Novel Chapter
Find trees? Now? For what purpose?
Valerius was even more lost.
He was a vampire noble who had lived for centuries—a schemer, a faction leader of the Red Moon Brotherhood.
He was used to giving orders, and to deciphering the hidden meanings behind them.
But Douglas's instruction was utterly beyond his comprehension.
Seeing them both frozen, Douglas added, still in that gentle tone:
"Marco, go with him. It's all right—after all, we're on the same side now."
Those words—"on the same side"—lashed across Valerius's rigid spine like an invisible whip.
He shuddered violently, snapping out of his stupor.
He no longer tried to reason why, nor dared to question.
The brand of the soul contract, like a loyal hound, reminded him that every word from his master was absolute, inviolable truth.
"Yes, Professor Holmes."
Valerius bowed his proud head, his voice tinged with a humility so practiced, he didn't even notice it himself.
Marco glanced at the vampire beside him, then at Douglas. Though he too was bewildered, his trust in Douglas had grown into something close to blind faith.
He nodded without hesitation. "Yes, sir."
The two of them left the mine, one after the other.
Valerius took the lead, his noble attire now in tatters, but his movements regained a touch of that ancient vampire elegance.
He didn't rely on brute force. Instead, he stretched out his pale fingers toward the oldest, sturdiest oaks in the forest, and began to chant softly in a language as old as death.
It was vampire magic—a communion with the shadows and death woven through the natural world.
The roots of the chosen oaks began to twist and writhe, as if awakening from a centuries-long sleep.
Tough roots silently snapped. With a deep, resonant creak, each giant tree—so thick it would take several men to encircle—slowly, reverently toppled toward him.
There was no spray of wood chips, no thunderous crash—only a strange, obedient silence.
Marco followed, watching with a grave expression. He could sense the magic at work: cold, decaying, utterly unlike the wild, untamed force of the werewolves.
He clenched his fists. His wariness toward this new "colleague" was undiminished, no matter how compliant the vampire seemed.
Soon, a dozen massive oaken logs were gliding behind Valerius—docile as livestock, guided by his magic—back to the Echo Chamber.
When the logs were neatly arranged in the center of the cavern, the Ashen Claw werewolves gathered around, whispering in awe and curiosity.
Lupin approached as well, his gaze full of questions as he looked at Douglas.
Douglas offered no explanation.
He simply strode to the largest log and drew his wand.
Every eye fixed on the tip.
He uttered no incantation, merely tapped the rough trunk lightly.
"Wummm—"
A deep, resonant hum filled the air.
In the next instant, everyone held their breath.
Countless fine wood shavings—like a golden swarm commanded by invisible hands—peeled away from the log, swirling and dancing in the air.
Before their very eyes, the massive trunk shrank and reshaped itself. The rough bark and uneven grain were polished and transformed in the storm of spinning wood shavings.
Douglas's wrist moved with elegant precision, his wand tracing flowing, exact arcs. This was no longer combat, but a miracle of artistry.
Within seconds, the storm of wood shavings stilled, as if someone had pressed pause. Gold dust drifted gently to the ground.
Where the rough log had been, there now stood a breathtaking... coffin.
It was a masterpiece steeped in Eastern mystique.
The entire surface was a deep, night-black, polished to a mirror shine that caught the flickering torchlight of the cave.
Its lines were smooth and graceful, lacking the heavy, oppressive angles of Western stone sarcophagi. Instead, it flowed with gentle, cloud-like curves.
Most striking of all were the intricate patterns inlaid with fine silver wire across the lid and body.
These were not crosses or angels—certainly no vampiric motifs—but complex constellations and drifting clouds.
The silver lines looked as though they had grown from within the wood itself, seamlessly fused with the deep black surface, radiating an aura of mystery and solemnity.
The cavern fell utterly silent.
The werewolves stared, awestruck—they had never seen anything so beautiful.
Lupin was stunned as well. He'd never imagined that powerful Transfiguration could be used with such... poetry.
As for Valerius—his breath caught the moment he saw the coffin.
His dark red eyes locked on it, first in shock, then confusion, then a feverish, almost obsessive longing.
As a centuries-old vampire noble, he had seen countless treasures.
But he had never been enamored of wealth or power—only ever used them.
His one true obsession was the nearly fanatical aesthetic passed down through his ancient family.
To him, Western stone coffins were nothing but heavy, cold boxes—prisons for the dead.
But this coffin was no prison. It was a palace.
A work of art.
It awakened a memory buried deep in Valerius's blood.
In his family's oldest crypt beneath Transylvania, there was a coffin like this.
Centuries ago, a Muggle noble obsessed with Eastern treasures had brought it back from a legendary land of gold, after untold hardships.
Eventually, that stone coffin ended up in his family's hands, and now it housed a duke who had slept for three hundred years.
This one was wooden—less eternal than the family relic—but its beauty, its spirit, its uniquely Eastern philosophy of eternity and rest were identical.
Valerius instinctively knew: this was what a noble, immortal vampire should have for their final rest.
His heart, once filled with fear and humiliation, was now overtaken by a fierce, uncontrollable yearning.
He forgot he was an assistant. Forgot the terrifying power of the man before him.
He reached out, entranced—then stopped, trembling, just an inch from the coffin, as if afraid to sully a sacred relic.
He turned, slowly, toward Douglas. For the first time, his dark red eyes were stripped of all scheming, filled only with reverence and desperate hope.
He drew a deep, shaky breath and spoke, his voice trembling with awe:
"Professor Holmes... forgive my boldness. Such... such perfect artistry—what does it signify? Who could possibly be worthy of such a masterpiece?"
He hesitated, breathless, a faint, pleading hope flickering in his eyes.
"So... Professor Holmes... is this... for me?"
"As... a token of my loyalty to you?"
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
Read up to (100+ ) advanced chapters on Patre\on
Visit us here: patreon.com/GoldenLong
Happy reading, everyone!