THE HUNT

—>MARGARET'S POV<—

My name is Margaret Mahalia, and I hailed from one of the three esteemed ruling families of the Syntax. With an ancient heritage rooted in exceptional hunting prowess, our family's influence extended far beyond our storied past. My father, Malachi Mahalia, held the distinguished position of Basbakan, further solidifying our family's standing within the Syntax.

The Syntax comprised the entirety of our Seraphling society, with a hierarchical structure rooted in power dynamics. The number of runes etched into our flesh served as the ultimate determinant of our status.

At the pinnacle of this hierarchy stood the reigning Kral, adorned with nine runes. My father, Malachi Mahalia, followed closely, bearing eight runes. Beneath this formidable duo lay the Peders, revered spiritual leaders; the Kaptans, esteemed captains; and the Askers, skilled hunters.

Each Seraphling entered the world with a predetermined number of runes, predestining their future role within the Syntax. Those rare individuals born with nine runes were groomed from birth to ascend to the throne as the next Kral.

Similarly, those born with a specific number of runes were nurtured to assume other positions of singular authority. I, having been born with six runes, was naturally poised to assume the rank of Kaptan once I reached the requisite age.

Bloodline played a paramount role in determining authority within the Syntax. By ancient decree, only a few progeny of a reigning Kral could inherit the coveted nine runes, with similar succession patterns governing the other esteemed positions.

Consequently, the ruling families maintained an iron grip on power, ensuring their perceptual dominance over the Syntax. As the firstborn son of my father, my elder brother Meshach inherited the eight runes, solidifying his position as the rightful heir to our family's legacy.

Alas, with only six runes, the prospect of becoming the next Babaskan was forever out of reach. Nevertheless, I possessed formidable strength. In adherence to our customs, at the age of 18, I was dispatched alongside a cohort of six-runed hunters to various states, tasked with accumulating kills over the course of two years.

As was the tradition, among the hundreds of Birliks spanning the globe's guilds, only the hunters with the most impressive kill counts would ascend to the esteemed rank of Kaptan, each commanding one of these Birliks.

A Birlik was an elite squad consisting of ten members, led by a Kaptan. In contrast, a Tadur was a larger unit of twenty members, commanded by a Peder. As one of the most skilled Seraphligs with the highest number of kills, I earned the esteemed title of Kapan of the Seventh Birlik. Notably, I achieved this distinction with only two years of experience as a hunter, earning me widespread respect as one of the most revered Kapans globally.

The Syntax entrusted me with a high-stakes mission to hunt down a rogue Werewolf, driven mad by a tragic past. Intelligence gathered from our guild in Gretna revealed that he was once the Alpha of the River Ridge Pack, which was brutally eradicated in a single night.

His descent into madness sparked a relentless killing spree, leaving a trail of bloodshed from Gretna to Kenner. Notably, our town was spared the worst of his carnage, suffering only a single fatality. Determined to prevent further devastation, our plan was to exterminate the Werewolf.

Alphas were formidable foes, boasting unnatural speed that made them notoriously difficult to track. To counter this, I strategically divided my team into smaller sections, dispatching them to scour the forest for our quarry. Meanwhile, I remained with a pair of trusted teammates, and it was our trio that first laid eyes on our elusive prey.

Whoosh! My silver bullet whizzed past the trees, its tip slicing through the air with deadly precision, narrowly missing my prey's right ear. The rune of vision on my left shoulder granted me unparalleled insight, revealing the flaws in his footwork; the slight hesitation before he changed direction, the almost imperceptible shift in weight. I had him in my sights.

The Werewolf exploded into a sprint, darting left with breathtaking speed, his eyes snapping towards me with a mixture of surprise and fury. For a fleeting instant, I caught a glimpse of his eyes, and my heart skipped a beat. They were burning red, a trait reserved for the most powerful and feared of their kind; the Alphas.

My team, composed of Isaiah, a formidable Asker, and Christianah, an agile Asker with lightning-fast reflexes, flanked our quarry from either side. Hours of relentless tracking had finally paid off; we had the Werewolf cornered. 

