The forest at night was quiet and peaceful and incredibly boring, no matter how far Trevor ventured from the estate. No sounds broke the stillness but the distant, hushed cries of owls and the skittering of small animals through the underbrush. Maybe also the rustle of his own footfalls across the carpets of leaves, which were quickly becoming almost as familiar as the carpets of his home—but he'd like to think he was stealthier than that. There were no monsters of any sort to be seen, just like the last night, and the night before.

It was at least a fleeting comfort to hope that maybe he'd slain them all.

Surely the nighttime hunts of old had been more exciting: in the age when Leon led the first crusades in the Belmonts' holy war, or when Dracula's demonic forces still plagued the land. Even the time Trevor's mother had set out to claim the bounty on a ferocious night creature, and ended up snaring the heart of another young hunter instead.

Some of his relatives were already off far afield in search of new targets, away from the stifling peace of the estate. Rumors had spread of a new vampire attacking: perhaps a wanderer from some foreign land. It was said to move in its savage dance just out of reach of any hunter, quick and elusive and careful, leaving houses bloodied shells and their residents empty husks.

Sometimes the careful ones were the deadliest.

There had been letters sent to the estate in the early days of their hunt, letters which tapered off as the new vampire's trail of carnage grew cold. By now the letters had stopped arriving entirely.

There was no reason to assume the worst, though, not when his family's name was so infamous in the land. If more Belmonts had been felled by a vampire's bite, all of Wallachia surely would have heard. Trevor supposed that meant his relatives were on the hunt for it even now, or on their way back from another successful kill—maybe with a new skull for the collection.

His parents and the other adults at the estate seemed to have lost interest in his excursions too. Instead of letting him regale them with reenactments of his newest success, there were secretive discussions in the remotest alcoves of his home, ones they wouldn't allow himself or his young cousins to hear. It was a strange sort of modesty, for a household in which tales of violence and bloodshed were told more than bedtime stories.

But all his training in stalking and surveillance hadn't been for nothing. He'd caught snatches of conversation, just tantalizing enough to keep him on the alert for more. Discussion of the location of weapons, means of attack and defense. Battle plans.

He wondered if they were plotting to trap the vampire on the grounds of the estate. Taking part in the battle was too much to hope for, he knew, but maybe he'd be allowed to see it. He told himself that expecting a new attempt on Dracula's castle was setting his hopes far too high, that he'd be too young to be involved anyway. It was not enough to keep his mind from drifting carelessly to an image of dark spires above and a fierce battle below.

For the first time, Trevor wondered if his solo hunts were nothing more than a hollow distraction, a new invention on his family's part to keep him quiet and busy. Kids' stuff. How could they expect him to improve when all he had to face was the lowest scum of the night world?

The moon was dropping lower in the sky, and the stretch of forest ahead appeared as dim and serene and dead as any other. Screw it, Trevor thought, and turned to face north, trudging through the seemingly endless expanse of nondescript trees that led back to the estate.

He wondered if they'd judge him for returning without a kill, and mentally rehearsed some justifications—they couldn't be called excuses, not when they were all absolutely true—his resolve strengthening with every step.

There was nothing out there tonight.

I'm old enough now for a real vampire hunt.

What, should I have gone down to the village and whipped some people instead? Isn't our reputation here shitty enough as is?

If the closest thing to a fight tonight would be with his parents in the entrance hall, then so be it.

He stopped in his tracks as the orange glow of a distant sunrise filtered through the gaps in the farthest trees. An inexplicable seed of doubt sprouted in some corner of his mind, spreading out roots of something worse, some surreal sense of dread he couldn't name.

There was no way he'd been lost in thought long enough to have wasted the entire night. No hunter in his clan could be so careless.

And the sunrise—it was all wrong.

The orange glow was thick and wavering, like the liquid light of a mirage, but the night just behind him was clear and black as ever. And even if he hadn't been a hunter—if he'd been as much of a child as his family surely thought he was—he'd still know that the sun didn't rise in the north.

The wall of orange seemed to ripple, rising and dropping like candlelight, and his body was running toward the source of the glow moments before his mind could catch up.

A fire. At the estate.

Trees sped past his vision in a featureless blur.

Did they already know? Had they already escaped? Or would he have to—could he even—make his way inside, through the flames and smoke, and—

All he could see was orange.

He hadn't trained for this. He didn't even know how many were inside—

Now he could smell the smoke.

His lungs burned and his eyes watered and he couldn't tell if it was from the smoke or because he knew he was too—

But there were voices.

Voices!

He ran faster, the edge of the forest just coming into view.

Maybe they'd been lucky, like him. If everyone had made it out—

Formless shouting, cut with a distinct edge of hate. Sudden screams. Sudden silence.

A battle? Fire drakes, maybe, or those bats that spewed flames—

Flames.

Now he could see them clearly, from the edge of the forest he'd reached at last, the flames that twisted and leapt and swallowed the estate.

