Five Clans, One Crowm

Hunters in the Dark

The darkness swallowed the Coliseum whole.

For one terrible moment, there was only silence—the kind of silence that comes before violence, heavy and suffocating. Then the screaming started, and the world dissolved into chaos.

Oscar couldn't see his own hand in front of his face. The torches had gone out all at once, like someone had snuffed every flame with a single breath. Around him, thousands of spectators were panicking, their screams blending into a single roar of terror.

"Ivanna!" he shouted. "Where are you?"

A hand grabbed his wrist—small, strong, calloused from years of fighting. "I'm here. Don't let go."

Oscar gripped her hand tight. "Kelvin!"

"Here!" Kelvin's voice came from his left, strained and breathless. "They're in the crowd. I heard them moving. Dozens of them."

Oscar's mind raced. The Bleached Maw had cut the lights. They'd planned this. They'd waited for the perfect moment, when the crowd was thickest and the chaos would be at its peak. Now they were moving through the darkness like sharks through black water.

"We need to get out of here," Oscar said. "The fighter's tunnel. It leads to the lower chambers. From there we can reach the streets."

"I know a faster way." Ivanna pulled him forward. "Follow me. And don't stop."

They moved through the darkness, guided by Ivanna's unerring sense of direction. She'd fought in this arena dozens of times. She knew every inch of the floor, every hidden passage, every shadow that could hide an enemy. Oscar stumbled after her, Kelvin clutching the back of his cloak.

The screams were getting closer.

"Something's wrong," Kelvin hissed. "They're not just panicking. They're dying."

Oscar heard it too—the wet, choking sounds that punctuated the screams. The Bleached Maw wasn't just hunting Ivanna. They were killing indiscriminately, cutting down anyone who got in their way. The Coliseum had become a slaughterhouse.

"There." Ivanna's voice was tight. "The eastern gate. We're almost there."

They burst through the gate and into a narrow service corridor. The darkness was less absolute here—a few emergency torches still burned on the walls, casting pools of sickly light. Oscar could finally see again, and what he saw made his blood run cold.

Three figures stood between them and the exit.

They wore the bone-white masks of the Bleached Maw, their robes spattered with fresh blood. The one in the center held a curved blade that dripped crimson onto the stone floor.

"The blood-child," the center figure said, his voice echoing strangely behind the mask. "You've led us quite a chase. But the hunt ends here."

Ivanna's blades were already in her hands. "I've been waiting for this since I was six years old."

She moved before anyone could react. The Cinder Step ignited, her body blurring into shadow as she closed the distance. The masked figure raised his blade to block, but Ivanna was already past him, her knives flashing in a deadly pattern.

The figure staggered. Blood sprayed from a cut across his chest.

But he didn't fall.

"Impressive," he said, his voice calm despite the wound. "But you're still just a child playing with shadows."

He turned, his blade sweeping toward Ivanna. She dodged, but not fast enough. The edge caught her arm, opening a deep gash. She cried out, stumbling back.

Oscar moved.

The Ashen Rebirth Style flared to life in his chest, flooding his limbs with burning heat. He crossed the distance in three strides, his broken sword aimed at the masked figure's throat. The blade found its mark.

Or it would have, if the figure hadn't caught it.

"Your brother was faster," the masked man said, his free hand closing around Oscar's sword arm with crushing force. "And even he couldn't escape us."

Oscar struggled, but the grip was like iron. "You didn't kill Kael. Veyne did."

"Veyne was our tool." The masked man's grip tightened. "A blunt instrument. We wanted Kael alive. We wanted to study him, to understand why he'd chosen your bloodline to carry our secrets. But Veyne's hatred was stronger than his fear. He killed Kael before we could extract what we needed."

The words hit Oscar like a physical blow. Veyne hadn't acted alone. The Bleached Maw had been pulling strings all along. They'd wanted Kael alive, and Veyne had denied them their prize.

"He was a sacrifice," Oscar spat. "To your madness."

"He was a vessel." The masked man leaned closer, and behind the mask, Oscar could see the gleam of eyes that held no human warmth. "Just like you. Just like the girl. You both carry the old blood. The blood of the Titans. And we will have it."

The Ashen Rebirth Style screamed inside Oscar's chest. He had one chance. One moment to break free.

He took it.

The technique he used had no name—Kael had taught it to him in whispers, in the dark, in the secret hours between beatings and despair. It was a move that only worked once, because it shattered something inside the user. Something precious.

Oscar's free hand slammed into the masked man's elbow.

