CHAPTER 4 #3
Where exactly were you when the initial breach occurred?
What did you hear? Why do you think he didn’t attack you?
Did you feel any compulsion or influence from him?
Were there any interactions—speech, eye contact, gestures—that might explain why he spared you?
Are you certain you weren’t manipulated in any way?
Do you have any abilities, training, or knowledge that might’ve made you of interest to him?
Could there be a reason he chose not to enslave or harm you?
Even in reports, his presence demanded a name: Revenant.
The next morning, a letter arrived, addressed in elegant handwriting I didn’t recognize.
No return address, just my name written with flourishes that seemed to mock me with their beauty.
I almost threw it away with the junk mail, but something about it felt significant enough to stop me.
When I finally tore it open, my hands trembled so violently I nearly ripped the contents.
Inside was a single sheet of parchment, the scent of expensive cologne wafting from it.
Dear Saul & Seraph Rosen,
It is with sorrow I write this missive that brings no comfort for the pain I have caused.
I am aware it will be both unexpected and unwelcome, yet I feel an irresistible compulsion to tender my condolences.
The reasons and justifications dwelling in my mind are feeble against the weight of what has been done.
We may be too far past the point of forgiveness, and our paths may never cross again, though I would like to humbly offer you my assistance in the search for your mother, Seena Rosen.
Should you wish to confer upon this matter, meet me at the old clocktower in Blackham on the fifteenth day of this month. Come alone.
The letter slipped from my fingers, floating to the floor like a dead leaf. My lungs constricted, making each breath painful as wrath surged through me. How dare he? How fucking dare he?
I crumpled the paper in my fist, a scream building in my throat that I barely managed to contain. This was a trap, obviously. A sick game.
My mother had disappeared years ago, presumed dead by everyone except my father, who never stopped searching until he was killed by the same man who now dared to offer us ‘help.’ He had to be an utter psychopath to offer condolences for a murder he committed and dangle information about our mother like bait.
When Saul came home that night, I thrust the crumpled letter at him. “Read this,” I spat. “The nerve of this bloodsucker.”
Saul smoothed out the parchment, his eyes widening as he read. I expected him to share my outrage, to curse and rant and plan revenge with me.
Instead, he folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
“We should hear him out,” he said quietly.
“Are you insane?” I exploded. “He killed Dad! He’s playing us!”
“He knows something about Mom,” Saul insisted, his voice taking on a raw edge I’d never heard before. “What if she’s alive? What if we could find her?”
“It’s bullshit,” I said, pacing. “Absolute bullshit. He’s lying to get us alone, to finish what he started at Redmoore.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know he’s a murderer!”
“And I know I’m tired of wondering!” Saul slammed a fist into the wall hard enough to leave a dent, silencing me. “Ten years, Seraph. Ten years without a word from her. Don’t you want answers?”
I did. Of course I did. But not from him.
“We’re not going,” I said with finality. “End of discussion.”
Saul’s eyes hardened. “You don’t get to decide for both of us.”
The argument escalated from there, harsh words exchanged until we were both drained and exhausted. We went to bed angry, our room seeming smaller than ever with the weight of our disagreement pressing in from all sides.
The following days we orbited each other like faraway planets, connected by gravity but never truly touching.
A few days before the 15th, on the day of our father’s funeral, Saul left a note on my bedside table.
I need answers. Don’t follow me.
He knew I was preparing to keep him from going, so he’d planned his escape before that would happen. I cursed out loud, but tried not to worry, telling myself he was capable of making his own choices, even incredibly terrible ones.
I stood alone at the headstone, placing fresh flowers against the cold granite, the empty space beside me conspicuous even to others.
Especially to others.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. No word from Saul.
The academy halls of Redmoore seemed to stretch endlessly before me, each step an exercise in isolation.
Whispers followed me wherever I went. Conversations halted when I entered a room, only to resume in hushed, urgent tones once I passed.
The dining hall was the worst—a sea of tables without a single welcoming face.
I’d stand there, tray in hand, scanning for somewhere to sit until I’d eventually retreat to a corner alone.
The general, just Rong back then, tried to shield me from the worst of it. “Give them time,” he said, his weathered face pinched with concern. “Grief and fear makes people irrational.”
But even he didn’t know what to make out of my survival and my brother’s disappearance, evident in the way I was sidelined while the others advanced, gaining trust and privileges I was denied.
Every assignment I’d hoped to earn was quietly reassigned.
I was barred from meetings, left out of sensitive briefings, and never trusted with the confidential intel the others handled without a second thought.
During a particular field exercise where we were hunting a vampire in the northern woods in pairs, my partner, Ellis, was supposed to cover my flank.
Instead, he’d disappeared right when our target attacked. I barely escaped, stumbling back to base with a dislocated shoulder and deep gashes across my back.
“Got separated,” was all Ellis said during the debrief, not meeting my eyes. No one questioned him.
That night, I packed my things and left without saying goodbye.
Better to be a venator with no ties than a pariah in the only home I had left.
I moved back into our childhood home. The key stuck in the lock, rusty from disuse.
When the door finally swung open, dust motes danced in the shaft of late afternoon sunlight.
Everything was exactly as we’d left it years ago when we moved to the academy dormitories, with family photos on the walls, Saul’s favorite silly mug still on the coffee table, and Dad’s jacket draped over a hook by the back door.
Dropping my duffel bag on the floor, I ran my fingers along a family photo on the wall displaying the four of us at the lake, smiling, Mom’s white hair gleaming in the moonlight.
Saul’s clothes still hung in his closet, his favorite books still lined his shelves, but the house felt emptier than ever.
I tried tracking him through our twin telepathy, that indefinable connection that had often let me sense his emotions and general whereabouts.
But for the first time in our lives, there was nothing. Just a void where my brother should be. That’s when I knew.
He hadn’t just gone to meet the vampire—he had gone with him.
Chosen the murderer over me. As a last resort, I racked my brain for the raven insignia the letter was signed with, deciding right then and there to use it to track him down.
I grabbed a scrap of paper, my hand shaking as I sketched the symbol, tracing it over and over until the sharp lines burned into my memory.
I couldn’t afford to forget, not even for a moment.
The raven would be the guide to my brother.
And my vengeance.
“Seraph?” The general’s voice, gentler than before, pulls me back to the present.
I blink, realizing we’ve stopped walking and reached a set of double doors marked TRANSITION WARD. A keypad glows beside it, and the general enters the code. “We’re here.”
I nod, trying to shake off the memories.
The doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing a long corridor lined with observation windows. Behind each of them lies a person fighting the most painful transformation imaginable.
The lights are dimmed, and every bed is surrounded by monitoring equipment and IV stands delivering clear fluids.
“Third door on the right,” he says, hanging back.
“Thank you.”
I take a deep breath and move forward alone.