Alliance of Shadows, Book 3: HUNTER

Life and Loss

My heart dropped to my stomach, and a strange sadness choked me. The feeling that I had lost the most important person in my life weighed heavily on my young shoulders.

“Did I not command you to be silent?” Father roared, his fury shattering the stillness of the chamber. The baby wailed, its fragile cry a stark contrast to the violence consuming the room.

“Command all you wish, you bloodthirsty bastard,” the woman struggled to her feet, bracing herself against the heavy oak table for support. “I do not belong to you.”

From beneath the folds of her robes, she drew a stone amulet, the weight of it seeming unnatural as it settled in her grasp. Strange symbols, etched into its rough surface, gleamed beneath the firelight. A jet-black gem rested at its center, its smooth surface catching the glow of the burning candles, reflecting flickers of crimson and gold like embers trapped in stone.

“Do you truly think you are immortal? Do you honestly believe that you cannot be touched by anything in the living world?” Her voice, low and unwavering, sent an unnatural chill through the air.

A cold dread crawled beneath my skin. The shadows in the corners of the chamber seemed to stretch, bending toward the unseen force her words summoned.

“You have spilled the innocent blood of a child. Until the day my daughter’s soul is reborn, I curse your sons to never find their Mates! You will know nothing of peace, and you will be usurped by one you least expected to rise against you. So I say, so must it be!”

The black gem pulsed. A deep, glowing red spread from its center, veins of crimson light branching across its surface as if the stone itself had come alive. The glow expanded, filling the room, swallowing the flickering candlelight and casting distorted shadows against the stone walls.

Then, in an instant—it was gone.

The women and the girl had vanished.

Silence hung heavy in the chamber, thick with the remnants of something far more permanent than spoken words. The curse lingered, though unseen, its presence sinking into the walls, into the air we breathed, into the very foundation of our existence.

Father glanced around the room as he whispered, “We shall see who hexes whom, Witch. Your kind will know neither peace nor acceptance so long as I draw breath. I will hunt you until the last Breakwater Witch is dead.”

I knew then—without question—that he would rain hell upon the Coven. That his fury, relentless and unwavering, would carve a path of blood and retribution. Because of him, we understood that our lives were no longer our own. We had become trapped in something far darker than mere grief—a vicious cycle of life, loss, and death.

Silently, we made our way back to the other room, the weight of what had just transpired pressing down upon us. The trapdoor swung shut with deliberate care, the heavy wood muffling the sounds of our retreat. The iron latch clicked into place, sealing us away from the chaos we could still feel lingering in the air.

The moment the latch settled, Father’s adviser breezed into the chamber, his movements precise, as though he had been waiting for this exact moment. The scent of damp wool and aged parchment clung to him, blending with the lingering tallow smoke that curled in the sconces. His beady eyes swept over us, calculating, lingering just long enough for discomfort to creep beneath my skin.

He never liked our mother. We knew it.

“My sincerest apologies, my Lords,” he said, his tone smooth, absent of warmth or genuine sorrow. “Your mother has passed away in childbirth.”

Micah stood facing the darkness outside, his frame stiff, unmoving. Beyond the frosted panes of the window, the night stretched endlessly, the storm having settled into an eerie stillness—as if even the wind itself had paused in mourning. A faint reflection of firelight glinted off the glass, catching the sheen of unshed tears in my brother’s eyes. His jaw clenched so tightly I could see the faint twitch of muscle beneath his skin.

He was thinking about what Father had done. We all were. We understood, without speaking, that this moment had bound us to fate itself. That our father had not simply sentenced us to sorrow, but to something far worse than death.

Harold cleared his throat, his stance stiff, measured. “Is the baby well?”

“The child is fine,” Wesley replied in a clipped tone. He was always dismissive—cold in a way that felt deliberate, as though detachment was an art he had perfected over years of servitude. Yeah, he didn't like us one bit.

Justin glared at the adviser. “Micah, I will take our younger brothers to their rooms.”