The Ashen Rebirth Style wasn't meant for direct attacks. It was a technique of movement and endurance, of drawing power from pain and turning it into speed. But Oscar had learned to channel it differently. To focus all that burning energy into a single point of impact.

The masked man's arm shattered.

Bone splintered. The grip on Oscar's sword arm released. The masked figure howled—a sound of genuine surprise and agony that echoed through the corridor.

Oscar didn't hesitate. He drove his broken sword into the figure's chest, pushing with everything he had. The blade sank deep, through muscle and bone, until the hilt pressed against the white robes.

The masked man stared down at the blade protruding from his chest. Then he laughed.

"Good," he whispered. "The old blood is strong in you."

He fell.

The other two figures were already moving, their blades flashing in the torchlight. Kelvin appeared from nowhere, throwing himself at one of them with a scream of pure desperation. He had no weapon, just his fists and his fury. The masked figure batted him aside like a fly, sending him crashing into the stone wall.

"Kelvin!" Oscar shouted.

But Ivanna was already there. The Cinder Step flared again, and she materialized behind the second figure, her blades finding the gaps in his armor. The figure dropped, twitching, as dark blood pooled beneath him.

The third figure turned and ran.

"Coward!" Ivanna spat. She made to chase, but Oscar grabbed her arm.

"Let him go. We need to move. More will be coming."

She shook him off, her eyes wild with battle-lust. "They killed my mother. They've been hunting me my whole life. I won't let them—"

"You'll get your chance!" Oscar's voice cut through her rage. "But not tonight. Not here. We're outnumbered and Kelvin is hurt. If we stay, we die."

For a long moment, Ivanna stared at him. Then the fire in her eyes dimmed, replaced by something colder. Harder. Acceptance.

"Fine," she said. "But this isn't over."

"It's just beginning." Oscar turned to Kelvin, who was pushing himself up from the floor, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. "Can you walk?"

"I can run," Kelvin said, though his voice was shaky. "Let's go."

They fled through the corridor, leaving the bodies of the Bleached Maw behind. The sounds of the Coliseum faded behind them, but the screaming seemed to follow, echoing through the stone like the wails of ghosts.

Ivanna led them through a maze of passages, her knowledge of the arena proving invaluable. They emerged into a narrow alley behind the eastern wall, the night air cold against their sweat-soaked skin. The city stretched before them, dark and dangerous.

"Where now?" Kelvin asked, pressing a hand to his bleeding head.

Oscar thought for a moment. "The temple district. There's a safe house there. A friend of mine—a healer named Isabella. She'll patch us up."

"Isabella?" Ivanna's brow furrowed. "The one who works in the temple wards?"

"You know her?"

"Everyone in the pits knows Isabella. She's patched up half the fighters in the city." Ivanna paused. "Is she trustworthy?"

Oscar nodded. "With my life."

Ivanna studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then she sheathed her blades and started walking. "Lead the way."

They moved through the city in silence, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the main streets. The curfew bells had long since rung, and the night watch was out in force. But the Bleached Maw was still out there too, hunting, waiting, biding their time.

As they walked, Oscar's mind churned with everything the masked man had said. Veyne was a tool. The Bleached Maw had wanted Kael alive. And both Oscar and Ivanna carried something called "the old blood"—the blood of the Titans.

The first key was a person. But maybe it wasn't just one person. Maybe it was a bloodline. And maybe that bloodline ran through both of them.

He glanced at Ivanna, walking beside him with the easy grace of a predator. She caught his look and raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nothing," Oscar said. "Just thinking."

"Think faster. We're not out of danger yet."

She was right. The night was still young, and the Bleached Maw was still hunting. But for the first time in five years, Oscar felt something he'd thought was dead.

Hope.

They reached the temple district just as the first light of dawn began to paint the sky. Isabella's safe house was a small building tucked behind the old chapel, its windows dark, its door unmarked. Oscar knocked three times, paused, then twice more.

The door opened a crack. A woman's face appeared—pale, tired, but with eyes that held a quiet strength.

"Oscar?" Isabella's voice was barely a whisper. "What happened? You look—"

"We need help," Oscar said. "And we need a place to hide."

Isabella's eyes widened as she took in the three of them—Oscar bleeding from a dozen cuts, Kelvin with a gash on his head, and Ivanna still splattered with the blood of her enemies. She hesitated for only a moment before opening the door wider.

"Get inside. Quickly."

They slipped into the darkness of the safe house, and Isabella closed the door behind them.

But outside, in the shadows across the street, a figure watched.

The figure wore no mask, but his face was pale as bone. He smiled—a slow, terrible expression—and then he turned and disappeared into the night.

The hunt wasn't over.

It had only just begun.