“The Hunters Who Weren’t”

Raphael

I hated it.

I hated the feeling burning in my chest. It wasn't just anger. It was realization. The kind that felt like a cold blade against your throat.

We weren't strong enough.

And now, for the third time in a row, we were being shown just how weak we were.

Gabriel

Locke's men weren't ordinary thugs.

They were trained. Disciplined. They moved with the precision I had only heard about in old hunter stories.

And when the real enemy appeared, I knew we had lost.

A man with a pale face, cold eyes, and a smile that smelled of blood.

"Interesting…" he said. "Three young warriors with holy weapons… and yet, so weak."

My throat went dry.

A vampire. But not just any vampire.

He was different. Older. He wasn't afraid of us.

He enjoyed this.

Michael

I knew we couldn't win.

But we couldn't just give up.

"Stay together," I hissed.

Raphael gripped his lance tighter, Gabriel drew his sword, and I let my short swords slide deeper into my palms.

"Oh, you want to fight?" The vampire chuckled. "You're not the first to try."

Then he moved.

Raphael

It wasn't even a fight.

It was a massacre.

I struck—he dodged.

Gabriel tried to cut him with his holy blade—he grabbed him and hurled him into the wall.

Michael tried to outmaneuver him—he kicked him in the chest, sending my brother flying.

I watched my brothers fall. I saw him look at me, with that gaze that told me I was nothing.

My heart pounded.

I didn't want to die.

But I knew I would.

Gabriel

Then came the storm.

Not a real storm—but it felt like one.

The vampire turned. His smile vanished.

And then, he flew through the air.

His body crashed through the wooden wall of the tavern as if it were paper. Blood splattered onto the floor—but it wasn't ours.

A shadow moved in the darkness.

No sound. No warning. Just sudden, absolute, merciless death.

Michael

I tried to get up, my ribs burning.

I saw the vampire coughing, wounded—but not fatally.

"Who…?" He spat blood. "Who the hell–"

Then, he was struck a second time.

The blade was too fast to see. But it was there.

And this time, he stayed down.

Forever.

Raphael

I knew immediately who it was.

Not by his face. Not by his voice.

But by his presence.

It was heavy, pressing—not divine, but not of this world either.

The man's boots stopped before the lifeless vampire.

Slowly, he turned to us.

And then, he spoke.

His voice was calm. Almost disappointed.

"You call yourselves hunters?"

My blood ran cold.

Because I knew—this was Isaac Crowe.