True loyalty needs no oath; it speaks through deeds alone.
The first person I noticed was Mica—his small, knowing smile felt like a faint glimmer in a storm. He gave a quick wave, but even that seemed subdued. Beside him, Des stood with his back pressed against the wall, his posture rigid, coiled like a spring. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—sharp and focused—burned with a silent promise. Whatever happened, he was with me. That sliver of assurance anchored me, even as the room bristled with barely-contained hostility.
The air crackled with tension, the hunters' gazes cutting into me like blades. Each face was a mask of suspicion, muscles taut, fingers itching to reach for weapons. They didn't just dislike me; they were calculating, measuring me up as a threat to be neutralized. The room felt like a powder keg, one wrong word away from an explosion.
"Good evening," I began, my voice steady but deliberate, like walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers. "Thank you all for coming."
The response was lukewarm at best. Some hunters barely glanced up, others nodded curtly, but most simply stared, eyes hard and unyielding.
"I have a statement," I declared, my gaze sweeping the room with unwavering authority. "The balance of power is shifting. A fifth force has emerged, a power that seeks to dominate us all. In three days, I will confront him."
The room fell into a tense silence, every hunter's gaze locked onto me. Their wariness was palpable, their hands twitching near weapons. These were men and women who had faced monsters, yet here they were, uncertain of my intentions.
"I do not come to plead for your aid like a beggar. I come as one of you, the blood of the Rosensteins, a hunter who has seen the darkness beyond what most can fathom."
My grandfather, Gábor Roubál, rose from his chair, his presence as sharp as the blade at his side. His icy blue eyes bore into me, a challenge in their depths. "And you bring monsters into our sanctum, expecting us to trust your judgment?"
"Trust is earned through strength and action," I replied, my voice steady, my stance firm. "These are my allies, not merely monsters. They have intelligence and skill. If I were you, I would gladly accept any advantage. You will need it."
"You dare to speak of unity with beasts?" my grandfather scoffed. "Our ancestors fought to keep them at bay!"
"We have a shared enemy. You think the Fifth King will have mercy on you when he consolidates power? He won't. He'll eliminate you all."
The murmur of agreement rippled through a few, but many remained stoic, their faces hard as stone.
"We must adapt, or face extinction," I countered. "The world is not the same as it was. We have evolved, and so must our tactics."
The room's tension thickened, every breath measured, every glance calculating. I could sense the mental battle, the hunters weighing my words against their ingrained prejudices.
"You propose we risk everything on your... judgment?" His voice dripped with disdain.
"No," I said, stepping forward, the weight of my words pressing down on the room. "I propose you risk nothing. You either fight with me or stand aside. But understand this: hesitation will cost us all."
The silence was heavy, the air charged with the unspoken challenge. My grandfather's hand twitched at his side, a flicker of internal conflict crossing his stern features. He turned toward George, his gaze piercing.
"Report," he commanded, his voice a cold echo in the tense room.
George stepped forward, his posture rigid, his eyes flicking toward me with disdain before focusing on my grandfather.
"The mixed blood spoke the truth," said the man who hated me more than all the other hunters, "The Fifth King's shadow stretches wider than we imagined. His forces are not just numerous, his army doesn't just grow—it multiplies like a plague, devouring everything in its path."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, the room swallowing the tension whole. ". No king has taken action, and it seems his power is beyond theirs."
The old man absorbed the report, his expression darkening. "And what of the Crosspherat?"
"They hesitate. Their fear of provoking a war outweighs their sense of duty. They are considering a truce."
"A truce?" my grandfather scoffed, the word dripping with contempt. "Fools. It will not save them."
He shifted his attention back to the room, his icy eyes meeting each gaze with a sharp intensity. "We have a grave matter to decide today. The family must not be endangered by the wars of monsters."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "Let us vote, as per tradition."
The room held its breath as the old man's proclamation echoed through the hall, the gravity of the decision pressing down on everyone present.
Eyes darted, weighing allegiances, calculating risks. My grandfather raised a gnarled hand. "Those opposed to aiding Shaytan, raise your hands."
