CHAPTER TWO
1291 Words
The sea was still dark when Seraphina rose.
The others were still asleep, their breathing heavy inside the small room they’d taken at the inn. Dorian’s sword rested beside him; Marcus’s cloak hung over the chair. The faint smell of ash and iron clung to everything — hunters always smelled like that, no matter where they went.
Seraphina moved quietly, tying her hair back with practiced precision. Her body ached from the road, but she ignored it. Pain was a familiar hum beneath her skin — a companion, not an enemy.
Outside, Blackmere was waking. The gulls screamed above the docks. Fishermen moved like ghosts in the fog, hauling nets that glistened like spiderwebs. Water slapped against the wooden posts, and the morning wind bit at her cheeks.
She leaned against a barrel and watched the gray horizon. The world looked softer in the early light, almost gentle — but she didn’t trust it. Beauty had a way of disguising danger. So did calm. She’d learned that the night her mother died.
Marcus found her an hour later, his boots heavy on the dock.
“You didn’t sleep.”
Seraphina didn’t look at him. “Wasn’t tired.”
He gave a low grunt — he never pressed, never scolded. Just observed, in that quiet way of his that saw too much. “We ride north after noon,” he said. “Report came from Hollow Creek. Another sighting.”
“How far?” she asked.
“Three days.” He paused, then added, “The boy won’t like it.”
Seraphina smirked faintly. “Dorian doesn’t like anything colder than his prayers.”
Marcus chuckled once, a sound like gravel. “He’ll learn. We all did.”
She turned her gaze back to the sea. “Did we?”
He didn’t answer.
By midday, they left Blackmere behind. The road north was narrow, the sky heavy with clouds that threatened rain. Horses snorted and shifted beneath them, hooves thudding softly against the mud.
Dorian rode ahead, eager and restless as always. He talked too much, filling the silence with stories from old hunts, things he’d “heard from the elders.” Seraphina barely listened. Her focus was the road, the forest, the rhythm of the ride.
Every time she blinked, she saw faces — flashes of the dead.
The farmer’s wife. The baker’s child. The pale girl from the docks.
They lingered, heavy and cold in her chest.
“You ever think of quitting?” Dorian asked suddenly.
Seraphina’s hand tightened on the reins. “Quitting what?”
“The Order,” he said. “Hunting. All of it. You could… I don’t know, live somewhere quiet. Grow herbs. Make soup.”
That almost made her laugh. “You think monsters stop knocking just because you stop answering?”
He flushed. “No, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant,” she said softly. “But this is all I know.”
And it was true. She didn’t remember what it felt like to live for anything other than killing. Her hands were too used to blades; her mind too wired for danger. Peace felt like something she wouldn’t recognize even if it stood in front of her.
Marcus slowed his horse beside them. “Enough chatter,” he said. “Eyes up.”
The boy fell quiet. The woods had grown thicker — tall, skeletal trees clawing at the gray sky. The smell of moss and rot filled the air. Somewhere in the distance, a crow called out once, then went silent.
They stopped to camp before dusk.
The fire crackled weakly, smoke rising into the wind. Dorian cooked — badly. Marcus sharpened his blade. Seraphina sat apart, polishing her crossbow, her expression distant. The forest around them pulsed with quiet — not peace, but the kind of silence that hides teeth.
After a while, Marcus spoke without looking up.
“You’ve been quieter lately.”
“I didn’t realize I wasn’t before.”
“You were,” he said. “You used to talk more. Before Blackmere.”
She looked up at him, brow furrowing slightly. “Talking doesn’t stop the blood.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it stops you from drowning in it.”
The firelight flickered between them, painting his face in amber and shadow. He was right, of course. But she didn’t know how to talk about it — the way each hunt carved another piece from her. The way every death echoed the one she could never forget.
She stared into the flames until her eyes burned.
When they reached Hollow Creek three days later, the air felt wrong. The whole town reeked of fear — a low, heavy dread that clung to every wall. The people didn’t look at them when they rode through. Doors shut. Curtains drew.
Seraphina felt the change instantly.
Her instincts prickled.
Something had happened here. Something ugly.
They dismounted near the chapel, where an old priest met them. His hands trembled as he spoke. “They come at night,” he whispered. “We bury one every dawn.”
Marcus’s face darkened. “How long?”
“A week. Maybe more. We’ve lost count.”
Seraphina looked past him, at the graveyard behind the chapel. Fresh dirt. Too many fresh mounds. Her jaw clenched. “We’ll need to see the bodies.”
The priest’s lips parted, but he said nothing.
He didn’t have to.
There weren’t any bodies left to show.
That night, the hunters patrolled the edge of the village. The fog had rolled in again, thick and cold, swallowing sound. The moon hid behind clouds, and the air tasted like copper.
Seraphina walked with her crossbow drawn, every step measured. The others spread out behind her. They moved through barns, alleyways, even the fields — nothing but silence. Until Dorian hissed, “There—!”
Something flickered near the treeline — fast, graceful, gone.
They followed. Branches snapped underfoot. The mist grew heavier. A heartbeat later, a scream tore through the night — sharp and short.
By the time Seraphina reached him, Dorian was kneeling over a body. Not a vampire — a villager. Dead before he hit the ground. His eyes stared at nothing.
“Where did it go?” Marcus barked.
Dorian pointed toward the forest, shaking. “I didn’t see—it was just—”
“Quiet,” Seraphina said sharply. She could hear it.
Breathing. Not human. Behind the trees.
Her pulse slowed.
She loaded the crossbow.
She waited.
A low hiss broke the silence. Then something lunged from the dark — pale skin, red eyes, fangs gleaming.
She didn’t hesitate.
The arrow flew true, striking its chest.
The creature fell with a shriek that split the air.
Marcus and Dorian were beside her instantly, blades drawn. The vampire writhed, snarling, until Seraphina pressed her dagger to its throat and drove it through. The body went still.
The forest quieted. Only her breathing remained — steady, measured, human.
Later, back at the chapel, she cleaned her blade in silence. Marcus spoke to the priest; Dorian paced. Outside, the fog thinned, letting moonlight spill through the windows like silver paint.
Seraphina paused for a moment, staring at her reflection in the blade — her face pale, smeared with blood, her eyes tired but unflinching.
This was her life.
A war fought in shadows.
A purpose born from pain.
She sheathed the knife and whispered a name under her breath — one the others didn’t know.
Her mother’s name.
The reason she kept breathing.
And somewhere, deep inside her, a small voice whispered:
How much longer can you keep doing this?
She didn’t have an answer.
- Writer