Isaiah's seraphic blade shimmered in the moonlight as it sliced through the air, but instead of biting into flesh, it bit into the trunk of a nearby tree, sending splinters flying everywhere. My bullets flew with unwavering precision, but the Werewolf dodged each one with an uncanny agility, always staying one step ahead.

It was a hallmark of the Seraphlings to wield a dual arsenal; a gun loaded with silver-tipped bullets and a seraphic blade. Both weapons were potent tools, capable of dispatching even the most formidable supernatural creatures. A precisely placed silver bullet could prove fatal, while the seraph blade, with its heavenly origins, was said to be able to vanquish any foe. 

As Isaiah swung his seraphic blade in a deadly arc, the Werewolf dodged to the side with supernatural agility, narrowly avoiding the blow. 

Undeterred, the Werewolf retaliated with a lightning-fast punch, but Isaiah proved equally nimble, dodging the attack with ease. Seizing the opportunity, Isaiah grasped the Werewolf's right arm, pulling him into a fierce and intense wrestling match. 

The forest echoed with the sounds of their struggle, a cacophonous mixture of grunts, snarls, and snapping twigs that shattered the tranquil atmosphere.

I ignited a firework, and its brilliant white light illuminated the clouds, serving as a beacon to alert my teammates to the unfolding crisis. Meanwhile, the Werewolf seized the opportunity to overpower Isaiah, wrenching the seraphic blade from his grasp. With ruthless efficiency, the Werewolf swiftly positioned the blade for a fatal strike, aiming directly for Isaiah's chest.

That was the moment I squeezed the trigger, and the bullet cut through the air, striking the Werewolf's shoulder blade with precision. The silver bullet bit deep into his skin, unleashing a torrent of agony.

The Werewolf's pained howl pierced the night air, a haunting melody that sent shivers down my spine. His body contorted in anguish, his limbs twitching wildly as he stumbled backward. 

But what made this bullet particularly deadly was its coating of Wolfsbane, a potent poison notorious for its lethality to Werewolves. If the toxin wasn't purged from his system within hours, it would relentlessly drain his life force, sealing his fate.

The sheer intensity of the pain coursing through his body forced the Werewolf's grip to falter, and the seraphic blade slipped from his grasp, its metallic clang echoing through the forest.

Isaiah swiftly regained his footing and seized the opportunity to deliver the final blow, but the Werewolf, despite his weakened state, summoned a surge of adrenaline and landed a powerful punch to Isaiah's chest. 

The force of the impact sent Isaiah spiraling backward, his body crashing against the sturdy trunk of a nearby tree. The collision left him winded, with several bones painfully dislocated. The sound of snapping twigs and leaves filled the air as Isaiah slid to the ground, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

Isaiah's mouth contorted in anguish, releasing low, tortured moans as he struggled to rise to his feet. His face twisted in a grimace of pain, his eyes screwed shut in concentration.

The Werewolf, meanwhile, surveyed his surroundings with a pained gaze, his eyes scanning the area with a mixture of caution and hostility. Despite his evident weakness, I knew that a single silver bullet posed little threat to an Alpha of his caliber.

His gaze eventually locked onto me, his focus narrowing as he zeroed in on the gun still clutched in my hand. His eyes burned with a fierce intensity, a warning that he was far from defeated.

Christianah had been waiting for this precise moment, her patience a calculated strategy. She remained still, a deliberate absence of movement that belied her intentions.

This was a masterful play of psychological warfare, exploiting the Alpha's disregard for her presence. Having been ignored, she had become a peripheral figure in his mind, allowing her to fly under his radar.

The Alpha's focus was squarely on me and Isaiah, his attention divided between the two of us. And in that fleeting instant, Christianah struck, her attack swift and silent, unfolding faster than the Alpha's brain could react.

Christianah was a whirlwind of speed, a trail of lightning that seemed to defy the laws of mortal men. With a swift, deadly motion, she plunged her seraphic blade into the Alpha's chest.

Yet, despite his wounded state, the Alpha revealed the awe-inspiring reflexes of his kind. He shifted his weight with incredible agility, taking several swift steps backward in a desperate bid to evade the blade's deadly kiss.