Slowly, deliberately, his own hand ascended, a declaration of defiance against me. Beside him, George's hand rose, rigid with conviction. One by one, eight hands followed, each movement deliberate, a silent chorus of dissent. The room seemed to hold its collective breath, each raised hand a nail driven into the coffin of my plea.
"And those in favor?" my grandfather's voice cut through again, a challenge as much as a question.
There was a pause—a heartbeat where the world seemed suspended. Then, Mica's hand rose, steady, unwavering. Des followed, his expression fierce. Auntie Ade, her eyes blazing with a defiance to match any hunter, lifted her hand. Slowly, the count rose to eight, a mirror image of the opposition.
But tradition was clear—a tie was no victory. The head of the family would decide.
The room's tension tightened, every eye turning to my grandfather, his face an unreadable mask.
Then, in a movement that felt like the shattering of a dam, a single hand rose—a lone figure from the shadows stepped forward. The hand was weathered, scarred by battles long past, and its rise was slow, deliberate.
My grandfather's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening before he finally spoke, each word ground out as if against his will. "According to tradition, the decision is made. The family will aid Shaytan."
I let out a huge sigh—a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
My grandfather, his face a mask of rigid displeasure, rose from his seat. "Prepare for the battle," he commanded, his voice cutting through the room with the authority of a seasoned leader. "We'll convene at dinner to finalize the strategy."
Without another glance, he turned on his heel, the tension in his rigid posture betraying his discontent. Whether it was disappointment or something deeper, I couldn't be sure.
Mica approached me with a beaming smile, wrapping me in a tight, impulsive hug. My friends exchanged surprised glances at his affectionate greeting, but the other hunters, accustomed to Mica's energy, paid little attention to him.
Releasing me, Mica turned to the kitten with an easygoing grin and extended his hand. "Michael Blitz, Shay's cousin. Pleasure to meet you."
Then, with the same warmth, he offered his hand to Alex. "Michael Blitz. Call me Mica."
Alex accepted the handshake, careful to suppress any reaction to Mica's scent, mindful of not offending him. Mica, perceptive as ever, noticed the brief hesitation but didn't take it to heart. He was well aware of the natural aversion wolves had to the scent of vampires, understanding without offense.
As if on cue, Joz appeared, sauntering over with his usual nonchalance. Unlike Mica, Joz didn't bother with handshakes. His indifference was palpable, and he'd always been the quieter of the two brothers. As a child, he'd often visited but rarely played with us, preferring the solace of sleep. These days, it was rare to see him without his earpiece, a subtle barrier against the world. Now, too, he glanced at us through half-closed eyes, music pounding in one ear.
"Joseph Blitz," he introduced himself, his tone laced with boredom. "Shay's cousin, and Mica's brother." With a casual wave, he was gone, disappearing as swiftly as he'd appeared.
Then came Aunt Ade—once Adrienn Roubál, now Adrienn Wick—my mother's sister. She carried herself with a grace that belied her power, her baggy shirts and lack of makeup doing little to hide her natural charm. Her wavy, dark brown hair framed striking blue eyes, the same as my mother's. Despite her modest attire, she exuded an effortless allure, a sweet, flirtatious presence. As soon as she caught my gaze, she smiled and winked, a playful gesture that brought a sense of warmth.
She is the second most beautiful woman I've ever seen. The first was my mother.
"You've got quite the family," Alex muttered, his voice low.
"Yeah," I replied, giving him a quick nod.
Des arrived next, slapping me on the back in congratulations. "First battle won. Proud of you, bro. Even I couldn't have done better!"
"One half of the Absolute Duo," Mica chimed in. "Where's your partner?"
Des froze. A sharp, uncomfortable silence filled the room. We all tensed up, waiting for the words to settle.
"Your friend, the one who's injured..." Mica added, his voice trailing off, though it wasn't really a question. I simply nodded.
The conversation drifted as the room began to empty. People scattered, sending messages to their teams via their "news birds"—or, in most cases, their smartphones. It's a tradition among the hunters to use birds, but fewer and fewer adhered to it. Texting was quicker, a mere instant's delay, while a bird could take days to arrive. My favourite cousin still swears by the birds, though, claiming they're safer than technology.