Wesley nodded solemnly, his expression unreadable. “That would be for the best, young Lord.”

“I was talking to my brother,” Justin snapped, his voice edged with defiance.

Even at four years old, it was clear to me that my elder brothers knew something I didn't. There was a weight in the room that I didn't fully understand—but I could feel it. I was a smart child, so when Micah told us younger kids to keep what we saw a secret, I knew why.

He didn't want Father to know we knew.

Justin led the four of us youngest brothers out of the room and down the hall to the East Wing. The corridor stretched in cold silence, the polished wooden floors barely creaking beneath our careful steps.

The antechamber, vast and still, loomed before us. Tall windows framed the moonlit sky, their panes streaked with frost. Several rooms branched off in a semi-circular fashion, their heavy doors shut as if they, too, sought to keep the night at bay.

The flames had died down in the fireplace, the embers glowing red and black, reminding me of the stone that the Witch held before cursing our family. The dying fire cast shifting shadows along the walls, the last remnants of its heat failing to chase away the unnatural chill creeping into the room.

Something in the air made me feel a little strange. I want to call it nostalgia, but it was darker than that—a deep, lingering unease that settled into my bones like an omen.

When we entered the shared room, Justin ordered us to start preparing our things.

As we finished putting together our things, we met back in the anteroom. The dim glow of the remaining embers in the fireplace cast shifting shadows along the walls, the light barely reaching the high, arched ceiling above.

It was then that Father strode in, his coat sweeping behind him as he moved, the scent of cold damp wool and lingering tallow clinging to the air. His expression was composed, measured—but when he smiled, it did not reach his eyes. His hand rested firmly on the shoulder of a different girl, her grip tense as she cradled the baby in her arms.

“Justin, take care of her. She is your brothers’ new Governess,” Father ordered, giving the girl a slight push in my brother’s direction.

Justin watched her carefully. When his gaze met hers—wide, fearful, pleading—he gasped softly.

Something dangerous flickered in Father’s eyes. “How very disappointing. Are you certain, Justin?” His voice was sharp, expectant, carrying more weight than the simple question suggested.

Carefully, he faced our father. “No, Father. She is rather young and does not look strong at all. That’s why I reacted so.”

Father smirked, something cruel curling at the edges of his mouth. “Good. It would not be wise to meet your Mate at this time.”

The girl burst into tears, her shoulders shaking as Jerome took the newborn from her arms once we were sure Father had gone.

“Please, I’m begging you to let me go,” she pleaded between sobs, her voice breaking in desperation.

By the pained expression on my brother’s face, I knew. He had found his Mate, but telling our father would only end badly for him, no matter what we tried to do. He would act on the Witch’s words, and we all knew just how coldly calculating he could be.

Stanley stepped forward, his voice steady but gentle. “Forgive us, Miss, but we don't know your name.”

“Emily, young Lord.” She barely managed the words before sinking to the floor in tears, her sobs wracking her thin frame as she pleaded for her release. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her gown, grasping at the material as if searching for some kind of anchor.

We quietly swallowed our pride, knowing there was nothing we could do, and tried to soothe her fears the best we could.

Justin shook his head, his expression pained. “Please stay as long as you can, Miss Emily. I will try my best to protect you. I swear that you will not be harmed by me or my brothers.”

Two years later, Father announced that it was time for us to leave the area. Justin went to look for Emily that same day, determined to free her from Father's deadly grasp.

He had ensured her well-being during the years she spent with us, tending to her needs with quiet diligence. From her food to her clothing, Justin had done everything within his power to care for her, all while pretending to simply follow Father's orders. His careful attention had shielded her, even if only in small ways, from the worst of our household’s cruelty.

But when he found her, his heart broke. Her blood had been drained, her body left cold and still. She had been silenced forever.

After mourning her loss, the truth settled over him with crushing certainty—someone must have told our father.

That day was the last time he spoke to anyone.

It would be centuries before we would finally hear him speak again.