Father Lightwell and the Shadows of Drustvar

The Helmet of Dread

Father Lightwell arrived at the darkened manor as the evening mist clung to the cobblestone path. Rain tapped against the tall windows, and the glow of candlelight flickered against the leaded glass. Lord Hawthorne had invited him for what was described as “a light evening of art appreciation”—just a small exhibition of historical artifacts, as the lord had put it in his letter.

Inside, the grand hall buzzed with polite conversation. Silver trays carried goblets of wine and traditional Drustvar pastries. The air was warm with candlelight, the scent of aged parchment and polished wood filling the space.

Displayed upon silk-draped pedestals were relics of Drustvar’s past—delicate silver amulets, old leather-bound tomes, ceremonial daggers too dulled with age to be of use. Each piece was carefully labeled, its history neatly inscribed upon a small card. 

Lightwell adjusted his glasses. “Curious collection, my lord. All of them are very interesting"

Lord Hawthorne gave a dry chuckle. “But the most interesting thing is in the upstairs”

He gestured toward the staircase.

“Abigail, my maid, is bringing it down now. A fascinating piece—a helmet, carved long ago by the Drust. And I must confess Father,  had hoped you might bless it, Just to be safe.”

Lightwell tilted his head. “Safe from what, exactly?”

Hawthorne hesitated, but before he could answer, a piercing scream shattered the calm.

The entire room fell silent. Every head turned toward the staircase. Footsteps—shouting—then nothing.

Moments later, a breathless servant came running down, her face pale as parchment.

“Murder! Miss Abigail—she’s dead!”

Gasps rippled through the guests.

Lightwell and Hawthorne exchanged glances before swiftly ascending the staircase, the crowd trailing behind them. Lying lifeless upon the floor, was Abigail. Her face was pale, her expression frozen in surprise. One arm was outstretched, her fingers curled as if she had been grasping something—but her hand was empty.

And on her neck, stark against her porcelain skin, were two red puncture marks.

They looked just like a vampire’s bite.

Secrets and Suspicions

The storm raged outside, rain hammering against the grand windows of Lord Hawthorne’s estate. The once-lively art exhibition had fallen into hushed whispers and horrified glances toward the lifeless body of Abigail, the young maid. Her body lay sprawled on the floor, her eyes wide open in shock, her hand outstretched—empty. Around her pale neck, two crimson marks stood out starkly against her skin. The sight alone was enough to send a ripple of fear through the guests.

Father Lightwell adjusted his glasses and knelt beside the body. With a solemn expression, he murmured a blessing, tracing a gentle sign of the Light over her. Then, he leaned in closer, inspecting the marks on her neck. A hush fell over the room as they awaited his verdict.

He exhaled softly and stood up, brushing off his robes. "I do not believe these are the marks of a vampire."

A gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a sharp voice. “What would you know about it, Father? You are not from Drustvar!” a middle-aged woman in a dark shawl snapped.

A few others nodded in agreement, their expressions tense. The air was thick with fear—fear of the unknown, fear of ancient curses and things lurking in the dark.

Lord Hawthorne cleared his throat, attempting to regain control of the situation. “We should send a rider to inform the city guard immediately—”

A sudden crash of thunder shook the room, followed by the furious howling of the wind. The storm outside intensified, rattling the windows and sending a flicker through the candlelight.

“No one will be riding anywhere,” one of the footmen muttered grimly. “Not in this storm.”

A murmur of unease swept through the guests. Lightning flashed, illuminating their nervous faces.

Father Lightwell simply smiled and closed his hands over the handle of his black umbrella. “Rest assured, Lord Hawthorne. I will find out who did this.”

The Lord hesitated, then nodded. With a practiced host’s grace, he turned to his guests and spread his arms in an appeasing gesture. “My friends, please—there is no need for panic. Let us return to the main hall and warm ourselves with a drink. There is nothing to fear.”

