Van Helsing - Miles And Miles ... Direct

"Miles and miles," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp. "It’s always miles and miles."

Beside him, Carl—the friar whose nervous energy was the only thing keeping them awake—tripped over a jagged root. "Technically, Gabriel, it’s leagues. And if my map is even remotely accurate, which, given the cartographer was a madman in a dungeon, is a coin toss, we are still three days from the Borgo Pass."

Van Helsing didn't look back. He was watching the way the mist swirled in the valley below. It wasn't moving with the wind; it was pulsing, like a slow, grey lung. He knew that rhythm. It was the breath of something ancient, something that didn't need to breathe at all. "We don't have three days," Van Helsing said. Van Helsing - Miles and Miles ...

"Is that... them?" Carl whispered, fumbling for a vial of holy water.

"It’s him," Van Helsing corrected, drawing a silver-edged kukri. "And he’s tired of running." "Miles and miles," he muttered, his voice a gravelly rasp

Van Helsing stepped forward, his silhouette sharp against the rising moon. He didn't feel fear; he felt the familiar, cold weight of duty. The road was long, the journey was grueling, and the destination was usually a grave. But as the creature lunged, Gabriel met it mid-air, the silver flashing like a fallen star. The miles were behind him. The fight was now.

The distance between them and their quarry had shrunk from miles to yards in a heartbeat. From the tree line, a shape detached itself—a towering mass of elongated limbs and pale, translucent skin. It moved with a sickening fluidity, blurring the line between man and beast. And if my map is even remotely accurate,

The fog over the Transylvanian Alps didn't just hang; it clung, a heavy, wet shroud that tasted of pine resin and old iron. Gabriel Van Helsing adjusted the leather strap of his rotary crossbow, the gears clicking rhythmically against the silence of the pass.