Prologue: 3- Vampire Hunter

-Ronan Hale: Silver Blades

The world is not what it used to be.

Sometimes, I wonder if it ever truly was the place our elders spoke of in half-remembered legends—when the sun rose on fields of golden grain when bustling markets rang with laughter instead of screams, and when the nights belonged to simple dreams rather than nightmares made flesh.

Those days are gone, if they ever existed at all.

Long before I was born—before my father, before his father—this land was ruled by blood and shadow. Vampires weren't whispered myths in fire-lit taverns; they were a living plague.

They slipped through cracks in the world, emerging from the depths of night to feed on the helpless, to twist the strong into something monstrous, and to leave only death in their wake.

Entire villages vanished in a single dusk, entire kingdoms fell to ruin with the rise of a single moon.

But where there were monsters, there were those who hunted them. My ancestors.

The Hale bloodline has always been one of vampire hunters. Not just by trade, but by destiny.

A creed carved into our bones as surely as sunlight sears a vampire's flesh.

My earliest memories are of cold steel in my small hands, of my father's stern gaze watching my every move as I learned to thrust, parry, and strike.

I was taught that weakness is a sickness we cannot afford, and that fear is an indulgence we are not allowed.

Mercy… well, mercy is for those who don't live long enough to regret offering it.

My father taught me this, the same way his father taught him. In our lineage, every kill was a lesson.

Every failure was a scar etched into flesh and memory. And I learned quickly. Children in other families might have played with wooden swords, imagining themselves as knights or heroes.

In the Hale family, we trained with silver-tipped blades that could pierce the heart of a vampire.

While others told bedtime stories, I heard recountings of hunts gone wrong, of vampires who tore men limb from limb.

It was my lullaby, my reality, and the only life I've ever known.

Tonight is no different.

I stand amid Ravencross, once a jewel of civilization, now a hollowed-out corpse of its former glory.

Broken towers rise like skeletal fingers against a storm-choked sky. The wind whistles through the gaping windows, rattling shards of glass and stirring the tattered remains of curtains.

The streets, long deserted by the living, echo with the whispers of the dead.

Stone archways crumble under the weight of centuries, their once-proud carvings worn smooth by wind and time.

It is a place of ghosts, and I am here to add one more to their number.

A vampire is here. I can feel its presence like a cold weight pressing against my senses. The air is thick with dampness and decay, the lingering stench of something long past rotting.

But beneath that miasma of ruin lies another scent—faint, almost imperceptible, but undeniable once you know what to look for. It's a scent of wrongness, of something that doesn't belong in the realm of the living.

I tighten my grip on my blade, the silver hilt biting into my palm. My heart remains steady, my breath measured.

Adrenaline hums through my veins, but it doesn't overpower me. I was made for this.

Generations of Hales before me have honed our instincts to a razor's edge, ensuring we do not flinch in the face of horror.

A whisper of movement—so swift it's nearly silent—draws my attention. The tension in the air snaps like a drawn bowstring releasing.

In an instant, I catch a glimpse of pale skin and burning red eyes streaking out from the shadows. The vampire lunges, claws extended, aiming for my throat with terrifying precision.

I twist aside a split second before those claws can tear my flesh. The force of its leap carries it into a half-collapsed wall behind me, sending dust and rubble raining down.

But it recovers with unnatural grace, spinning around with a snarl that bares elongated fangs.

This one is young. Sloppy. Its hunger outweighs its skill.

The older ones, the ones who've survived centuries, move like living nightmares—cold, calculating, precise. But this fledgling relies on brute strength and blind instinct.

I let it come. Let it think it has the upper hand. Let it believe, for just a moment, that I am like every other human it has slaughtered. Fearful. Weak.

Then I move.

My blade slices through the gloom, and a sliver of moonlight reflects on the steel.

In a single fluid motion, I plunge the blade deep into the vampire's chest.

There's a wet, guttural gasp, a sound that's half-scream, half-choke.

My muscles strain as I twist the hilt, carving through flesh and bone until I feel the resistance give way.

The vampire spasms, its eyes wide with shock and pain, and I tear my weapon free just as it collapses.

The thing twitches once. Twice. Then it goes still, its crimson eyes dimming like dying embers.

Another monster was erased. Another duty was fulfilled.

Yet, as I wipe my blade clean on the vampire's tattered coat, a hollow ache settles in my chest.

Because I know this victory is nothing more than a raindrop in an endless ocean of blood. There will always be more.

More hungry younglings, more cunning elders, more horrors that slip through the cracks of our fragile world.

And still, it is not enough.

I turn my gaze to the vast, empty night that sprawls beyond the broken walls of Ravencross.

My father spent his life chasing the worst of them, following every lead, every rumor, every whispered name. But he never found the true monster. None of us did.

Darius Draven. The first of them. The oldest. Their king. The one who unleashed this plague upon the world.

His name lingers in the darkest corners of every ruin, in the nightmares of every child, and in the whispered prayers of those who dare to hope for salvation.

Darius is the root from which all vampiric evil sprouts, a being so ancient and powerful that even other vampires fear him.

And his son—Lucien Draven—walks in his shadow.

The heir to darkness. The rumored prince of the night. My greatest hunt. My greatest kill.

For years, I've heard stories of Lucien Draven. Some say he's a twisted reflection of his father, just as cruel and just as deadly.

Others whisper that he's a traitor to the vampire cause, a weakling who won't stand by Darius's side.

But none of that matters. He bears the Draven name, and that is reason enough for me to pursue him.

If I can't get to the king, then I'll settle for his heir. One step closer to purging this blight from the world.

I press my lips into a grim line as I scan the rubble-strewn streets. A storm is gathering in the distance, thunder rumbling like a distant war drum.

Clouds crawl across the sky, swallowing what little moonlight remains. The darkness grows deeper and more oppressive, but it doesn't deter me. My resolve burns brighter than any torch.

I will find Lucien Draven. I will finish what my father started, what my ancestors began so many generations ago.

I will not rest until the Draven name is a memory—until this plague is eradicated and the world has a chance to heal.

Because this is my legacy. My duty. My birthright.

I sheathe my blade, my knuckles white around the hilt, and take one final look at the lifeless creature at my feet.

Once, this vampire was a terror to the innocent. Now, it's just another corpse in a place already filled with ghosts.

And as I turn to leave, I feel the faintest flicker of satisfaction—short-lived but satisfying all the same. One less monster to haunt the night.

Yet the greatest monster remains.

Darius Draven. And his son, Lucien.

I will not stop until I drive a blade through his heart.