The blade narrowly missed the Alpha's chest, but its razor-sharp edge still managed to bite deep into his stomach, releasing a sickening squelch as it lodged into his abdominal cavity.

The seraphic blade, forged from the very essence of heaven, was an infinitely more lethal instrument than a mere silver bullet. As the blade pierced the Alpha's flesh, a faint, otherworldly glow emanated from the wound, casting an eerie light on the surrounding trees.

A single, well-placed stab from the seraphic blade could cripple even the most formidable supernatural creature, halving their strength for a critical five-minute window. The Alpha's eyes widened in agony as he stumbled backward, his hands instinctively clutching at the hilt of the blade as if trying to stem the tide of his ebbing power.

We had a mere five minutes to eliminate the Alpha before he regained his formidable strength. Fortune smiled upon us as five of my teammates burst onto the scene, swiftly falling into formation beside me. The Alpha, still grimacing in agony, summoned a surge of adrenaline to dislodge the seraphic blade from his stomach. With a snarl, he hurled the blade at one of my Askers who had just arrived on the scene.

The blade sliced through the air with a deadly whoosh, its path unstoppable. My teammate, caught off guard, tried to dodge, but it was too late. The blade sunk deep into his chest, the sound of impact muffled by the soft flesh. His eyes widened in shock, his mouth frozen in a silent scream as he crumpled to the ground.

A life had been lost. The weight of that reality hung in the air like a challenge, a stark reminder of the stakes we fought for. 

I raised two fingers, the prearranged signal, and two Askers sprang into action, launching a coordinated assault on the Alpha. As the Alpha's attention was drawn to the sudden threat, I gave a silent nod to the remaining five members of our team.

Together, we formed a semicircle around the Alpha, our guns at the ready. With the Askers' ferocity in place, we prepared to unleash a hail of silver bullets, aiming to capitalize on the Alpha's momentary lapse in focus; that was the famous "Crescent Ambush".

The Alpha, though weakened, still possessed formidable strength. One of the Askers slashed at his leg, the blade planning to bite deep into his muscle, while the other stabbed at his chest, aiming for his heart.

But the Alpha was too quick, dodging both attacks with a swift, fluid motion. He sprang forward, his body a blur of motion, and landed on top of the first attacker. With a snarl, the Alpha's sprouted fangs sank deep into the Asker's trachea, the sound of crunching cartilage echoing through the air.

Blood burst forth from the wound, a crimson fountain that sprayed everywhere, as the Asker's scream was reduced to a gurgling, wet gasp. His eyes bulged in terror, his face purpling as he struggled to breathe, his windpipe shattered beyond repair. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the sweet, sickly aroma of death.

With a fluid, acrobatic motion, the Alpha twirled in mid-air, his knee jabbing into the second Asker's chest with incredible force. The impact was like a crack of thunder, the sound of the knee connecting with flesh echoing through the air. The Asker's body bent in agony, his spine arching backward as he struggled to breathe. A pained grunt escaped his lips as his eyes widened in shock.

Seizing the opportunity, the Alpha grasped the Asker's head, his fingers closing around it like a vice. With a swift, deadly motion, he pulled the Asker into a macabre embrace, shielding himself from the next attack. 

The Asker's body trembled in the Alpha's grasp, his ragged breaths warm against the Alpha's skin. The air was heavy with tension, the scent of sweat and fear hanging like a miasma over the combatants.

The standoff had reached a stalemate. A hail of silver bullets would have undoubtedly killed the Werewolf, but I couldn't bring myself to risk the life of a comrade to make that happen. The others waited with bated breath for my command, but it never came.

That momentary hesitation proved to be all the Alpha needed. With a swift motion, he shoved the Asker forward, using him as a shield. Then, in the blink of an eye, he slipped into the shadows, vanishing from our sight.

Was it worth it? Undoubtedly. A life was a precious, irreplaceable thing, not to be discarded for any trivial reason. I cherished the lives of my kind, and that conviction was one of the many reasons I had earned the respect of many within our society. 

Yet, as valorous as this act may have seemed, I knew the Syntax would not be pleased with my failure.