The North(part 1)

Mid-winter, 1080, Suzdal, Kievan Rus

Morning arrived, though the sun remained hidden behind thick grey clouds. Standing atop the highest tower in his newly built castle, Isaac surveyed the snow-covered forest, breathing in the cold, quiet scene.

With only three colors on his palette—black, white, and green—he worked swiftly, his brush gliding over the canvas beside him. In just thirty minutes, the view was captured—a winter landscape so lifelike it seemed to pulse with the chill of dawn.

Isaac had always favored winter; as a werewolf, the cold didn't bother him. Quite the opposite, really, as he often felt too hot. The muted landscape, blanketed in snow, felt peaceful—a world at rest, free from the chaos of color.

He placed the finished painting on the ground alongside others depicting different times and seasons, then returned to his morning routine, beginning with swordsmanship practice. Even with seventy years of relentless training, he still saw improvements, however slight.

Afterward, he drank a pot of enhanced vervain infusion and sat down to study East Slavic. His daily meal was less structured—mostly it was fresh prey from his bimonthly hunt, while at other times, a few sips from those like Meixing who willingly let him drink, depending on his mood. Some days he drank all at once; on others, he spread it out, taking a little here and there. Eventually, he'd join Meixing for further study in the path of magic.

Over the years, he'd also taken on a new task: teaching some of the younger servants in the castle. Many of them, in his past life still considered children, had been sold into slavery or captured as prisoners of war. When he encountered such cases, he often took them in—except for those he believed deserved their fate.

For instance, a seventeen-year-old who had tried to sell his sister but ended up being caught himself. That was the line he set, though some had crossed far worse boundaries—those who raped or killed, whom he considered simply killing on the spot. The truth was, many young people of this time were far from innocent.

In addition to these, Isaac also took in those left behind by his hunts: children or women whose abusive parents or partners he had killed. In the rare case a man was left behind, Isaac wouldn't intervene, he was aware of the challenges faced by women and children in this society and couldn't simply leave them to fend for themselves without protection or means to survive. But in his opinion, which was probably bent by the society he lived in, a man should fend for himself.

For the young ones he did take in, he and Meixing set aside time each week to teach basic skills like reading and writing, as well as less common subjects like geography and mathematics. He'd even made a reluctant promise to grant 'the bite' to those who met a high bar in their studies and wished to become werewolves.

Though he regretted it soon after, as the promise got them all riled up, with nearly every single one asking for it. The only exceptions were those too afraid. For most, though, it was a rare chance at power so they kept bothering him about it every chance they had.

A headache followed as he turned a select few, reluctantly though. He was a man of his word, so he started with turning two boys and two girls, between 15 and 17 years of age. They were the most promising of the bunch, showing a natural ability to learn and met the criteria he set in study as well as age, which he required to be over 14.

He did find that giving 'the bite' to the boys, though slightly repulsive to him, was far more tolerable than even the thought of drinking their blood. This left him wondering what caused such a heavy disgust. His best guess was that this was a manifestation of vampiric enhancement of emotions. Unconsciously men had probably grown slightly repulsive to him, but now they were mostly outright disgusting.

He had encountered countless instances of men abusing the weak—from his upbringing in the system in his previous life to what happened to his sister in this one. It was far from uncommon. But it wasn't that women weren't also capable of this; he had hunted over hundreds of women whose behavior he found disgusting. True, there were fewer than men, but it still struck him as odd.

Nonetheless, in the midst of all this, Isaac stumbled upon a surprising discovery. One evening, about two years back, while breaking up a fight between two of his newly turned wolves, he found it entirely by accident. By then, almost half the group he took in were already turned. The two were grappling fiercely, claws out, their snarls echoing through the training yard. Frustrated by their lack of control, he stepped between them, grabbing each by the shoulder.

"Enough! Stop now," he commanded, not really expecting them to obey.

To his surprise, they froze. Both wolves' eyes glazed over, their aggression fading as quickly as it had flared up, replaced by an odd, vacant calm. Isaac blinked, momentarily taken aback. He'd broken up countless fights before—at school, in the army, or recently among the young servants he'd taken in—but he'd never seen his words alone have this kind of effect, least of all in an all-out brawl.

Shrugging off the oddity for the moment, he released his grip and, with a nod, ordered them back to work. Both complied in silence, as if they'd forgotten the fight entirely. It was strange, to say the least.

Over the following days, he tested this phenomenon carefully, half-convinced he'd somehow developed compulsion, like other vampires. But when he tried his commands on the servants, nothing happened.

Then, he tried it again on the werewolves he'd turned—and was met with a striking response. They obeyed his every command, their minds seemingly lost to his voice, following him in the same way he'd seen vampires compel humans on TV. It was as if they lost themselves entirely.

He could compel werewolves. This newfound ability wasn't something Isaac overthought though. For Isaac, it was just another tool to maintain loyalty and discipline without resorting to force. It eased the burden of petty conflicts and would make information-gathering simpler when his pack would be scattered across the world and would form different factions.

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That evening, just as Isaac and Meixing finished their research for the night and Meixing prepared to head to her quarters, one of the werewolf servants, a young man named Iven, entered the room abruptly. His normally composed demeanor was replaced by a look of unease.

"Lord Isaac," Iven began, his voice low, "there's been a… strange occurrence in the town."

Isaac raised an eyebrow, folding his arms as he looked over at Ivan. "Go on."

"A body was found in the village—left in an alley near the market square. The townsfolk say the man was drained of blood, with two holes in his neck." He took a step forward and explained.