Mica's voice cut through the quiet as he turned to us. "How about we show our two new companions around?"
"I'll pass on that one," Des said, not missing a beat. "I've got to send out the news to my team."
None of us questioned it. I knew the messages had already been delivered. I'd asked Des to take care of something earlier that morning before we left.
We began descending the stairs, Mica continuing to regale us with stories of his oddest missions. Alex and Rolo, sensing the tension in the air, instinctively drew closer to me. They were unnerved—no doubt by the sheer number of hunters surrounding us. A low hum of power and presence made the air heavier, their silent judgement hanging over us as we moved through the space.
The seventh floor was concealed behind a massive double oak door, its surface engraved with two elegant words: Bibliotheca Rosenteiniana. Mica grasped the silky copper handle, effortlessly pulling the door open for us. As we crossed the threshold, I couldn't help but notice Rolo's wide-eyed reaction—he was on the verge of fainting.
The kid's eyes practically sparkled as he spun in place, his gaze trying to drink in the vastness of the library, absorbing every detail like it was some sacred artifact. He didn't even notice Eve, our librarian, sitting behind an immaculate varnished desk, her expression calm and unbothered. She was used to this—people always reacted like this the first time they stepped into the Rosenstein library.
The air was thick with the musty, timeless scent of old books. It was that perfect blend of excitement and decay, the kind of atmosphere that made you feel like you were walking into a place that held secrets older than time itself. The walls of the enormous circular room were lined with carved oak racks, some of them hiding doors that led to winding staircases. These secret doors were easy to miss unless you knew where to look—they were cut at a peculiar angle, only a meter high, decorated with intricate patterns that were a testament to the care and precision that had gone into their design.
The first floor was so towering that many of the books could only be accessed using wooden ladders that leaned against the shelves. In the center of the room, tables and chairs dotted the space for anyone who found themselves lost in the endless collection of volumes. The creak of the old parquet floor echoed beneath the carpet with every step we took, adding to the library's air of silent reverence.
I made my way into the middle of the room, my eyes drawn upward to the ceiling where a fresco of the Rosenstein family sprawled across the old plaster. Among the faces of my ancestors, the first one I recognized was Ágota Rosenstein. She stood poised with slender hands outstretched, casting magic, her husband by her side, and their sons mounted on horses, proud and strong. Mária Rosenstein, Ágota's sister, was there too, surrounded by her own family—her husband and children.
"Who are they?" Alex asked, his gaze following mine.
"The Rosenstein family," I replied, voice low but proud. "They founded the first hunting organization in Hungary. They're my ancestors."
"But isn't that woman a mage?" Alex frowned, clearly puzzled. "I thought hunters hunted mages too…"
"Indeed," I said, letting the weight of the words settle. "But not all mages are the same. They distinguish between two kinds: black and white. The latter are considered allies, not enemies."
"Oh," Alex nodded, as if the distinction made some kind of sense to him now.
"What kind of books are kept here?" Rolo asked, his curiosity piqued by the surroundings.
"The hunting records of our ancestors," I answered. "Everything from monsters to rare creatures," I replied, "If there's something we haven't seen before, we can usually find some clue in these volumes. The oldest records go back to medieval times, but there are also translations—old ones, translated from languages like Hebrew into German by the ancients. Yes," I added with a wry smile, "everything here is in German."
Rolo scowled slightly at my last sentence, his distaste for the language evident. But then again, I couldn't blame him.
We made our way to the guest rooms, several floors up, where the Babel had all the amenities one could ever need. A massive bathroom, a kitchen, and a dining room that could easily seat an army—everything designed for comfort, space, and practicality.
But it was when we went downstairs, rounding a corner at the base of the stairs, that we found another, less conspicuous door. Behind it, another staircase led downward, descending into the belly of the Babel.
We entered a vast, almost empty room. One wall was lined with practice targets, but it was clear this space was designed for something far more intense: hunter-on-hunter combat. It had to be a tradition of the founding twins, but whenever a decision couldn't be reached through words, it was settled with fists. The rules were simple: the winner makes the call.
A few people had already gathered inside.