And the shadows against them, shocking black, like patches of night in a sickly sunrise gleam.

Some were upright, in a fighting stance, the angles of weapons or lines of torches just visible in their grip.

Others lay unmoving on the ground.

But no monsters. Just men.

And not one of them his family.

If they had been there, he would have known. He knew their fighting styles anywhere. The glinting silver wave of the Morning Star, and the burst of flames at the end of its arc. Arrows flashing from the trees in a fatal rush, their fall nearly as quiet as leaves. All the swift and deadly moves that were his study and inheritance. He would have known.

These were just ordinary men, he noted, as the flickering light of the torches momentarily threw features into relief against the shadows. Rough, common workers from the nearest village, some armed only with the implements of their trades. The type of people he'd been told would stay out of his family's way if the Belmonts stayed out of theirs. The type he thought he'd one day fight for—

A shadow shifted against the ground.

He saw the quivering rise of a limb, the silhouette of a hand. It stretched toward him, as if pleading.

And then he heard it, over the roar of the fire and the throbbing of his own heart. The first clear word he'd heard all night. His name.

"Trevor—!"

It sounded exactly like—

"Trevor—run!"

Another shadow moved before the huddled figure, blocking it—her—from Trevor's view. The shadow raised its weapon, something short and rounded and heavy, and for a horrible second Trevor was frozen in place.

Then the club swung down.

There was a blunted echo of impact and a splintering crack, and Trevor was running from the cover of the trees with dagger in hand even as he knew he was doing everything wrong.

She'd told him to get away, and they'd surely noticed him by now, and he was outnumbered anyway, and, like he'd known from earliest childhood, a hunter who rushed into battle would not be a hunter for long.

But this was no hunt. It was slaughter. And he wasn't a hunter, now, not to them.

He was their prey, if he was anything at all. Still—he refused to end this night without a kill.

The man with the club was kneeling now, reaching to the crumpled form before him and pawing out with movements that seemed sickeningly familiar. He was searching for a trophy to claim.

It didn't matter how quickly Trevor had reacted, or how hard he sprinted to close the gap on his target now. He'd stood and watched from the shadows for a matter of seconds at most, and yet he already knew he'd arrived hours too late.

He should have realized something was wrong as soon as those first cryptic discussions in his household began. He should have been there to defend his family. He shouldn't have been so fucking stupid—

The man was within striking range, still crouched over his kill with back turned, but Trevor could already hear the ominous buzz of voices behind him. He'd been spotted. He tightened his grip on his dagger.

There was no time to uncoil the whip, to aim and dodge across a safe distance. Not at a time like this, when he'd only just begun to learn.

More than that, though, Trevor wanted, needed, to get in close and stab, to let this bastard know exactly how it felt when—

He lunged.

The side of the neck, where the vein was. The metallic flash of his blade. The familiar give and pressure of a weapon into flesh—

—then pain.

Nothing but pain.

With some effort, Trevor opened his eyes. He was on his back, suddenly empty-handed and disoriented, but he didn't think he'd actually been knocked unconscious. He'd attacked, he knew he had, but then—

That bastard. That bastard with his fucking club.

He wanted to leap back up and keep fighting—with a knife, with his whip, with his fucking hands if he had to—but he could barely even shift from his position against the ground. The slightest movement sent pain spreading from where the club had struck him against the chest. He wasn't sure if anything was broken, and he was less sure it even mattered.

He was the perfect target now, injured and alone and backed into a corner. He knew—he'd known as soon as he'd reached the grounds of his home, he realized—that this was his last night alive.

Footsteps from behind. Another distant murmur of voices from above. The sensation of being gripped by the arms and tugged to his feet and held back, not that he could escape anyway.

And then all he could do was stare. Everywhere his eyes darted, he found something worse.

Bodies, large and small, littered the grounds of the estate.

There were some that he recognized right away, like—

And some that he didn't: several were far off in the distance, indistinct shadows dark as coals before the wall of flame. Others were simply others weren't there at all. He hadn't known for sure how many relatives were staying most recently—he'd never thought he'd need to know—but it had to be more than this.

But there was no place they could be but inside the estate itself, trapped amid the swirling flames and clouds of smoke. Had they died long before, like the others? Or were they like him now, staring their own death in the face?

The bastard was striding toward his allies now, slow and confident, his club left abandoned on the ground and Trevor's own dagger gripped in one hand. He, too, knew a sure kill when he saw one.

Trevor wished he would hurry the fuck up.

Decades, centuries, of the Belmonts devoting their lives to the defense of the land and its people, and this was how it would all end. This was how they were repaid. Hunted like the monsters they killed.

Trevor waited for the gleam of firelight on metal, for the piercing impact, for whatever would come after. At least that part would be fast. At least it would be over.

The bastard sliced him across the eye.

Red.

All he saw was red.

