CHAPTER 7: MARCUS

  The carriage rocked gently along the uneven path, the clip-clop of Victor’s undead horses the only sound for miles. The air inside was thick with tension.

  Elizabeth sat across from Victor, her arms crossed, the Evelyns on either side of her. She hadn't spoken since they set off, her mind still reeling from what they had learned in the Infinite City.

  Victor, as always, looked unbothered. He adjusted the cuffs of his coat, his movements slow and deliberate. Then, without looking up, he finally broke the silence.

  “There’s something else you should know.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to him, wary.

  Victor continued, voice calm, almost indifferent.

  “If you’re looking for the original contract, there’s only one place it could be.” He met her gaze. “The Blood Vault.”

  The name alone made the Evelyns shudder.

  Evie whispered, “That place isn’t real.”

  Eve corrected, “It’s worse. It is real.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward. “What is it?”

  Victor laced his fingers together.

  “A forbidden archive beneath the estate. A vault where the Ravenholms keep their oldest and most dangerous records. No one goes in without permission.” His voice lowered slightly. “Not even me.”

  Elizabeth clenched her fists. “And you just happened to forget to mention this before?”

  Victor tilted his head, watching her reaction with interest. “I won’t reveal all my secrets at once, Elizabeth.”

  She felt her anger flare, burning hot beneath her skin. “You knew this was important.”

  Victor sighed as if she were being unreasonable. “You weren’t ready to hear it.”

  The Evelyns tensed as Elizabeth’s fingers twitched—small objects in the carriage began to lift, shaking in the air.

  Victor didn’t react, but his eyes flicked to the floating debris. “Careful.”

  She felt something dark and dangerous bubble up in her chest. “Or what?”

  Victor exhaled, his patience razor-thin. “Or you’ll regret it.”

  The pressure in her skull built up too fast—too much. The force of her rage lashed out, a telekinetic wave slamming into Victor with enough power to send him flying through the carriage door.

  Except he didn’t move.

  The energy hit an invisible wall—Victor’s own psychic power. The air between them shimmered with strain, her power pressing against his.

  For a moment, she saw something flicker in his expression. Not fear.

  Amusement.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had risen, Elizabeth felt her power snap back at her.

  Her vision blurred—her lungs clenched shut. She felt herself losing control, falling into the same downward spiral that had nearly consumed her before.

  The world tilted. Her breathing hitched.

  And then—Victor was there.

  He moved faster than she could process, grabbing her by the shoulders, steady but firm. His presence was the only thing grounding her.

  “Breathe.” His voice was sharp. Commanding. “Now.”

  Elizabeth sucked in a breath. The pressure in her skull eased slightly. The objects around them dropped. The carriage rocked from the force of it, but no more than that.

  Victor’s grip didn’t loosen.

  He studied her, eyes dark and unreadable. “You’re losing control more often.”

  Elizabeth ripped herself away from him, her pulse still racing.

  “I don’t need your help.”

  Victor smirked, but there was something else behind it this time. Something she couldn’t quite place.

  “Of course you do.” He leaned back against his seat, stretching one arm lazily over the backrest.

  Elizabeth turned away, staring out at the passing trees, her fists clenched at her sides.

  She hated that he was right.

  She hated that he saved her.

  But most of all—she hated that a part of her had wanted him to.

  BOOM!!!

  The night air split with fire and steel.

  A deafening roar erupted as the cannonball struck, shattering the night’s uneasy silence. The force sent the carriage careening off the road, wood splintering as it crashed into the gnarled roots of an ancient oak. The undead horses let out an unearthly shriek before being torn apart by a hail of gunfire—silver-tipped rounds cutting through their rotting flesh.

  Elizabeth barely had time to register the pain lancing through her skull before she was tumbling, the world a blur of dark earth and jagged wood. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, and when she looked up, the night had changed.

  Figures moved through the smoke—tall, imposing, wreathed in shadow and gunpowder. Their armor gleamed under the pale light, not polished, but battered and worn from a hundred battles. Thick plate covered their bodies, etched with runes that pulsed faintly, the sigils flickering between realms, warding them against the creatures they hunted. Their rifles, long-barreled and heavy, bore intricate silver engravings along the stocks, each bullet chamber gleaming with the promise of death. Beneath their high-collared coats, chains of blessed iron rattled with every step. But it was their hats that marked them for what they were—wide-brimmed, dipped low, casting their faces in deep shadow. A single silver chain ran along the rim, dull against the blackened leather.