Despite his words, unease lingered as the guests slowly made their way back to the grand hall. The storm raged on, but inside, the real storm was only just beginning.

As the guests settled back into the grand hall, the tension did not ease. People spoke in hushed voices, glancing over their shoulders, clutching their drinks a little too tightly. It was only a matter of time before fear turned into blame.

"I saw her leave," a voice suddenly cut through the murmurs. A man in a fine but slightly disheveled suit pointed across the room. "The Lightforged! She disappeared right before the scream!"

All heads turned to the draenei woman standing near the fireplace, her golden eyes narrowing at the accusation. She was tall, her posture regal, her armor gleaming even in the dim light. She held a glass of wine with an air of indifference, as if the entire situation was beneath her.

"If I had committed murder," she said coolly, taking a sip, "it would have been far more elegant than this."

Another guest gasped. “She doesn’t even deny it!”

Father Lightwell stepped forward, placing himself between the guests and the accused. He studied her carefully—her rigid stance, the way she avoided direct eye contact. Suspicious, yes, but something didn’t quite fit.

"Miss…" He paused, realizing he did not know her name.

She flicked a glance at him before sighing. "Valessa, Father"

"Miss Valessa," he continued, his voice kind but firm. "Would you care to explain why you left the hall?"

Valessa rolled her eyes. "I was avoiding dull conversation, as any sensible person would. Must I report my every movement to the council of frightened noblemen?"

A few guests bristled at the remark.

Father Lightwell tilted his head. "And where, exactly, did you go?"

She hesitated, just briefly. "That is none of your concern, priest."

The room buzzed with suspicion.

Lord Hawthorne, though still composed, rubbed his temple. "This is getting out of hand..."

Father Lightwell adjusted his glasses. He wasn’t convinced Valessa was guilty. No—there was something else at play here. He just needed to find out what.

The Gathering Storm

"And besides," Valessa said in a bored tone, "if you're looking for someone to blame, perhaps you should ask Lord Hawthorne's son what he was doing upstairs with Abigail."

A murmur rippled through the crowd before a voice rang out. "Now, if I may—I've known Lord Hawthorne and Thomas for years, and they are both honorable men."

Father Lightwell immediately recognized the speaker and turned toward him. "Edwin Vale, I presume? I've read many of your books on Azeroth’s past. Quite fascinating, I must say—I’ve learned a great deal from them."

Edwin’s posture straightened, his chest puffing slightly as he beamed with pride. He gave Father Lightwell a grateful nod.

Valessa crossed her arms and let out an exasperated sigh. “Of course, the esteemed writer is immediately trusted without question,” she remarked, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Father Lightwell adjusted his spectacles but said nothing. Instead, he turned his gaze towards Lord Hawthorne, who had not yet spoken. The Lord’s jaw was tight, his hands clasped behind his back in a controlled manner. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and turned toward his son.

“I believe it would be best if my son spoke in private,” Lord Hawthorne declared.

Before anyone could object, Valessa took a step forward. “I was accused publicly so let your son speak publicly too. ”

A tense silence fell upon the room. The young Hawthorne heir, Thomas, reddened visibly. His fingers twitched at his sides. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then swallowed. Thomas’s face darkened slightly. He cast a brief glance at his father before looking back at  Father Lightwell, who merely observed the exchange with mild interest. Then, after a short pause, the priest adjusted his glasses with a single finger and spoke in his calm, measured tone.

“Perhaps,” Lightwell mused, “it would be fairest to all if we discussed this openly.”

Thomas hesitated, then nodded, shoulders slumping slightly. He sat down on the sofa, and Lightwell joined him, folding his hands neatly in his lap. The others, still standing, leaned in slightly, eager to hear what the young heir had to say.

The boy hesitated before continuing. “I… thought we were getting along. Me and Abigail. We’d spent time together, laughed at the same things, shared small moments. I thought…” He hesitated, his ears turning red. “I thought she felt the same.”

A pang of sympathy flickered in Lightwell’s expression. “And did she?”

