers.
Without explanation, he crossed to the wall and pulled a thick, braided cord, causing a loud bell to resound through the village—the sound so unexpected and piercing that both women jumped, coffee sloshing over the rims of their forgotten mugs.
"You said vampire, right? Then let's go." Branks's voice hardened as he turned back to face them, his earlier gentle demeanor replaced with grim determination.
"The vampire I know is..." His words paused abruptly as sunlight filtered through his windows, dust motes dancing in the golden beams that fell across his face, highlighting the deep lines carved by years of vigilance.
His gaze shifted between the two maids—their exhausted, terrified expressions, their torn clothes still damp with morning dew and darkened with dried blood—perhaps they would be a perfect sample of what awaited at the manor.
"Even a Tier 4 vampire is still weak to sunlight," he continued.