  Witch Hunters.

  Elizabeth pushed herself up, ears ringing, blood in her mouth. The Evelyns groaned beside her, shaking off the impact. Victor had already risen, brushing dust from his coat as if he had simply stepped out for an evening stroll.

  And then came the voice. Deep, rich, and edged with cruel amusement.

  "Greetings, my friend.”

  A figure stepped through the smoke, moving with the deliberate ease of a man who had never known fear. He was tall, broad-shouldered, draped in a coat heavy with reinforced plating, the crimson sigil of his order stitched across his chest. His greatsword, nearly as long as he was, rested against his shoulder, the silvered steel reflecting the distant moonlight.

  “Always happy to see a new face on the battlefield.”

  General Marcus, the Silver Tyrant

  Before he was a legend, Marcus was just another child of war.

  Born in the ruins of a town long since erased from maps, he came into the world amidst fire and death. His mother—a healer—was executed for harboring an accused witch. His father, a disgraced soldier, was dragged into the streets and gutted for defying the Inquisition. Marcus was left to the mercy of the Witch Hunters. And mercy was not something they gave freely.

  The Order of Saint Cornelia took him in, not out of kindness, but necessity. Their war against the unnatural had left them in need of new blood—children raised on suffering, unburdened by hesitation. Marcus was thrown into the trials of steel and scripture before he was old enough to understand what had been taken from him. He learned that fire was the answer to every question, that faith was measured in bodies, and that to hesitate was to die.

  But Marcus was not like the others. He did not simply endure. He excelled.

  At thirteen, he bested men twice his size in combat.

  At sixteen, he led his first execution.

  At twenty, he was called “the Silver Hound,” named for his relentless pursuit of the cursed and the damned.

  He understood something the others didn’t: faith was a weapon, but so was fear. His tactics were brutal, precise, and without compromise. He did not merely hunt witches and monsters—he crushed entire bloodlines, burned towns to salt, and left no stone unturned in his pursuit of order.

  His rise through the ranks was as inevitable as it was bloody. When his predecessors fell to time and treachery, Marcus remained, his legend growing with every war. Eventually, there was no one left above him—only the Order itself, and by then, it was he who commanded it.

  But there was something more.

  For all his victories, for all his crusades, there was one war that never ended.

  Marcus had seen too much. He had seen the desperate, the innocent, the frightened—all dragged screaming to the pyres in the name of righteousness. He had seen good men twisted into zealots, seen the line between justice and slaughter blur into nothing.

  And deep down, he knew:

  If the Ravenholms fell, someone else would rise in their place.

  If the monsters were slain, new ones would be born.

  If the world was ever to be truly cleansed… there could be no survivors.

  So Marcus pressed forward, blade in hand, faith in his heart, and fire at his back.

  Because the only thing worse than a monster…

  Was a man who believed he could stop them.

  Victor hit the ground running.

  He moved on instinct, leaping from the wreckage of the carriage, his coat billowing behind him. His fingers clenched, ready to summon the depths of the earth—ready to tear through the mud and pull forth the nightmares that lurked beneath.

  But then—

  BANG.

  A white-hot pain tore through his stomach. The force of the shot sent him stumbling, boots digging into the dirt as his body recoiled. He gasped, staggering back, hand clutching his abdomen. Blood oozed between his fingers, the wound burning like molten iron.

  And yet—nothing happened.

  No serpents rose from the grave. No skeletal hands clawed through the soil.

  Underworld was silent.

  Victor’s vision swam, but his mind sharpened. He gritted his teeth, wrenching his gaze toward the man who fired the shot.

  General Marcus stood before him, his silver-brimmed hat casting a sharp shadow across his scarred face. His armor was a thing of dread—etched steel, darkened from years of war, draped in the crimson sigils of his Order. Across his chest, a series of silver stakes hung like trophies. His coat, lined with reinforced plating, barely moved in the wind.

  And in his hand, still aimed at Victor, was an ornate revolver, its barrel smoking.

  Victor’s eyes flickered to the bullet wound in his stomach. Then, understanding.

  Warp-Suppressant Rounds.

  “No writhing corpses, no snapping jaws. No parlor tricks this time, half-blood.” Marcus smirked, slow and deliberate, spinning the revolver in his gloved hand before holstering it at his hip.