The boy shook his head miserably. “No. I—I tried to steal a kiss.”

Another ripple of murmurs, this time sharper. Someone let out a scandalized gasp.

”She was furious,” the boy admitted, staring at his hands. “She slapped me. Hard.” He touched his cheek as if he could still feel it. “And then she—” He hesitated.

“Go on,” Lightwell encouraged gently.

“She told me I was a fool,” the boy muttered. “That I was pathetic for thinking she’d ever… that we’d ever be…” He clenched his jaw, swallowing back the embarrassment. “And then she said she’d destroy the helmet. Said it was hideous. That it was cursed.”

Lightwell’s gaze sharpened. “Cursed?”

The boy nodded stiffly. “She called it terrifying.” His voice wavered before rising in frustration. “But I never did anything to her! I loved her! I left the room because.. because I was in tears after what she had said.. ” Thomas let out a desperate sigh, his hands clenching at his sides. 

Lightwell, however, remained composed, letting the words settle. 

A moment of silence passed before the priest turned his gaze towards Edwin Vale. The man had been quiet throughout the ordeal, standing near the fireplace with his hands in his coat pockets, watching with an unreadable expression.

“Mr. Vale,” Lightwell said smoothly, “you are a man of history and culture. Do you happen to know anything about this helmet?”

Edwin barely lifted a brow. “Not particularly,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “Artifacts and relics are not quite my area of expertise.”

Valessa scoffed and tilted her head. “That’s odd,” she remarked. “I thought you had written about forgotten relics of Azeroth before.”

Edwin smiled, unbothered. “Oh, only in passing.” His face jerked suddendly and for a second he looked a bit confused and removed his right hand from his pocket, quickly shaking it.  

Valessa's gaze lingered on him for a moment before she turned to the others, folding her arms. "The helmet is an ancient Drustvar relic," she said. "Records link it to old vampire legends—shamans were said to have bathed it the blood of their human sacrifices, believing it would make their chief unstoppable in battle. But instead, it drove him mad. He slaughtered his own tribe… then drank their blood, like a true vampire."

Someone in the crowd inhaled sharply. A noblewoman, clutching a silk handkerchief, whispered, “Then… the murders really are the work of such creature?”

Murmurs erupted, and panic flickered across some faces. Lord Hawthorne, regaining his composure, raised a hand. “Enough,” he said sternly. “Let us not descend into hysteria.”

Lord Hawthorne straightened, his gaze sweeping the room. “Surely no one here truly believes my son capable of such an act?” His voice was controlled, but there was a hard edge to it. His grip on the back of a chair tightened just slightly.

No one answered immediately, but the tension was palpable. The nobles shifted uncomfortably, exchanging hesitant glances.

Then, Lord Hawthorne’s eyes landed on Valessa. A flicker of something passed over his face—suspicion, calculation. “Come to think of it,” he continued slowly, “I don’t even recall inviting you, Miss Valessa.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the gathered guests.

Valessa, who had just reached for one of the buffet table foods, paused, a small canapé between her fingers. She glanced up at him with an arched brow, unfazed. “Oh?” she mused, taking a bite. “How terribly forgetful of you, my lord.”

Lord Hawthorne’s lips thinned. “You appear wherever trouble arises, yet no one seems to know precisely why you are here. And now—” His gaze narrowed. “You were seen leaving the room around the time of the murder.”

At that, the murmurs grew louder.

Valessa let out an exasperated sigh and placed the remains of her canapé onto a porcelain plate with deliberate slowness. “First, I am accused of murder. Now, I am accused of crashing a party?” She gestured broadly to the room. “Truly, where do my crimes end?”

Then she frowned, glancing at the buffet table. “And speaking of crimes… no serving utensils? Honestly, that is a crime in itself.”

She wiped her hands with a napkin, cast one final unimpressed glance at Lord Hawthorne, and spun on her heel. Without another word, she strode out of the hall, leaving behind a hushed, uncertain silence.

