Deep within the far northern mountains, where even birds refused to fly and sunlight rarely pierced the suffocating curtain of mist, lay the hidden headquarters of the Crimson Hunt. The mountain was ancient, its jagged teeth rising into the sky like a dead titan’s spine. Every inch of it was cloaked in gray fog so thick it looked just like a blanket of cloud from afar, and beneath that oppressive cover rested a fortress carved directly into the rock. A labyrinth of tunnels, dimly lit halls, and rooms.
In one of those chambers, small, dark, and slling of old tal and damp stone, Adrian Vale stirred awake.
He looked like a man carved from exhaustion. His eyes, once bright and sharp, had sunken into dark hollows. His blonde hair hung in tangled waves around his face, greasy and matted from many nights of restless sleep and too much drinking. His skin was pale, gaunt, stretched thin over cheekbones that looked sharper than before.
Ever since the battle at Lunar Crest Academy and their narrow escape, they had been hiding here. The Leader called it “biding their ti before the next strike.”
But to Adrian?
It wasn’t strategy.
It wasn’t patience.
It was cowardice.
He barely survived that fight, barely clawed his way out through the chaos and blood. But his sister... Aveline....
Aveline did not survive.
Her last scream still ripped through his nightmares every night. Her heart ripped out, right in front of him, by the one woman he once cared about.
Lorraine.
He once admired her strength, her spirit. He once defended her. He once believed she was extraordinary.
And she had killed Aveline without even batting an eyelid.
He should have been out there already, tracking Lorraine through the Kingdom, hunting her down, avenging Aveline. He should have been the blade of vengeance cutting through the night.
Instead, he was stuck here.
Trapped in these mountains.
Trapped with the Leader.
Trapped in mories he couldn’t wash off.
Every night, he drowned himself in bottles of bitter mountain ale, desperate for sleep so heavy it would silence the monsters in his mind. And every morning he woke up choking on his sister’s last breath.
Adrian swung his feet off the bed. His body swayed.
The hangover hit him like a physical blow, his head pounding from all the alcohol he had poured down his throat last night. Dark blotches speckled his vision. His stomach churned. His hands trembled as he pushed himself upright.
He dragged himself into a cold bath, letting icy water slam into his aching skin. Then he tied his hair back, put on a black robe, and walked out into the dim hallway.
The fortress was never truly silent. Even in the stillness of dawn, whispers echoed from the corners. The faint rumble of forging weapons echoed from far chambers. Crimson soldiers moved about with rigid discipline, always alert, always prepared to hunt. To kill.
Adrian kept walking.
He knew where he was going, though the destination only made his simring anger boil hotter.
The Leader’s chamber.
The Leader.
Once feared across the Kingdom. Now....
He had lost an arm during the battle of the Lunar Crest, severed by the ghosthound queen in that brutal, chaotic fight.
Since that night, sothing had shifted inside him. Adrian didn’t want to think that the great Leader’s priorities had beco misplaced, but every day made that harder to deny.
He had promised Adrian revenge.
But what had he done since then?
He sent troops around the kingdom collecting healers, dozens of renowned witches, physicians, shamans. Dragged them to the mountains. Forced them to try everything to regrow his severed arm.
When they failed, he ripped out their insides in rage, every ti.
“If Lorraine could regrow her arm,” the Leader always said,
“then so can I.”
But weeks had passed.
No arm.
No progress.
No vengeance.
Only empty assurances “There is a bounty.... I have placed posters throughout the kingdoms.... I am planning.... the ti will co...”
Adrian no longer believed him.
He reached the Leader’s chamber. Just before knocking, he paused. Voices drifted from inside.
“...While I was bringing in the witch,” one of the commanders was reporting, “I got information that so of our troops stationed around the academy encountered Lorraine and her companions at the river bend not too far from the academy gates. But they were all killed. Do you want to send scouts to trail them? To find out where they’re heading?”
There was a pause.
Then the Leader’s voice, flat, disinterested.
“No. There is no need for that.”
Adrian’s blood boiled.
No need?
He didn’t wait to hear anything else.
He kicked the door open so hard it slamd into the stone wall with a thunderous crack.
The Leader sat behind a massive wooden table, his entire body wrapped in a black cloak that hid the stump where his arm used to be. The commander and the new witch stood across from him, both turning sharply at Adrian’s intrusion.
“What is it, Adrian?” the Leader asked coldly.
Adrian stepped inside, fists clenched. “He just said they spotted Lorraine! And you what?.... you don’t want to go after her? You promised revenge!”
The Leader’s expression twisted into irritation. “We will get her. When the ti is right. I know who they’re seeking, and I will trap her when the ti is right”
“When will the ti ever be right for you?” Adrian snapped, voice shaking with fury. “Because all you do these days is lock yourself in here with healers and witches trying to grow back your arm, like you’re the first person in history to ever lose one!”
“Adrian!” the Leader roared as he stood, his eyes already glowing crimson with rage.
But Adrian didn’t back down. He stepped closer, glaring into the Leader’s eyes.
“You will send troops after Lorraine. Right. Now.”
The Leader let out a cold laugh. “Did you just try to use your divine voice on ? You know it doesn’t work. I took precautions against it long ago.”
Adrian smiled faintly.
“Of course,” he murmured.
And then he turned his head, slowly, towards the witch.
Her eyes widened. For a mont, she tried to look away. But Adrian’s golden irises flared, glowing with ancient power, and her gaze snapped to his as though pulled by chains.
His voice shifted, echoing, ringing, layered with divine power.
“Cast your strongest binding spell on the Leader,” Adrian commanded. “Bring him to his knees.”
The witch’s eyes glazed over.
“Yes, my lord.”
She lifted her hands, runes glowing on her skin, chanting rapidly. Power surged through the room, swirling around the Leader like spectral chains.
The commander reacted instantly. Drawing his sword, he lunged toward the witch, intending to cut her down and stop the spell.
But Adrian stepped between them, eting his gaze.
“Slit your throat,” he commanded, voice deep and irresistible.
“Yes, my lord.”
The commander didn’t hesitate.
Not even for a heartbeat.
He dragged the blade across his own throat. Blood gushed down his armor as he collapsed to the floor, choking on his own life.
Adrian didn’t look at him again.
He turned back to the Leader, now bound by thick, glowing runes pressing him to his knees. His body trembled, veins bulging against the spell, but he could not move.
Adrian walked forward slowly, his expression empty of pity, grief, or hesitation.
“I am the Leader of the Crimson Hunt now,” Adrian said.
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