The walls of the Crimson Clan's ancestral estate had never felt so oppressive to me. Usually, their warm, living glow, pulsating in time with our clan's strength, was calming. Now, the scarlet gems embedded in the stone burned too brightly, too anxiously. As if reflecting the turmoil reigning inside me.
We had returned an hour ago. Formally—victorious. The Rift was sealed. Mission accomplished. But instead of the smell of triumph and the familiar post-battle fatigue, a heavy, unspoken silence hung in the air.
I sat by the fireplace in my room, staring at the dancing flames, but I didn't see them. I saw *him*.
A shadow cutting through the darkness. A sword moving with incomprehensible, almost indecent ease. And those eyes… Brown, deep like old lakes, and utterly empty. There was no malice, no bloodlust, not even contempt. There was only… indifference. A cold, all-consuming indifference to everything happening around him. To us. To the monsters. To death itself.
He saved us like one brushes off annoying dust. And told us to leave like one dismisses boring maids.
*"The noise was bothering me."*
Goosebumps ran down my skin at those words. Not from fear. From realization. The realization that we, the proud Crimson Clan, a force before which continents tremble, were merely *noise* to someone.
A knock came at the door. Quiet, but insistent.
— Come in, — my voice sounded hoarse.
The door opened, and the tall figure of my father, Solomon, appeared on the threshold. His usually impeccable appearance was slightly rumpled; a deep furrow of concern was etched on his forehead.
— Quinn, — he said, and his voice lacked its usual paternal softness. It held the tone of a commander assessing a strategic threat. — We need to talk.
He entered and closed the door behind him, cutting us off from the outside world.
— Grandfather and Ragnar are already in the operations room. They're pulling all archives, all reports from the last fifty years. Looking for any mention of such a… phenomenon.
I nodded silently. That was expected.
— You were closest to him, — Father continued, his scarlet eyes intently studying my face, searching for the slightest detail. — What can you say? What did you feel?
I closed my eyes, transporting myself back to that cursed field.
— He… doesn't use Will, Father. At all. His movements… it's pure mechanics. The mathematics of death. No energy surges, only speed and precision. And his weapon… that black sword… it cuts Voidspawn like a hot knife through butter.
I opened my eyes and met his gaze.
— And also… he had a Kitsune. A three-tailed one. And it… protected him. Like a faithful guardian.
Father sighed heavily, running a hand over his face.
— Kitsune… Shape-shifting spirits. Servants of ancient powers. They don't follow ordinary mortals. This confirms he's not just a strong drifter.
— Who is he? — I exhaled, finally asking the question that had been tormenting me since that very second. — Where is he from? What does he want?
Solomon shook his head, and for the first time in many years, something resembling helplessness flickered in his eyes.
— I don't know yet. But his appearance… it's not accidental. The Rift didn't open for no reason. It wasn't attacked for no reason. And *he* didn't appear for no reason. It's all connected. I feel it.
He walked to the window, looking out at the estate's snow-covered gardens.
— And there's one more thing, — his voice grew quieter. — While we were returning, intelligence reported. Someone was at the Rift after we left. Someone who finished off all the wounded creatures with a single strike each. And the tracks… they didn't lead toward civilization. They led deeper, into the dead lands.
My heart skipped a beat.
— That was… him?
— Most likely, — Father turned to me, and his gaze became firm, resolute. — He didn't leave. He stayed there. And now he represents a variable we cannot ignore. It's impossible to predict if he is a friend or an enemy. But his strength… it is real.
Silence fell in the room again, this time filled with heavy foreboding. The fire in the fireplace crackled, casting our elongated shadows on the walls.
We had won the battle, but we had lost something greater—certainty. Certainty in our strength, in our place in this world. And now somewhere out there, in the snowy wasteland, a ghost with eyes the color of dark chocolate roamed, challenging everything we knew just by his existence.
And I knew this wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.
***
Quinn looked at her father, her fingers unconsciously clutching the folds of her dress. The words on the tip of her tongue seemed both brilliant and insane at the same time. She was afraid to utter them, afraid she would be seen as a naive child.
But Solomon, with his piercing gaze, always saw more than was shown. He noticed her hesitation, the struggle on her face. He turned from the window, and his stern features softened.
— What? — he asked, and this time his voice lacked the commander's hardness. It was the voice of a father willing to listen.
That soft tone gave her courage. Quinn took a deep breath, gathered all her resolve, and exhaled:
— Father... why don't we find him? Try to recruit him to our side?
She said it quickly, almost blurting it out, expecting ridicule or an instant refusal.
But Solomon didn't laugh. He didn't frown. He simply froze, staring at her, and a slow, thoughtful fire ignited in his scarlet eyes. He looked away, staring into the emptiness over her shoulder, immersed in rapid calculations.
— Recruitment... — he finally drawled, as if tasting the word. — Risky. Extremely risky. He's unpredictable. His motives are a dark forest. Bringing such power into the very heart of the Clan... it's like holding a lit candle to a powder keg.
Quinn was already ready to back down, but he raised a hand, signaling her to be silent.
— However... — he looked at her again, and now his gaze held the excitement of a strategist who had seen a brilliant but insane move. — However, your thought is not without merit. The strength of this... youth... is undeniable. If he had been with us today, we would have sealed the Rift twice as fast and without losses. Imagine what he could do under our guidance. Under *your* guidance.
He took a step forward, his voice becoming quieter but more confident.
— He is a wild beast. Dangerous, untrained. But if we find the right approach... if we offer him something he can't get alone in that wasteland... protection, resources, a purpose...
— Or just an interesting application for his strength, — Quinn added quietly, remembering his bored, indifferent look. She felt he destroyed monsters not out of hatred, but out of boredom.
— Exactly, — Solomon nodded, and a rare, sly hint of a smile appeared on his lips. — We could direct his blade in the right direction. Make him not a threat, but... our sharpest dagger.
He fell silent, weighing the risks again.
— It will be the most difficult operation. More delicate than sealing a Rift. One wrong step—and we'll have a powerful enemy at our backs.
— But the game is worth the candle, Father! — Quinn couldn't hold back, her eyes burning with enthusiasm. — Imagine! He... he's different. He can do what we cannot. He can change the rules of the game!
Solomon looked intently at his daughter, seeing in her not just an heir, but a future strategist.
— Alright, — he finally said. — We will not act from a position of strength. We will try to find him. Observe. Understand. And... make him an offer he can't refuse. But, — his gaze became stern, — you will do only what I say, and not a step aside. Understood?
— Understood, Father, — Quinn nodded, feeling her heart flutter with anticipation. Fear was replaced by excitement.
They were no longer just victims or observers. They were becoming hunters. Hunters of the most dangerous beast they had ever encountered. And Quinn was ready to lead this hunt.