Father Lightwell watched her go, his expression unreadable. Then, his eyes drifted subtly toward the buffet table. A detail had caught his attention.

Something was missing.

A cocktail fork.

A utensil with two small, sharp prongs.

And Abigail’s throat had borne two identical marks.

 Ink and Lies

Father Lightwell’s expression remained composed as he studied the buffet table, his eyes lingering for only a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then, he turned back to Lord Hawthorne with a thoughtful hum.

“My lord,” he said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs, “perhaps a bit of light entertainment would be in order? The tension in the room is rather palpable.”

Lord Hawthorne blinked at him, momentarily thrown off balance by the sudden change in topic. “Entertainment?”

“A musical performance, perhaps,” Lightwell suggested mildly. “Something to lift the spirits.”

A few nobles murmured in agreement, as if only now realizing how stiff and uncomfortable the atmosphere had become.

Lord Hawthorne exhaled, nodding. “Yes… yes, perhaps that would be best.” He turned toward one of the servants. “See if the musicians are still present.”

As the servant hurried off, Lightwell made a small, almost sheepish gesture. “On a less pressing matter—could you direct me to the nearest washroom?”

Lord Hawthorne barely looked at him as he waved a hand toward the far corridor. “Second door on the right.”

“Much obliged.” Lightwell inclined his head and excused himself, slipping through the murmuring guests.

Of course, he had no intention of heading to the washroom.

Valessa had left in a hurry, and Lightwell intended to find her. Preferably, before anyone else did.

Father Lightwell moved through the dimly lit corridors with quiet purpose. The heavy rain against the windows provided a steady rhythm to his thoughts. He had excused himself with the most mundane of reasons, yet his true intent was far from ordinary.

After a few moments of searching, he found her.

Valessa was seated in an armchair, one leg casually crossed over the other, a book open in her lap. A nearby candle flickered, casting soft light over the pages. She barely acknowledged his presence as he entered the room, though he noted the subtle way her eyes flicked up—just for a second—before returning to the book.

Lightwell took a moment to observe her, then let out a thoughtful hum. “The Tales of the Vampire Murders,” he mused aloud, his tone light. “An interesting choice.”

Valessa exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. “It’s nonsense,” she muttered. “But more entertaining than listening to self-important nobles point fingers at each other.” She snapped the book shut with one hand and carelessly tossed it onto the nearby table.

The book landed face down.

Lightwell’s gaze lingered on it for a moment. Then, with quiet curiosity, he stepped forward and turned it over. The name on the cover met his eyes.

Written by Nevil Warde.

He adjusted his spectacles, his brows lifting slightly.

Valessa, still leaning back in the chair, crossed her arms. “Found it in the waiting hall,” she remarked. “Probably belongs to one of those guests. If you ask me, it’s ridiculous. Full of dramatic nonsense—gory details, ominous foreshadowing, and exaggerated villainy. The kind of thing that sells to those who want to believe in monsters.” She waved a hand, dismissing the subject entirely.

Lightwell, however, smiled faintly. He took a slow step back, glancing toward the door as if considering his next move. Then, as he reached for the handle, he spoke in his usual, pleasant tone.

“A fascinating thing about books, Miss Valessa” he remarked idly, “is that sometimes, the story behind them is far more revealing than the one written inside.”

Valessa narrowed her eyes at him, but Lightwell simply tipped his head slightly, offering no further explanation.

Then he stepped out, leaving her with nothing but the flickering candlelight and the weight of his words.

The Truth

The grand hall was thick with tension. Murmurs of suspicion and uncertainty clung to the air like the last echoes of a fading storm, mingling with the strains of music no one seemed to enjoy.

Valessa entered first, her gaze cold as it swept over the room. She lifted her chin, exuding quiet confidence, then strode toward the fireplace and settled near its warmth.

Then, the door creaked open again.

