Alliance of Shadows, Book 3: HUNTER

Within the Ruins

Seeing what time had done to the area was nothing short of appalling. The town was hollow, a place abandoned long before we stepped foot on its soil. Structures that once held warmth and purpose now stood silent, their facades cracked and sagging beneath years of neglect. Splitting up, the nine of us, including Logan, who had eagerly wanted to see the ruins, searched for muted signs of the truth in the abandoned chaos.

I cautiously picked my way through a cluster of empty houses. Their windows, now gaping holes, stared out like vacant eyes, glass long shattered or missing entirely. Doors hung loosely on their hinges, some warped from water damage, others barely holding onto rusted nails.

Weeds and vines had crept in where people once walked, overtaking roads that had crumbled into uneven stretches of dirt and stone. The absence of life was suffocating—no birds, no animals, only the groan of buildings settling under the weight of time.

I stepped inside one house that seemed sturdier than the rest.

Layer upon layer of dust covered everything, undisturbed for over two hundred years, forming a thick, suffocating blanket over forgotten furniture and untouched belongings. Plates sat cracked on tables where meals had once been shared. A rocking chair rested in a corner, frozen mid-motion as if waiting for someone who would never return.

My gaze landed on a locked iron trunk in the farthest corner of the room as a strange unease settled over me. Something was wrong with what I was seeing. Very, very wrong.

"Damn, this place could really use a housekeeper," Peter said as he appeared in the doorway, his sharp green eyes sweeping across the dust-laden room. My brother leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed, his posture far too relaxed for the eerie silence that surrounded us. "Find anything interesting?"

I c****d my head and grinned, holding up a set of scrolls I found resting beneath layers of untouched dust. "No, I’ve found nothing of interest. Perhaps these scrolls would be worth looking into."

Peter snorted, shaking his head as he stepped farther inside. "Dude, it’s the twenty-first century. Get with the times and stop talking like we’re still living in the sixteenth century." His boots kicked up small clouds of dust, swirling in the dim light like ghosts of a forgotten era.

For those who want to know, I had my quirks—ones most people ignored, save for my brothers.

They had adapted to the ever-changing landscape of technology and medical advances, always keeping up with the latest developments. Not that I rejected modern convenience entirely—I used a computer when needed—but given the choice, I preferred an actual book.

If I wasn’t reading, I was in my lab, compiling notes and perfecting herbal remedies through alchemy, blending old methods with my own understanding.

“I’ll have you know that I’m quite comfortable speaking like this, brat,” I replied, fully aware of how much it annoyed him.

He scowled, giving me a pointed, daring look that only made me smile. After all, I had an entire four years on him.

His expression shifted as his phone dinged, the sharp tone cutting through the stillness of the abandoned town. The color drained from his face almost instantly, his easy posture stiffening as he scanned the screen. Whatever he saw had cracked through his usual confidence.

I never bothered with a cellular device of my own, choosing my peace over the whirlwind of mind games people seemed so intent on playing. The silence between us deepened as Peter’s fang caught on his lower lip, his relaxed state unraveling into something sharper—confusion, confrontation.

“What the hell?” His voice was low, almost distant, as if the words had barely made it past his thoughts.

I stepped out of the house, the stale air heavy with dust, and into the muted daylight. Overcast skies of blue and grey hung above us, their color washed-out, mirroring the uncertainty that had settled between us.

“Is something the matter?” My tone was steady, but beneath the surface, unease coiled tight.

Peter nodded, his brows drawing together, a crease forming between them—a rare sight. Fear. Real fear.

“Stan found an underground area,” he said, still staring at his phone. “He’s not sure how big it is, but he said it looks like it hasn’t been touched in centuries.”

The words rippled through me like a slow, creeping chill. That’s when I realized—Father’s story was becoming less and less believable.

Everyone else had already gathered when Peter and I arrived. Logan glanced up from the opening, offering a small, knowing smile—like he had already uncovered something none of us were ready to face.

“I asked my older brother about the Ruby Fang and what happened to them when I was searching for my Madre’s family,” he whispered. He swallowed, his throat bobbing as he hesitated. “I don’t believe there was an attack. This place is way too clean, too undamaged. None of the homes look like they were raided. It’s as if the people just… left. No struggle, no signs of force—just a complete abandonment.”