Isaac's expression darkened. He knew precisely what those two marks signified.

He had expected them to arrive sooner or later, but he never expected them to get so far so fast. As far as her recalled, by the 12th century, the originals should still be playing European nobles and head into Italy.

He had trained his wolves with that thought in mind, so they could manage the mess when it arrived while he had already left, to think that vampires would come here so soon, this was a little out of his prediction.

"Where's the body now?" Isaac asked, his tone turning cold.

"They brought it to the healer's hut, though no one will go near it. The villagers are saying it's a demon's work," Iven replied, glancing nervously between Isaac and Meixing. He too new what this meant, as Isaac taught them all there is to know about werewolves, vampires and witches.

Isaac nodded, thoughtful. "Gather a few of the others, and let them know not to speak of this beyond the pack. I'll head down to see it myself."

Iven nodded, bowing his head before swiftly exiting the room to carry out Isaac's instructions.

Isaac turned to Meixing. "It seems we're not the only ones with a claim to this territory now. Coming with me?"

"Of Course." Meixing's expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of determination in her eyes.

Isaac and Meixing left the castle under the cover of night, the village silent around them as they approached the healer's hut. Inside, they found the body slumped on a wooden table, its skin cold and pale in the dim candlelight. Isaac's gaze narrowed as he took in the puncture marks on the neck—signs he knew all too well.

The smell of blood lingered, and with it, faint traces of a scent that wasn't human, though it didn't smell like decay or a corpse as he thought it would, but more unique and complex. Isaac closed his eyes, breathing in deeper, letting his senses sort through the layers of smell to pick up something more distant—a faint trail leading out of the village toward the forest.

"They're still around," he said, his voice low. "I can smell them, a couple of them at least, close to the woods."

Meixing's eyes sharpened. "Are they nearby?"

"Not close enough for a direct attack, but not far either," Isaac replied, straightening. "They must be waiting to see if this area's safe."

"Trying out new territory," she muttered, her expression hardening. "If they found resistance elsewhere, they might assume they'll go unnoticed here. This place is remote, and they could be testing it out for a steady hunting ground."

Isaac glanced at Meixing, a faint glimmer in his eyes. "Head back to the castle. I'll handle this. Tell Simion to pass an order to the townsfolk and nobles, not to invite anyone into one's home."

Meixing opened her mouth to protest, but he was already gone, disappearing into the night without another word. She hesitated, watching the shadows he'd vanished into, before nodding to herself and turning back toward the village, trusting him to navigate the danger on his own.

Once alone, Isaac let his senses take control, tuning in fully to the faint, lingering scent. It pulled him out of the village, its peculiar complexity growing clearer with each step. The trail twisted through the thickening forest, winding between dense pines and snow-laden branches, each turn sharpening his focus on the vampires' scent.

Isaac tracked the scent to a small clearing in the forest where a group of vampires gathered around a makeshift fire. There where five in total, four sat close together, on logs which were broken down with bare hand, while the last one leaned against a nearby tree listening to the others converse in silence.

A couple of them were whispering in low voices that occasionally burst into laughter. They looked more like a group of friends on a night outing than the predatory figures he'd been expecting, but there was a distinct edge to their movements—a carelessness that came from feeling invincible and the metallic scent of blood was all around them.

One vampire tossed a half-drained flask to another, who sniffed it with a smirk. "Doesn't hold up to the fresh stuff, does it?" he quipped, wiping his mouth as he leaned back on his elbows, his tone as unguarded as if they were lounging around a tavern table instead of hiding in foreign territory where wild predators were common.

Isaac observed from the shadows, weighing his next move. These vampires hadn't posted any guards or shown much caution, a mark of their assumption that they were untouchable. Thinking for a moment, an idea came to mind, and he disappeared from the forest, reappearing in the village before slipping into a small, inconspicuous house on the edge of town.

At first glance, the house seemed ordinary, its furnishings modest and plain. But the atmosphere shifted as he stepped inside; two men armed with swords instantly drew their weapons, eyes narrowing. The tension broke as they recognized him, surprise flickering across their faces as they lowered their swords.

"Lord," one of them murmured, inclining his head respectfully.

Isaac nodded. "Stand down. I'm only here to take one of the prisoners than I'll be on my way. Shift rotation will proceed as usual."

The guards stepped aside without hesitation, and Isaac descended through a hidden entrance, winding down stone steps to the underground chamber. Here, women of various ages were kept under careful watch. Each prisoner had been detained for deeds that went beyond common theft or deception—acts of abasement and betrayal against the weak that had caught Isaac's attention.

For these, being held here served only one purpose: they were his unwilling sources of sustenance.

Isaac moved purposefully between the cells until he found the one he sought. The woman inside, a noble, had been apprehended by him after using her position to cut short winter payments to impoverished villagers, leaving them with nothing to survive on during the harshest months.

Over a dozen people had succumbed to the cold, freezing to their deaths while she sat untouched in her comfortable home, her pockets slightly deeper than before, unaffected by the hardship around her. Now, her defiance faded as she watched him approach, a glimmer of fear edging into her eyes.

He unlocked her cell door and gestured sharply. "You're coming with me," he said, voice low and final.

She hesitated, mouth opening as if to protest, but his gaze silenced her, and she followed him out of the cell. The guards resumed their watch as Isaac guided her through the stone corridors.

Emerging into the cold night air, he cast her a sidelong glance, a flicker of grim satisfaction in his expression. This was only the beginning of what he had planned for the night.