  Victor wiped the blood from his lips, forcing himself to straighten despite the agony lancing through his gut.

  “You’re a fool,” he spat. “You swore to uphold the Armistice.”

  Marcus let out a short, humorless chuckle.

  “The Armistice?” He spread his arms, addressing the Witch Hunters around him. “Tell me, men, should I still honor the Armistice?”

  A chorus of clicks echoed as the hunters cocked their bolt rifles, sleek and black, their barrels lined with engraved scriptures of purification. Their silver-brimmed hats tilted just enough for Victor to see the grim conviction in their eyes.

  Marcus turned back to him.

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  “Your clan has broken too many rules, Ravenholm. You and your kind have turned a blind eye to your sins for too long.” He stepped forward, boots crunching against the dirt. “And now? We collect.”

  He tilted his head toward the wrecked carriage, where Elizabeth was already pulling herself up, the Evelyns at her side.

  “The girl is coming with us. One way or another.”

  The Evelyns locked eyes with each other, their hands clasping as a low hum filled the air. The temperature dropped. The wind stilled. A sorrowful whisper coiled around them, growing into a chorus of voices not their own.

  A skeletal hand, draped in tattered funeral robes, clawed its way up from the broken earth. Then another. And another.

  Melancholy Man was awakening.

  But before the specter could fully rise, Victor’s voice cut through the chaos.

  “Stop.”

  The twins flinched, their connection momentarily disrupted. The shadows hesitated, the spirits faltering between worlds.

  “Victor—” Evie started.

  “This isn’t your fight,” he said, his voice steady despite the crimson spreading across his coat. His hand pressed harder against the bullet wound, but his posture remained firm. “I’ll handle him myself.”

  Eve’s expression hardened. “But—”

  “I said stop.”

  The spirits groaned in protest before sinking back into the earth, their wails echoing through the night before fading entirely. The air warmed once more, though the weight of something unnatural still lingered.

  Marcus watched the exchange with a bemused expression, adjusting his grip on the hilt of his enormous greatsword. The blade rested lazily over his shoulder, its metal lined with faintly glowing inscriptions—wards meant to sever the connection between a vampire and the Warp.

  “You’re bleeding out,” Marcus remarked, tilting his head as he studied Victor. “Your little parlor trick isn’t working. And now you’re turning down help?”

  Victor smirked, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “I thought Witch Hunters were supposed to be smart.”

  Marcus chuckled.

  “And I thought vampires were supposed to be rational.” He tapped the revolver at his hip. “Or did that bullet shake something loose in that overinflated head of yours?”

  Victor took a slow step forward, his boots sinking into the dirt.

  “You talk too much.”

  Marcus grinned.

  “And you’re about to die.”

  Marcus and Victor had clashed before. Many times.

  One from the Order of Saint Cornelia, a sworn defender of humanity.

  The other is a Ravenholm, an enforcer of an empire built on blood and dominion.

  Their first battle was nearly a decade ago—a nameless village caught in the crossfire of an ancient war. The Order had come to purge a nest of vampires that had taken root in its outskirts, preying on its people. Victor had been sent to ensure the nest remained undisturbed.

  Neither expected to meet an equal.

  Marcus was already a seasoned warrior by then, his greatsword sharp from years of hunting the unnatural. Victor was still rising in the Ravenholm ranks, a man who had clawed his way out of nothing, desperate to prove himself. They fought like wolves that day, neither willing to yield.

  Swords met claws. Silver met steel. Blood was spilled.

  And yet, in the end, there was no victor. The nest was burned, but the Ravenholm stronghold still stood. A draw.

  That was only the beginning.

  Over the years, they found themselves drawn to the same battlefields, the same conflicts. When the Ravenholms tightened their grip on a city, Marcus was there to loosen it. When the Order moved against the vampire lords, Victor was there to stop them.

  Each time, they crossed blades. Each time, the war remained at a stalemate.

  They learned each other’s moves, their weaknesses, their tells. Victor came to respect Marcus’ sheer skill—few humans could fight a vampire and live. Marcus came to hate Victor’s persistence—the half-blood was like a damn cockroach, always slipping away.

  But their rivalry wasn’t just about war. It was personal.

  Marcus despised everything Victor stood for—a traitor to his human blood, a monster who wore the skin of a man. Victor loathed Marcus’ self-righteousness—a blind servant of a broken cause, shackled to outdated faith.