I exhaled slowly, shoving my hands into my coat pockets. The wind shifted, lifting the snow at our feet and twisting it into fragile, swirling patterns—beautiful, yet fleeting.

“I’m thinking the same thing,” I admitted, though the certainty left an unsettled feeling in my chest.

Peter’s face was utterly unreadable. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he remembered that tomorrow was his birthday.

Justin and Jerome stood off to the side, whispering, their identical hands moving in smooth, practiced motions. At a glance, their gestures seemed like unconscious emphasis—twin synchronicity shaped by years of shared instincts.

But I knew better.

Their words and their signing told two different stories.

A hundred years ago, Micah had locked them inside a concrete box together, forcing them to either find common ground or remain in isolation. The first few days had been nothing short of a disaster—shouting, fists flying, each of them determined to be right. But slowly, frustration turned to understanding. Forced proximity had molded their rivalry into something else entirely.

Now, their silent language was second nature, a layer of communication invisible to those who weren’t paying attention.

Where others might overlook the movements of their hands without a second thought, I recognized them for what they were—proof that, even after all these years, they still spoke in a language only the two of them fully understood.

“Would you two shut the hell up, please?”

Logan’s voice sliced through the cold air, sharp and unwavering. His fists clenched at his sides, his young body trembling—not in fear, but with the weight of frustration that had finally reached its peak.

Jerome blinked, as if Logan had knocked the wind out of him. “Dude, did you just yell at us?”

Logan snarled, his breath fogging in the evening chill. “And I’ll do it again if you keep arguing over who goes back to confront your father. Do you have a death wish? I don’t know about you, but I just found my family, and I don’t feel like attending your funerals any time soon.”

Micah exhaled, laughter slipping through his exhaustion as he dragged his fingers through his hair. The sound was dry, bitter, but resigned. He turned to the twins, voice low but firm. “Guys, none of us are going back. I’m not risking the lives of my brothers over Father’s inability to speak the truth or accept when he’s in the wrong.”

He hesitated for a brief moment, his gaze darkening. “Think about it. Tomorrow evening marks two hundred and eighty-six years since Father killed two innocent women and brought the curse of the Breakwaters down on our heads. Had he only allowed himself a moment of weakness, we’d have all met our prospective Mates by now.”

The weight of his words settled between us, heavy as the winter sky above.

Harold, who had been eyeing the opening in the ground, finally spoke up, his voice thoughtful. “You have solid reasoning, Micah. Yet we forget that two of our brothers met their Mates for the first time that evening.”

Stanley exhaled, gaze distant. “For all we know, all of them have been reborn to one race or another.”

Jerome chuckled, the sound sharp with old bitterness. “That was the day little Petey was born. Hunter’s Mate never stood a chance when Father killed her. That Witch should have just killed him, but no—she had to hex us into a life of celibacy instead.”

Peter stiffened beside me, his expression darkening as his jaw tightened. “My name is Peter. P-E-T-E-R,” he snapped, glare locked onto Jerome. Then his voice dropped, almost uncertain. “Wait… that happened the day I was born?”

Micah let out a weary laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “I have a lot of explaining to do, don’t I?”

The weight of the conversation settled between us, thick as the cold air drifting through the ruins.

Still, Justin remained physically silent, just as he had for the last two—almost three—hundred years. His quiet wasn’t indifference. It was a wound, one left untouched for centuries.

Another who rarely spoke was my younger brother, Vincent. The observer. The builder who never found use for his own voice.

For Justin, silence settled in the day Father took Emily from him. Her absence left behind a wound that never fully healed but only closed over in quiet resignation. For Vincent, it was the years of cruelty he endured at the hands of the wolves we lived with, their taunts cutting deeper than fangs ever could. They mocked him for the way his words stumbled, his voice never quite aligning with the sharp precision they expected. And Father had let it happen, watching, turning a blind eye.

Logan shifted, sensing the tension like an approaching storm. “Guys, focus,” he urged, pulling attention back to the task at hand.

Grateful for the distraction, we started down the steps, descending into the unknown.