Father Lightwell stepped inside. He moved without urgency, adjusting his cuffs as he crossed the threshold. A few heads turned toward him, expectant, but he said nothing at first. Instead, he let his gaze sweep the room—pausing briefly on the unease written across Lord Hawthorne’s face, the way Valessa leaned casually against a side table, arms crossed, watching.

And then, finally, his eyes settled on Edwin Vale.

“Edwin,” Lightwell said calmly. “You’ve played well, but your game is over.”

All eyes turned to the writer, who tensed. “What are you talking about?”

Lightwell lifted the book, turning it so the gilded name on the cover was visible.

“This book,” he said smoothly, “was not found by me.” His gaze flickered toward Valessa. “It was she who picked it up—discovered it lying on the waiting room floor and discarded it with little thought.” His lips twitched slightly. “I doubt she realized just how valuable a clue she had uncovered.”

Valessa’s expression was unreadable, but she tilted her head slightly in acknowledgment.

Lightwell turned the book in his hands. “At first, I thought nothing of it either. But when I saw the cover as it landed—when I saw the author’s name—it struck me.” His fingers traced the embossed letters on the spine. “Nevil Warde.”

His voice was soft but carried through the silent room. He lifted his gaze, meeting Edwin’s eyes.

“An anagram,” Lightwell said, “for Edwin Vale.”

A murmur rippled through the guests. Edwin’s breath hitched—just barely.

Lightwell continued, his voice steady.

“If you search his pockets,” Lightwell said evenly, “I am quite certain you will find the cocktail fork he used to create the bite marks, attempting to pass the murder off as a vampire attack.”

A few gasps filled the air, and Edwin’s expression flickered—just for a second—before he scoffed. “Now that is quite the stretch, Father. Really.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender, attempting to appear unbothered, but the nobles were already closing in, murmuring among themselves.

Lightwell’s gaze remained steady. “I believe they pricked your finger when you slipped your hand into your pocket.” That is why you shaked your hand so quickly earlier.”

A tense silence followed. Then, Lord Hawthorne, standing closest, narrowed his eyes and reached forward. Before Edwin could react, his hands were seized, and his pockets searched. Edwin Vale struggled against the firm grip of the two noblemen who had seized him. He let out a sharp breath, his usual air of smug confidence shattered. The cocktail fork—small, elegant, and damning—had been pulled from his pocket and now lay gleaming in Lord Hawthorne’s open palm. It was covered in blood.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd.

Lord Hawthorne’s expression darkened. “Explain yourself,” he demanded.

For a long moment, Edwin remained silent. Then, his shoulders slumped. He let out a humorless chuckle. “What’s the point in denying it now?” His voice was laced with bitterness. He glanced at the book still in Lightwell’s hand and gave a defeated shake of his head.

“You don’t understand,” Edwin muttered. “History books don’t sell anymore. For years, I wrote about Azeroth’s past—true, important stories. First, they were loved, important.. but  after a while, no one cared. No one bought them. Now it is all about Alliance and The Horde with peace and working side by side.. no one wants to remember the bloody past” He exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching. “I needed something new. Something fresh. And I thought… Vampires.”

A hush fell over the room.

Edwin lifted his gaze, his expression twisting with frustration. “I reinvented myself. I wrote under an alias. Nevil Warde—a new voice, a new name! I crafted dark, thrilling stories about vampire legends.” His voice turned sharp, mocking. “And do you know what happened? I was laughed at. Called trash. Dismissed.”

His hands clenched into fists. “But I knew how to make people believe. I knew how to make vampires real. I knew the helmet would be the answer”

A chill ran through the gathered guests.

Father Lightwell regarded him with quiet scrutiny. “And so you killed an innocent woman.”

Edwin’s jaw tightened, but there was no fight left in him.

“She was just a maid without a family” he muttered. “No one would have cared.” 

“Abigail was an innocent woman, who tried to do the right thing. No one is ever just something, everyone is the light's pure perfection.” Father Lightwell said firmly to Edwin. Then he turned and directed his gaze toward Valessa, who stood watching with her usual composed amusement.