  But now, at long last—it would end.

  This was their final confrontation.

  No war behind them.

  No armies to back them.

  No chance of retreat.

  One would walk away.

  One would not.

  Victor lifted his fists, his usual smirk gone. His coat fluttered in the wind, stained red from the bullet in his gut. Underworld wouldn’t save him this time.

  Marcus raised his greatsword, the ancient weapon humming with power. The glow of its inscriptions burned against the night air, ready to carve through whatever stood in its way.

  No words were needed.

  They charged.

  The night was thick with the stench of blood and burning timber.

  Marcus had arrived too late.

  The village of Black Hollow was nothing more than a smoldering ruin. Corpses lined the streets—some torn apart, others drained dry. Houses had been reduced to rubble, their walls painted with the desperate last moments of those who had resisted.

  The Ravenholms had sent an enforcer to crush the rebellion.

  Victor.

  Marcus found her in the wreckage. A girl, no older than six, huddled beneath the broken beams of her home. She did not cry—her face was smeared with soot and blood, but her eyes were dry, and cold.

  She should not have survived.

  But she had.

  When Marcus pulled her from the wreckage, she did not flinch. When he offered her his coat, she did not accept it. She merely stared up at him, silent, unblinking.

  It was not until later, by firelight, that she finally spoke.

  "He killed them."

  Her voice was hoarse, raw.

  "The half-blood. Victor. He slaughtered my parents… and then he smiled."

  Marcus listened as she told him everything.

  How her parents had rallied their village against the Ravenholms. How they refused to bow to the vampires who demanded their loyalty. How Victor came in the night, with his silver tongue and blackened heart.

  "He gave them a choice," she whispered, eyes burning with quiet hatred. "Obey, or die."

  When they refused, he didn’t hesitate.

  She told Marcus how Victor cut down her father first, how he watched as her mother screamed, how he let her beg before slitting her throat.

  "He looked at me," she said, fingers digging into her own arms, "but he didn’t see me. He thought I was dead already."

  Marcus clenched his fists.

  He had known Victor was a monster, but hearing it from the lips of a child made it real in a way he had never felt before.

  She should not have survived.

  But she had.

  And Marcus swore—she would never be a victim again.

  He took her in. Raised her as his own. Trained her to fight, to survive, to kill.

  And he gave her a name.

  Cobra.

  For a serpent never forgets.

  For a serpent always strikes back.

  From that day forward, Marcus did not fight only for duty.

  He fought for vengeance.

  For Cobra.

  For her family.

  For every innocent blood the Ravenholms had butchered.

  And when the time came to face Victor once more—

  Marcus would not hesitate.

  He would cut him down as he should have done years ago.

  The moon hung high above the battlefield, silver light shines upon the shattered remains of the carriage. Smoke and dust curled in the cold night air, swirling around two figures who stood face to face, their blades gleaming under the pale glow.

  Victor pulled his saber free from its sheath with a deliberate, fluid motion. The steel whispered as it left its scabbard, a thin, elegant blade that gleamed with an unnatural sharpness. He held it loosely in one hand, his stance relaxed, but his eyes sharp.

  Across from him, Marcus planted his feet firmly in the dirt and raised his greatsword. The massive weapon, nearly as tall as a man, rested effortlessly in his grip. Its broad, brutal edge bore the marks of a thousand battles, the silver glint of its surface marred by dried blood and deep, battle-earned scars.

  The wind howled.

  Then—Marcus struck first.

  A single step, and the greatsword came down like a falling meteor, splitting the air with a deafening whistle. Victor twisted, stepping to the side with inhuman speed as the blade carved a deep wound into the earth where he had just stood.

  CLANG!!!

  Victor countered, his saber flashing like a serpent’s fang, aiming for Marcus’s exposed ribs.

  But Marcus was no fool.

  His greatsword swung back in a wide arc, catching Victor’s blade mid-strike. Steel met steel, and the clash sent sparks exploding into the night.

  Marcus pressed forward, using his sheer brute strength to drive Victor back. The weight behind each swing was monstrous—a single direct hit would cleave a man in two.

  Victor moved like a shadow.

  He weaved between Marcus’s strikes, his speed and precision a stark contrast to Marcus’s raw power. His saber flicked out in short, measured slashes, seeking gaps in Marcus’s ironclad defense.