Mica nudged me playfully. "What do you say we have a demonstration?"
I hesitated for a moment. Vampires were strong, and Mica, well, Mica was a vampire. This didn't seem like the kind of fight I could walk away from unscathed. The conclusion was clear: he'd probably break a few of my ribs.
Before I could even say a word, he seized my shirt and, with a single, effortless motion, sent me flying. I crashed into a concrete wall, four meters thick and reinforced with steel bars. The impact knocked every bit of air from my lungs, and for a moment, I seriously thought I might pass out from the pain.
As I slowly regained my bearings, the throbbing pain began to burn into something else—something far more potent. Anger. What were some ribs to him? I swore he was planning to break them all at once.
"Mica..." I growled ominously as I stood up, "That fucking hurt."
Before he could even react, I was on him. My fist slammed into his face, sending him crashing to the ground.
"That was good," he groaned, rubbing his jaw with a smirk. "You've gotten faster and stronger these last few years."
The praise might've made anyone else feel better, but for me, it didn't change a thing. There was no making up for that.
The moment Mica lunged, I could feel the air shift with his movement. He was fast, far faster than I had remembered. But it wasn't just speed; there was a certain fluidity to his attacks, as if he moved like water—graceful and unstoppable.
His fist came toward me with the force of a freight train, but I sidestepped, my body moving in a blur, and countered with a swift jab to his ribs. He grunted, stumbling back slightly, but the gleam in his eyes only grew sharper.
"Not bad," Mica said, his grin widening.
I smirked, rolling my shoulders.
He charged again, this time aiming a devastating kick that could have taken down a wall. I leapt backward, the force of his kick causing the floor to splinter where I had just stood. Using the momentum, I spun around him, delivering a sharp kick to the back of his knee. He buckled slightly, but before I could capitalize on the opening, he whirled around, his fist coming straight for my head.
I ducked, feeling the rush of air as his fist sailed past, then sprang up with a punch of my own, aimed at his jaw. It connected, and Mica stumbled back, shaking his head as if to clear the stars from his vision.
"You've definitely gotten faster," he admitted, cracking his neck. "But speed won't help if I catch you."
"Then I just won't let you," I shot back, my grin matching his.
Despite the playful banter, there was tension in the room. Our sparring wasn't meant to be lethal—not with a war looming—but it didn't make the intensity of it any less real.
The way we moved—too fast, too fluid—was more like watching monsters in combat than humans. Each hit carried the weight of a beast, and each movement, whether dodging or countering, had the precision of a predator. Every time one of us landed a blow, the impact was deafening, and half the room seemed to tremble in response. Shelves cracked, furniture overturned, and the floor split where we stood.
Mica came at me again, this time with a series of rapid punches. I blocked and dodged, slipping around him like a shadow, my speed keeping me just out of reach. He swung a powerful hook, and I ducked under it, spinning behind him. But before I could press the advantage, he turned, grabbing my arm with a grip like iron.
"Gotcha," he said with a smirk, lifting me off the ground like I weighed nothing. He hurled me across the room, and I twisted mid-air, managing to land in a crouch, skidding to a halt just before hitting the wall.
I was on him, moving faster than the eye could track. I delivered a flurry of strikes, each one aimed to exploit the brief openings in his defense. He blocked most, but a few landed, driving him back step by step.
As my fists connected, I felt the familiar, primal satisfaction unfurl within me. The monster inside stirred, almost purring with delight at the rush of combat, the thrill of testing strength and skill against a worthy opponent.
Each movement, each strike, was accompanied by the subtle hum of the monster, a low, contented vibration that resonated through my entire being.
Mica grunted as he blocked another of my kicks, then retaliated with a powerful uppercut. I leaned back just in time, the blow missing by a fraction of an inch, and countered with a swift roundhouse kick that connected with his shoulder. He stumbled, and I pressed the attack, not giving him a chance to recover.
But Mica was nothing if not resilient. With a growl, he surged forward, using his strength to push through my attacks, his movements becoming more aggressive. He swung a powerful haymaker, and though I dodged, the sheer force of it caused a nearby pillar to crack.
