The night at the Callus estate was unusually cold. Mist crept through the courtyard, wrapping the mansion’s ancient stone walls in a quiet shroud. The torches along the outer walls flickered violently, disturbed by an unseen wind.

  Inside the training hall, the air trembled with the rhythmic clang of steel. Lucien Callus swung his sword again and again, every strike sharper, every motion faster. Sweat dripped from his brow, pooling on the marble floor beneath his boots.

  Sarville Callus, the family’s most seasoned hunter, stood across from him — calm, composed, a pillar of controlled power. His white hair framed a face marked by countless battles, and his golden eyes watched the boy with hawk-like precision.

  “Focus,” Sarville said, deflecting Lucien’s sword with a single flick of his wrist. “Your mind wanders. Control it.”

  Lucien gritted his teeth, pride burning hotter than his fatigue. “I am focused!” he shouted, lunging forward with renewed force. The sword’s arc cut through the air with ferocity — but Sarville sidestepped effortlessly, twisting Lucien’s arm and sending him sprawling.

  Lucien’s weapon clattered to the ground.

  “Still too predictable,” Sarville murmured. “You think strength and speed will carry you. But true power comes from restraint — from mastering the will behind the blade.”

  Lucien clenched his fists, humiliated but defiant. “Easy for you to say. You’re already perfect.”

  Sarville’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Perfection is an illusion. Even the strongest hunter bleeds. The only difference is whether he gets back up.”

  He turned, intending to dismiss the session — but suddenly stopped. His expression sharpened.

  A strange pulse swept through the air — faint, but unmistakable. It brushed against his skin like static. The torches wavered, the entire hall dimming for just a moment.

  Lucien froze. “What… was that?”

  Sarville didn’t reply at once. His gaze drifted toward the horizon beyond the mansion’s tall windows. “A disturbance,” he said finally, his tone low. “Something powerful… but distant.”

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  Lucien frowned, gripping his sword again. “Could it be another vampire attack?”

  Sarville shook his head. “No. This isn’t any presence I’ve felt before… It’s different. Wilder. Unrefined.” His eyes narrowed as though searching for something invisible. “It feels like something has awakened.”

  Lucien’s heart skipped, though he didn’t know why. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, the image of his brother — the one they no longer spoke of — flickered briefly. He shoved it away, hiding it beneath a mask of arrogance. “Whatever it is, if it’s dangerous, I’ll destroy it.”

  Sarville looked at him quietly. “Be careful, young master. Not all power that stirs in the dark is meant to be hunted.”

  Outside, the wind picked up, howling through the ancient stone halls as the torches dimmed once more.

  Later that night, the mansion fell silent — the kind of silence that feels watched.

  Sarville walked alone through the dim corridor, his boots echoing softly against the marble floor. Moonlight filtered through the tall windows, painting him in streaks of silver and shadow.

  Then, he stopped.

  A faint shift in the air — a presence hidden in the darkness. Sarville didn’t turn, merely spoke into the silence. “You can come out now.”

  From the shadow of a pillar, a man emerged, cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath a hood. He moved with fluid precision, stopping a few paces behind Sarville before kneeling respectfully.

  “My lord Sarville,” the cloaked man said, his voice low.

  Sarville’s tone remained calm, though his eyes were sharp. “Any news on young master Kevlar?”

  The man lowered his head. “None, sir. We’ve scoured the surrounding regions — villages, ravines, and forest lines. The last trace was found near the edge of the Whispering Woods, close to the mansion, but…” he hesitated, “…his trail vanished entirely. As if he never entered.”

  Sarville’s brows furrowed slightly. Vanished…?

  It’s impossible. The boy was talented, but not trained enough to hide his tracks that well… unless someone — or something — helped him.

  He spoke again, voice quiet but firm. “Keep searching. Report even the slightest discovery to me — and remember, keep it discreet… especially from the Callus family.”

  The cloaked man bowed lower. “Understood, my lord. I shall take my leave.”

  And just like that, he dissolved into a gust of shadow, leaving the corridor empty once more.

  Sarville resumed walking, his expression unreadable. For a moment, the weight of years seemed to rest on his shoulders. He paused before a large window overlooking the mist-shrouded courtyard, the moon reflecting faintly in his eyes.

  “...Young master Kevlar,” he murmured softly, “I hope you’re safe… wherever you may be.”

  He closed his eyes, a fleeting sadness crossing his face — but beneath it, a small glint of relief. Relief that the boy was far from this mansion, where resentment, arrogance, and hollow pride poisoned even the air they breathed.

  The wind sighed through the halls again, carrying his quiet words away into the night.