BOUND BY BLOOD

CHAPTER THREE

The storm came at dawn.

Thunder rumbled across Hollow Creek, shaking the chapel windows. Rain poured hard and relentless, turning the dirt outside into rivers of mud. The hunters had been awake long before the first c***k of lightning — none of them had slept much.

Seraphina sat near the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. Each drop caught the light of the candles and shimmered like liquid gold before sliding away.

She hadn’t spoken since the hunt. Not even when Marcus tried to talk strategy. Not even when Dorian muttered apologies about the villager who’d died. Her silence was heavy, but not angry — just… empty.

The kind of quiet that builds when you’re too tired to feel anything else.

The kind of quiet that feels like the edge of breaking.

The priest brought them food that morning — bread, soup that smelled faintly of onions, and a whispered blessing. His hands shook as he placed the bowls down. “Will it stop now?” he asked, voice trembling.

Marcus looked at him. “It won’t.”

The old man’s lips quivered. “But you killed it—”

Seraphina finally spoke, voice calm and flat. “Vampires never travel alone.”

He went still, the hope draining from his face. He nodded once and left.

Dorian slumped against the wall. “You could’ve lied, at least.”

“What for?” Seraphina didn’t look at him. “Truth’s kinder than false hope.”

Marcus gave her a long look. “You sound like someone who’s stopped hoping altogether.”

She didn’t reply.

Because he was right.

By afternoon, the rain had softened into a drizzle. They prepared to move again — Hollow Creek was small, but the woods stretched for miles. If there were more vampires nearby, they’d smell blood soon.

Seraphina adjusted her cloak and slung her crossbow across her shoulder. Her reflection flickered in a puddle — dark hair plastered to her neck, a small scar running along her jawline, a smear of dirt near her temple. She looked nothing like the girl she used to be.

That girl had laughed once. She’d believed in safety, in stories, in light.

But that was before the night everything burned.

Before the scent of blood replaced the smell of wildflowers in her memory.

Before her mother’s voice turned into an echo.

They reached the edge of the forest again. The trees swayed and groaned under the wind, their branches twisted like old bones. Dorian rode ahead, humming something under his breath. Marcus followed behind, his silence grounding them all.

Seraphina’s thoughts wandered.

She remembered the first vampire she’d ever killed.

She’d been seventeen, trembling so hard she could barely aim. Her father had stood behind her, guiding her arm. “Don’t hesitate,” he’d said. “Hesitation gets you killed.”

And she hadn’t.

She’d pulled the trigger.

She still remembered the way the creature screamed, the way its body turned to ash in the air. She hadn’t eaten for two days after that.

Now, years later, she didn’t even flinch.

And that terrified her more than any monster ever could.

By evening, they set up camp again. Marcus built the fire. Dorian cleaned the weapons. Seraphina sat apart, as always, staring at the flames.

The world felt quiet — too quiet. The forest watched them with invisible eyes.

Marcus tossed a stick into the fire. “You’ve been on the road too long,” he said suddenly. “You need rest.”

She looked at him. “We all do.”

He shook his head. “Not like you. You don’t sleep, you barely eat, and when you do, it’s like your mind’s still hunting something. Something you can’t kill.”

Seraphina’s gaze softened for the first time that night. “Maybe I am.”

Marcus sighed, his voice low. “You can’t spend your whole life chasing ghosts.”

Her jaw tensed. “They’re the only ones that don’t leave me.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. He knew her well enough to know when to stop.

The fire crackled, the wind whistled through the trees, and Seraphina sat in silence, her thoughts looping in endless circles.

What was left of her outside the hunt?

She couldn’t remember.

The Order had taken her in after her parents’ deaths. They’d trained her, hardened her, reshaped her into a weapon. The only thing that mattered was obedience, discipline, blood.

“Kill for the living,” they’d said.

“Die for the cause.”

She’d done both, in her own way.

But sometimes, in the rare stillness between battles, she wondered — what if she’d never joined? What if she’d stayed human?

What if she’d learned to love something other than vengeance?

Dorian broke her thoughts with a laugh. “You ever think about what you’d be if you weren’t a hunter?”

Seraphina blinked, pulled from her reverie. “No.”

“Come on,” he said, smiling faintly. “You must’ve had dreams. Everyone did once.”

“Dreams get people killed,” she replied.

He frowned. “That’s not true.”

She turned her eyes to the fire. “Then why are most of mine buried?”

The boy fell quiet after that. Even Marcus didn’t speak.

The night grew colder. The stars were faint, scattered between clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled — long, mournful, like a song for the dead.

Seraphina listened until the sound faded into the dark.

Later, when the others slept, she remained awake — her body still, her mind restless. The fire had died down to embers, glowing faintly red. The world smelled like rain and smoke and something older, something she couldn’t name.

She took out her dagger and turned it in her hand, the metal catching what little light was left. Her mother’s initials were carved on the handle — L.E. — barely visible after all these years.

Seraphina traced them with her thumb.

She didn’t pray anymore. Not to gods, not to fate. But she did this, sometimes — a silent ritual of remembrance.

It was the only thing that felt real.

When morning came, she rose before the sun again. Her cloak was damp, her boots caked with mud. She washed her face in the stream nearby and stared at her reflection in the water.

The river didn’t show mercy. It showed truth.

And the truth was, she was tired — bone-deep tired. Not from lack of sleep, but from the endless repetition of survival.

Every hunt blurred into the next. Every kill left her emptier.

There were moments — tiny, fleeting moments — when she thought she felt something like peace. Like when she heard the birds before dawn. Or when the world smelled of wet earth after rain.

But peace never stayed.

It always slipped away, just when she reached for it.

That day, they’d ride farther north — toward the old forest that stretched beyond the borders of Hollow Creek. Rumors whispered of ruins hidden there, ancient and cursed.

Marcus had said it was only superstition.

But superstition had a way of becoming truth in their line of work.

Seraphina saddled her horse, tightening the straps with practiced hands. The sky was gray, the air cold enough to sting her lungs. She looked ahead — the path winding into mist, endless and uncertain.

And for the first time in a long time, she wondered if somewhere along that path, something was waiting for her.

Not a monster.

Not death.

Something else.

Something that might finally make her feel alive again.