Hollow’s Edge

-Ronan Hale:

The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat mingles with the faint, ever-present bite of ash that lingers in the air. It's a smell I've grown used to—food and fire, warmth and ruin.

The wooden walls of our home creak against the wind outside, the structure old but sturdy, built to withstand far worse than a passing storm.

The Hale family home has stood for over a century, passed down through generations of hunters.

It isn't grand, not by any means. The wooden beams are weathered and scarred with age, and the stone fireplace in the corner is blackened from decades of roaring flames.

Heavy pelts drape over the chairs and floor, remnants of past hunts—wolves, bears, anything we could kill for warmth.

Weapons line the walls: crossbows, silver-tipped arrows, daggers, and long, wickedly sharp stakes carved by my grandfather's hand.

In the daylight, it looks like a home, albeit a hardened one, built for war rather than comfort.

But at night, when the lamps flicker and shadows crawl over the walls, it feels more like a fortress.

The scent of iron lingers outside, despite the warmth of breakfast inside. Death. It's everywhere now.

The woods are rotting with it, the land soaked in blood.

My grandfather used to tell me that the world was once thriving, that towns weren't surrounded by bodies, and that humans weren't the ones hiding.

In my 32 years of life, I've never known that world.

I sit at the worn wooden table, running a hand through my unkempt hair as my mother sets down a plate in front of me.

Salted pork, dense black bread, and boiled potatoes. It's not much, but it's a feast compared to what most people get these days.

My grandfather settles across from me, his sharp gray eyes—eyes that mirror my own—watching as I pick at the food.

"You're quiet today," he says gruffly, slicing into his portion of meat with a well-worn knife. "Something on your mind?"

"Nothing new." I tear off a chunk of bread, chewing slowly. "Just the usual—bodies in the woods, towns going dark, the fact that humans might not last another generation."

"Ah," my grandfather grunts, as if I'd merely commented on the weather. "Same damn thing we've been dealing with for years. If you let it weigh on you too much, boy, you'll never get out of that chair."

Across the table, my mother—Mira Hale, once a beauty before grief carved lines into her face—shoots him a glare. "He has every right to be weighed down, Father. This life isn't easy."

"It's never been easy," Grandfather mutters. "Not since the Draven line crawled out of whatever hell they were born from."

That name settles over the room like a curse. Draven. The bloodline that started it all. The first vampire. The first monster.

Darius Draven is a name whispered in terror, a shadow stretching across history.

His kind weren't just creatures of the night—they were conquerors, warlords, tyrants. They burned villages, slaughtered thousands, and carved out an empire in blood.

And my father died trying to put an end to them.

I glance toward the far wall, where his crossbow still hangs, untouched since the day he left and never returned.

Gabriel Hale was a legend among vampire hunters, one of the few who had ever gotten close enough to a high-ranking vampire to put a blade to their throat.

He'd raised me on stories of victories, of humans reclaiming land, of monsters being driven back into the dark. I was fifteen when I last saw him.

He'd pressed a knife into my palm, told me to be strong, and rode off into the night.

They found his body a week later. Or what was left of it?

"He should have stayed home," my mother says suddenly as if reading my thoughts. Her voice is tired and brittle. "He should have stayed with us."

"He did what he had to," my grandfather says.

"And what good did it do?" she snaps, slamming her cup down on the table. "He's dead, and the vampires are still here."

A heavy silence falls between us. I look down at my plate, suddenly no longer hungry.

Outside, the wind shifts, carrying with it a sickly, rotting scent.

Another body, fresh. The stench is unmistakable, even over the lingering traces of breakfast. I push back from the table and stand.

"There was another one last night," I say. "Near the Riverbend."

Grandfather nods, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "A scout, maybe. Or a warning."

"Or just more of the same," I mutter, grabbing my cloak from where it hangs by the door.

"Where are you going?" my mother asks.

"The village."

She stiffens. "Ronan—"

"I have to."

The village of Hollow's Edge has been under siege for weeks now. The vampires hit it harder than most, treating it like a feeding ground rather than a simple conquest.

The survivors are desperate, clinging to what little remains, but they won't last much longer. The last message they managed to send spoke of another attack. Another wave of slaughter.

My grandfather nods in approval, his expression hard. "Go. See what's left. If there are survivors, bring them back. If there are threats, handle them."

"Alone?" my mother asks sharply.

He snorts. "He's a Hale. He can handle himself."

I tighten my belt, adjusting the daggers at my waist. My father's crossbow still hangs on the wall, untouched, but I leave it there. It isn't mine, not yet.

I step outside into the cold morning air.

The bodies are still there, just beyond the tree line, strewn across the forest floor like discarded dolls.

Some are fresh, their faces still frozen in terror. Others have been there for days, left to rot, their flesh picked at by crows. I take a breath, swallowing the bile that rises in my throat.

This is the world we live in now.

And I will do whatever it takes to make sure humanity doesn't fall any further.

With that thought, I set off toward Hollow's Edge.

Toward whatever horrors await me there.