  Marcus saw them coming—just barely.

  A diagonal slash—parried.

  A thrust to the chest—sidestepped at the last second.

  A feint, then a cut to the thigh—deflected with a brutal backswing.

  Victor danced around him, but Marcus was unshakable.

  He was a fortress, a mountain, an unmovable wall of steel and fury.

  The greatsword came again, faster this time. Marcus aimed for Victor’s neck—a killing blow.

  Victor barely dodged. The blade whistled past his throat, close enough that he could feel the wind pressure bite into his skin.

  His coat sliced open. Blood beaded at the fresh wound.

  Victor grinned.

  Marcus saw it—and scowled.

  Their rivalry had been waged for years.

  Now, at last, it would end.

  The two warriors stepped forward at the same time, blades flashing under the night sky—

  Victor’s boots skidded against the dirt as he barely dodged another of Marcus’s monstrous swings. The greatsword carved through the air like a guillotine, slicing so close that Victor could feel the wind pull at his coat.

  The next blow came faster. Too fast.

  Victor barely managed to parry, but the force of the strike sent a violent tremor through his arm. His saber screeched against the greatsword’s brutal edge, sparks raining between them as he staggered back.

  Marcus pressed forward like an avalanche, relentless, unstoppable. His armor gleamed under the moonlight, his movements fueled by raw, unbreakable conviction.

  He swung again. A diagonal cut, meant to split Victor from shoulder to hip.

  Victor dodged. Barely.

  Marcus was too fast. Too strong.

  And Victor was slowing down.

  The bullet in his stomach was sapping his strength. He could feel the warmth of his own blood soaking his shirt, every movement sending fresh agony lancing through his body. His breath came short, ragged. His grip on his saber trembled.

  Marcus noticed.

  A smirk curled at the corner of the general’s mouth.

  “What’s wrong, Ravenholm?” His voice was smooth, mocking. “Getting tired?”

  Victor didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. He needed every ounce of focus just to stay alive.

  Another strike—faster than before.

  Victor lifted his saber to block, but his movements were slowing. The impact shattered his guard, the force hurling him back. His boots dragged trenches into the dirt as he fought to stay upright.

  Marcus didn’t let up.

  Another attack.

  Then another.

  Every hit pushed Victor closer to death.

  His defenses were failing. His vision blurred. He could barely keep up.

  Marcus saw it. Smelled the weakness.

  His next swing was not a feint. Not a warning.

  It was the killing blow.

  The greatsword came down, its massive edge streaking toward Victor’s heart—

  And Victor was too slow to stop it.

  The greatsword came down—

  Too fast. Too powerful.

  Victor's body screamed in protest, his limbs sluggish, his vision tunneling. He was out of options. Out of time.

  And then—instinct took over.

  In one swift, desperate motion, Victor curled his fingers into his own wound and ripped the bullet free.

  Pain—blinding, searing, absolute—shot through him like wildfire. But he didn’t stop. He willed his body forward, forcing his own gushing blood into his hand.

  Marcus loomed, his greatsword inches from ending it all.

  Victor lunged.

  With a sharp flick of his wrist, he flung his own blood straight into Marcus’s face.

  The crimson spray splattered across the general’s right eye.

  Marcus recoiled with a snarl, stumbling back. Blinded. Off balance. Vulnerable.

  That was all Victor needed.

  Ignoring the agony ripping through his body, he surged forward. His saber flickered like silver lightning.

  The blade found flesh.

  Victor’s saber plunged into Marcus’s throat, slicing through muscle, bone, and steel in one savage thrust.

  The general stiffened. His greatsword slipped from his grasp, embedding itself into the earth with a heavy clang. His fingers twitched, reaching—instinctively, futilely—toward the blade in his neck.

  His mouth opened, blood bubbling at his lips.

  But he didn’t curse. Didn’t rage.

  Instead, he whispered a name.

  “…Cobra…”

  Victor froze.

  Marcus wasn’t begging.

  He was calling to his daughter.

  His single remaining eye, still sharp, locked onto Victor with undying hatred. His voice was weak, but the words carried the weight of an oath.

  “She… will avenge me.”

  A shuddering breath.

  Then—silence.

  Marcus collapsed to his knees, then crumpled forward, his body hitting the dirt like a fallen monument.

  The great General Marcus of the Witch Hunters… was dead.