“I believe,” Lightwell said smoothly, adjusting his spectacles, “you might want to arrest him now?”

A stunned silence followed.

Valessa blinked once. Then, a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. “Oh?” she mused. “So you figured it out.”

The guests looked between them, confused.

Lightwell gave a small nod. “Your wording was careful, your presence unassuming. Calm, collected—even as accusations flew around you." His lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “My guess, Miss Valessa? Pure SI:7.”

A few nobles let out shocked gasps at the name. SI:7—the elite intelligence agency of the Alliance.

Valessa’s expression remained unreadable, but her posture shifted ever so slightly.

“And, I imagine,” Lightwell continued, “that during the moment you disappeared, you weren’t committing murder at all.” He leaned on his trusty black umbrella.“You were contacting your people.”

Valessa tilted her head. “Go on.”

Lightwell gave a small, knowing smile. “You have the helmet don’t you?”

For a brief moment, there was silence. Then, Valessa let out a low chuckle.

“You’re good,” she admitted, crossing her arms. “I’ll give you that.”

She turned to Lord Hawthorne, who still looked stunned. “The helmet is dangerous,” she explained. “Drustvar artifacts are unpredictable. Cursed or not, something like that doesn’t belong in noble collections—it belongs in secure containment. We intercepted it before it could cause any more trouble. Abigail was a smart woman, she was the one who contacted us and she did give it to me.” Her voice softened. “Abigail was a smart woman. She was the one who contacted us, and she did give it to me.”

A shadow of regret crossed her face. “It’s only a shame I wasn’t there a few minutes longer… I could have saved her.” She lowered her gaze, sadness flickering in her eyes.

Lord Hawthorne blinked. “You—”

“Yes,” Valessa interrupted smoothly as she lifted her head. “You’ll live.” She turned her gaze to Thomas and shrugged her shoulders “ And now hard feelings Thomas, it was just an improv act”

Then, without another word, she pulled out a pair of slim enchanted restraints and snapped them around Edwin’s wrists. He flinched as the magic tightened around him.

“I’ll be taking him now,” Valessa said lightly, giving the bindings a small tug. “SI:7 has questions. And I imagine the Stormwind authorities will be very interested in his… creative process.”

Father Lightwell merely watched, hands folded.

As she led Edwin toward the door, Valessa glanced over her shoulder, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“Try not to miss me too much, Father,” she teased.

Lightwell exhaled a soft chuckle. “I shall do my best.”

Then, just like that, Valessa and her prisoner vanished into the night.

A Quiet Morning After the Storm

The next morning, the manor was  peaceful yet quiet. The storm had passed, and the air was crisp with the scent of damp earth and distant sea. Lord Hawthorne and Father Lightwell had moved outisde for a cup of morning tea. 

A long silence stretched between them before Hawthorne exhaled, rubbing his temples. “Perhaps it’s for the best that the helmet is gone,” he murmured. “It caused enough trouble in a single night. Imagine if it had stayed.”

Lightwell set his cup down gently. “Relics of the past have a way of unsettling the present,” he said. “Some mysteries are better left undisturbed.”

Hawthorne nodded absently before his expression darkened. “Abigail deserves better than to be remembered as the victim of some madman’s scheme. I intend to see she receives a proper burial.”

Lightwell’s voice was steady, kind. “I would be honored to perform the ceremony.”

Hawthorne looked up, studying the priest’s face for a moment before nodding.

The room fell into quiet contemplation.

Then, after a long pause, Hawthorne muttered, “First and last time I host a private art exhibition.”

Lightwell gave a small, understanding smile. “A reasonable decision, my lord. Some gatherings leave behind more than just empty glasses and footprints.

Hawthorne let out a weary breath, shaking his head.

And somewhere in Stormwind Valessa was already moving on—her mission complete, her work never truly done.