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Douglas didn't spare so much as a second's glance at the noble's face, contorted by longing and fanaticism.
His gaze swept past Valerius, settling instead on the scorched, twitching corpses strewn across the cavern floor.
"No."
His voice was quiet, but unyielding.
"It's for them."
Those few words, light as feathers, crashed down like a sledgehammer, shattering every last flicker of hope that had just ignited in Valerius's eyes.
His expression froze.
It was the sensation of plummeting from the heights of desire straight into an abyss.
First confusion. Then disbelief. And finally, a pain even deeper than the agony of being bound by the Spatial Prison.
"To… to give such a work of art…"
His lips quivered, each word squeezed through clenched teeth.
"To those… crude beasts who only know how to tear and howl?!"
Lupin???
Marco???
His voice spiked, sharp with outrage.
"This is sacrilege! Mr. Holmes, this is a crime against beauty, against eternity—against everything noble!"
He stepped forward, dark red eyes ablaze with wounded passion.
"Mr. Holmes, this is sacrilege!"
He wasn't begging. Instead, his tone shifted to that of a wounded advisor, desperate to stop a disaster.
"To place such a sacred work of art beside those filthy beasts—it's not just an insult to your creation, it's an affront to order and beauty itself!"
"Please, allow me—for your sake, and for the dignity of this masterpiece—to preserve its honor! Let me take charge of preparing… containers… appropriate for these former colleagues."
He straightened his back, trying to display what worth he still possessed.
"My family's woodworking skills are renowned even in Transylvania! I can carve the oldest runes of rest into oak with my own fingernails. I guarantee their souls… well, at least their bodies, won't be disturbed by scavengers in these mountains!"
Douglas finally glanced at him.
There was neither approval nor mockery in that look—only a faint, appraising amusement, as if considering a newly acquired tool.
"Very well."
Valerius's heart skipped a beat.
"I need thirteen." Douglas tapped the exquisite Eastern coffin with his wand. "Finished before dawn."
With a flick of his wrist, the coffin—repository of all Valerius's longing—shrunk rapidly in midair, becoming a palm-sized model.
Douglas tossed it lightly.
The tiny work of art traced a graceful arc through the air, landing toward Valerius.
He all but lunged for it.
With near-religious reverence, he caught the miniature coffin in trembling hands, clutching it to his chest as though it were the world's greatest treasure.
The sensation—cool, smooth, flawless—sent a shiver through his entire body.
A moment later, he straightened, and a new light burned in his dark red eyes.
Not the glint of a schemer, nor a predator—but the focused, fervent gleam of a true craftsman.
He threw himself into his work at once.
With a wave of his pale fingers, the heavy oak logs became as malleable as clay before him.
Silent spells flowed from his lips, ancient vampiric magic transforming into the keenest of chisels.
Wood shavings flew, a golden storm swirling through the cavern.
With his own fingernails, he traced smooth, precise lines into the hard oak.
He used no tools for measurement—every dimension and angle seemed to exist already, carved into his soul.
His movements were efficient, focused, and possessed a kind of morbid elegance.
Marco and the Ashen Claw werewolves watched in stunned silence.
They saw the vampire count, so haughty just hours before, now working like a devout craftsman—pouring all his being into building coffins for his former comrades' remains.
The scene was more bizarre, more incomprehensible, than even the silent massacre that had preceded it.
Lupin watched quietly, a chill running down his spine. He realized that Douglas's most terrifying power wasn't his overwhelming magic.
It was his uncanny mastery of human nature.
Time slipped by in the flurry of wood shavings.
When the first rays of dawn pierced the cracks in the mine like golden blades, banishing the cavern's darkness, Valerius finally straightened his stiff spine.
He was panting, paler than ever, but his eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a masterpiece completed.
Thirteen simple yet sturdy coffins stood in neat rows at the center of the cavern.
Each was polished to a glassy smoothness, every seam tight as a drum, and each lid was carved with ancient runes—simple patterns for rest.
Douglas strode to the rune-encircled section.
He raised his wand.
The twisted, glowing lines on the cave walls faded away like a receding tide.
The illusion barrier was lifted.
No more maddened roars. No more desperate howls.
The dozen totem werewolves lay quietly on the ground, their bodies already cold.
Every one of them had a charred hole, burned right through the heart, as if pierced by an invisible, searing bullet.
The cavern was utterly silent.
Suddenly, a muffled, animal-like sob broke the hush.
A young werewolf—no more than thirteen or fourteen—hadn't stepped forward, but sat collapsed on the ground, staring at the tallest corpse, tears and snot streaming down his face.
"It's him…"
The voice was hoarse, raw with hatred.
"That's him… Dad… Mum…"
The boy's words trembled with grief and fury.
"Three years ago, it was him! He attacked my village! My parents were Muggles… they… they were bitten by him, and in the end… in the end, they died…"
He wiped his tears with the back of his hand, choking on his words.
"I was bitten too… but I survived… Later I learned it was the wizard's blood in me that saved my life… but I also became… became a werewolf…"
His accusation was like a stone cast into still water, sending shockwaves through the crowd.
More and more Ashen Claw members stepped forward.
"And him!" A one-armed werewolf pointed at another corpse. "My wife—he took her as his prize, right in front of me…"
"That one! The one in leather armor! He loved raiding the Muggle villages at the foot of the mountain—he treated it as sport!"
"They… all of them took pleasure in tormenting newly turned werewolves! So many of us were dragged here, made slaves by force!"
Every accusation was drenched in blood and tears.
All these Ashen Claw, hiding in the shadows of the Apennines, carried lives destroyed by the Red Moon Brotherhood.
They hated not just the monsters who had turned them, but the sadists who reveled in their pain, who destroyed everything simply because they could.
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