The moon bled red over Whitmoor as if the heavens had sensed what had just awakened beneath the town. Elsewhere—far from the chapel, far from the naive minds of Alex and Adam—death rode in on silence.
A figure stepped out of the old rail tunnel on the outskirts of the forest. Tall, clean-shaven, and unnervingly handsome, he wore a crisp black coat and gloves that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. His walk was relaxed, almost noble, but his eyes—pale grey with streaks of silver—held no mercy.
His name was Steve.
He was not like other vampires. He didn't crave blood because he needed it—he drank it for pleasure. For control. For art.
Two security guards at the nearby water treatment plant spotted him as he strode confidently toward the perimeter.
"Hey!" one called. "This is restricted! Turn around now!"
Steve stopped. Smiled faintly.
"I'm lost," he said, his voice silk. "But maybe you can help me… with directions?"
The guards exchanged glances. The taller one reached for his radio.
And then it happened.
In less than a blink, Steve blurred forward. His hand pierced through the guard's chest as though it was made of paper. The radio fell with a crackling thud.
"Wrong answer," Steve whispered.
The second guard fumbled for his taser, but before he could aim, Steve's hand twisted sharply—his fingers hooked—and he ripped out the first man's heart, tossing it like trash.
The other ran.
Steve let him.
He strolled behind him, not running, just walking with the patience of a god. The man screamed, tripped, and crawled through gravel as Steve's boots clicked closer. He reached the perimeter fence, blood soaking his pant leg, and tried to climb—
—but Steve was already behind him.
"Humans," Steve muttered. "So predictable."
With a flick of his wrist, the guard's neck snapped backward. A final breath escaped.
Dead.
Steve licked a drop of blood from his glove and turned his gaze toward the town, his smile fading into a cold, emotionless stare.
"The Blood Monarch's heir has awakened," he whispered. "Which means the others will start crawling out of their tombs soon."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a cracked mirror framed with silver etchings. He whispered a word—long and guttural—and the surface shimmered to life.
A face appeared in the mirror. Pale, fanged, with crimson irises.
"Steve," the voice said. "You're in Whitmoor?"
"I arrived tonight. He awakened the vault. The seal is broken."
"Good," the voice hissed. "You know what that means."
Steve nodded. "Yes. Kill the boy. Bring me the mark."
"Not yet. First, we test his strength. Make him suffer. Bleed him. Let him see what true power is."
Steve's eyes lit up with cruel amusement. "And if he resists?"
The face in the mirror grinned. "Then kill his friends. One by one."
The mirror turned black.
Steve tucked it away.
Thunder rolled above, though no storm followed. A strange, icy wind began to stir, weaving through the forest like a whispering ghost. He looked up at the sky.
"They won't see me coming," he muttered. "But they'll all remember my name."
By dawn, four more bodies had been found.
Two hikers in the woods, their throats torn open and their eyes missing.
A priest in the chapel of St. Matthias—drained, crucified upside down, with blood symbols painted across the altar in ancient runes.
And finally, a Whitmoor detective found dangling from the clocktower, neck broken, and a message carved into his chest:
"THE FIRST HUNTER HAS RETURNED."
The town erupted in quiet panic. Police flooded the streets, news outlets spun stories about cultists and animal attacks. But Mr. Sabastin knew better.
Standing in his office, pale and rigid, he read the coroner's reports with trembling hands.
"Steve," he said under his breath. "Not you… not again."
Behind him, the vault glowed faintly.
Alex was changing faster than expected, but it didn't matter now. If Steve was in Whitmoor, death would follow in rivers.
Sabastin poured himself a glass of bourbon, downed it in one go, and picked up the phone.
He called the only man he feared more than Steve—the High Seer of the Blood Circle.
"It's time," he said. "Activate Protocol Red."
The voice on the other end paused.
"That bad?"
"Worse," Sabastin said grimly. "The Monarch's hunter has returned. We're not dealing with legends anymore. We're dealing with a war."
Meanwhile, Steve stood at the edge of town, dressed now as an ordinary man—dark jeans, black shirt, leather gloves. His eyes scanned the sleepy houses, schools, and churches of Whitmoor.
He could smell the bloodline.
Alex Dane was close.
The Blood Monarch's chosen heir.
But before killing him, Steve would make sure the boy understood what power really meant. Pain. Loss. Ruin.
This town would burn before the boy even learned to control what slept inside him.
And Steve?
He'd be there to light the first match.