From the corner of my eye, I could see Alex's clenched fists, his usual calm demeanor replaced by wide-eyed disbelief. Rolo was staring at us with his mouth slightly agape, probably wondering if he could run for cover before we brought the whole building down.
I caught Mica's next punch, using his momentum to flip him over my shoulder, sending him crashing into a set of targets. For a moment, everything went still. The sound of wood splitting and the dust hanging in the air was the only thing I could hear. Mica's eyes glimmered with something between amusement and challenge then he sprang to his feet, his grin never wavering.
I stood over him, panting, but with a grin on my face. "Ready to call it?" I asked, my breath coming in heavy bursts.
He chuckled, brushing dust from his clothes, a playful glint in his eyes. "Yeah, you've definitely gotten faster."
"And you're still as strong as ever," I replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth as I shook out the tension from my shoulders.
The monster within me hummed in agreement.
As the dust settled, Alex and Rolo approached, their expressions a stark contrast. Alex's shoulders were rigid, his eyes wide as he took in the destruction around him. He must have realized just how strong I really was—stronger than he had anticipated.
Rolo, on the other hand, strolled over, entirely unruffled. It was as if he had known all along.
"Who is that man?" Rolo asked quietly, his gaze flicking to the figure who had been observing the fight, scribbling notes with meticulous precision.
"George Willingham," I replied, my tone steady. "He's probably assessing my abilities. He's the one who drafts our battle plans. You could say he's the best strategist in the family."
(After me, of course.)
George Willingham was renowned for two things: his unwavering love for tea and his piercing eyes, capable of instantly gauging a person's abilities, tracking their progress, and predicting their future strength. His lineage tied him to the English royal family, and he maintained close ties with Samuel Guintolini, a descendant of an Italian prince. With his refined connections, Willingham stood as one of the most influential hunters globally. Even through the lenses of his glasses, his sharp gaze seemed to pierce through me, as if he had caught on to my thoughts about him.
With that, the man stood, folded his notebook with practiced precision, and walked away without a word. His departure was as understated as his presence, leaving behind a lingering sense of scrutiny.
Shortly after, Mica excused himself, mentioning something about needing to fetch dinner—no one questioned the matter.
As we still had some time before dinner, we planned to walk to the lounge, where I would tell my friends a few things about the hunters resting there — all this, of course, until Des pulled me into a room
"What are you doing?" I growled.
"The masks are ready," Des announced, his tone flat yet definitive.
"Oh," I replied, taken aback. Des had completed the task quicker than expected.
On the table rested two wooden boxes. It was now my responsibility to brief my friends. I popped open the lids, revealing bone masks that covered the upper half of the face, from forehead to nose. Each mask bore the family's crescent moon mark, elegantly engraved at the center of the forehead.
I closed the boxes and held them in my hands, turning to face my companions. Alex, though visibly nervous and perhaps a bit self-conscious under my scrutiny, stood his ground, meeting my gaze with a hint of determination.
Rolo, well, he was expressionless as usual. Yet, the subtle flicker in his emerald eyes betrayed his curiosity. His focus locked onto the box closest to him, as if trying to peer through the wood, eager to uncover the secret within.
"If you accept these," I said, my voice steady, "our destinies will become irrevocably linked. You will truly be part of my family. Do you accept?"
Without hesitation, Alex took the box from my hand. Rolo followed a moment later, his fingers brushing the wood as if to confirm its reality before lifting the lid. Both gazed at the masks within, their eyes reflecting the weight of the promises they now held.
"Well, I guess that's that," I began, only to feel the firm weight of Des' hand on my shoulder.
"Aren't you going to make them swear the oaths?" he asked pointedly. "That's the tradition."
"I'm not a hunter," I shrugged, "I'm not bound by those rules. Isn't it enough to trust that they'll follow me?"
Des shook his head in quiet disapproval but let the matter rest. As we prepared to leave, I leaned closer to Rolo, my voice a whisper.
"They'll ask about the Fifth's hideout," I cautioned. "Share only what's necessary and keep how you got in to yourself."
Rolo nodded, his eyes briefly meeting mine. Though questions simmered behind his gaze, he swallowed them down, stepping out the door with a quiet resolve.