Trevor dropped his head down, waiting, again, through the darkness and the pain, for the next stab, somewhere worse.

Nothing.

That bastard—he was enjoying this. He was taking it slow.

Had the mob done this to the rest of the Belmonts too? If they had, Trevor realized, then he deserved it. How long had they suffered while he was out there in the woods, fucking around with his stupid goddamn whip? How many had been like her, with the impossible hope that he'd actually be smart enough to stay away?

As his eyes watered and his bleeding slowed, the wreckage that was once his home came into shimmering focus. Just a face wound, then. So he hadn't been stabbed in the eye.

Not yet.

And then he saw what the bastard had in his other hand—the trophy he'd taken.

It dangled before Trevor's eyes as his death drew ever nearer.

His mother's crucifix.

("Go on, touch it," she'd say, with a laugh, to any child wary of its fabled holy powers. "It won't harm humans—only those despised by God. And, after all, we're all made in His image…")

He'd have to harm them himself, then.

With strength he didn't know he still possessed, Trevor wrenched himself free of the men's grip. In practically the same movement, he pulled another knife from his belt—no Belmont would be foolish enough to carry just one—and plunged it into the bastard's throat.

It was the worst kind of attack, he knew, sloppy and impulsive and possibly not even fatal, the kind he'd be rebuked for if this were a practice hunt. But it bought him some time.

He turned and ran in the direction of the forest without looking back. He could hear the blur of many voices raised in anger behind him, the rest of the mob becoming aware of his presence, but knew he could soon lose them among the trees. This was his land, after all—maybe all that remained of it now.

His only priority now was escape. It would not have been worth it to remain long enough to watch his mother's killer bleed out, or to make off with his weapon, or even to take back the crucifix.

Well. Maybe it would have. He just hadn't dared to risk it.

The trees soon grew thicker around him, and the ground more uneven. But at least Trevor could be grateful for the darkness. By now the orange glow had disappeared far behind him, as if it had never been.

The smell of smoke remained.

He wanted to believe his escape was a tactical move, the most pragmatic option he had. He knew he'd taken the coward's way out. It would be an insult to the legacy his great-grandfather had preserved (preserved all for nothing) to even think of comparing their situations. There were no Belmonts left to hear his story, and no one left to fight for: not in his family, and not in Wallachia.

How many could he have saved, if he hadn't gone out that night? How many could he have saved just minutes before? He hadn't even checked to see if anyone there was still alive—hadn't thought of anyone but himself—

His foot caught against a root, and he slammed hard against the forest floor. He didn't bother getting up.

It was as though he had only just become aware of his injuries and exhaustion, the adrenaline fading the further he fled from the estate. There was the dull ache where the club had hit and the air slicing into the cut on his face, but the sudden heaviness of his body was the worst of all. There was nothing he could do now—even wanted to do—but lie there, like a trapped animal waiting for death.

It was all he deserved.

What had he expected, as he ran toward the flames? A fucking miracle?

And his family—what had they been thinking? That a mob of angry villagers would give them time to prepare for the worst? That a band of hunters disappearing on a routine hunt was normal? That there had ever been some mysterious new vampire out there at all?

The excommunication should have taught them all better.

He had been lucky, though, hadn't he? He'd escaped, like his mother wanted—he must have done that for a reason. Even injured and alone, he was far from defenseless. He still had his weapons, and the knowledge to use them. And the forest would be safe for him, if only for the night.

They'd want him to use this opportunity. In any fight, even the smallest of advantages could mean the difference between life and death. And if the mob had already pried the Morning Star from his father's grip, were stripping the hold bare even now, then wasn't it all the more important that a son of the house of Belmont still drew breath?

It was a hollow comfort, he knew, even as it came to mind. But maybe it could help, if he tried to believe it. Forced himself, if he had to.

He carefully pulled himself into a sitting position, and leaned back against a tree. His hand traveled, almost unconsciously, to the fresh cut across his face.

It was deep, almost perfectly straight, still dripping blood. It would make a wonderful scar.

Scars were important, the sign a hunter had been through hell and come out alive. He hadn't expected to earn one like that until he was older, a real vampire hunter, in the midst of some heroic battle.

He'd expected to be prouder.

But there was no time to dwell on that, not when there was still so much he needed to do. He'd have to try to clean the wound—maybe bind it up somehow, search for a stream come morning. Hunt for food: something small enough to carry with him? Stay out of sight. Try to find the first place where he didn't know anyone and no one knew him. Sleep, sometime, when he knew it would be safe.

Tomorrow, and the next day, and for however long he had left.

It almost didn't seem real. Not what he'd escaped—what was next. To never see his home and family again, to rely on no one but himself: Trevor Belmont, the shittiest hunter in a clan of one, who'd fucked everything up in one night.

Maybe things weren't quite as hopeless as they seemed. He wondered if some relatives had escaped long before, his young cousins herded out with their parents as the first lights of torches approached. Or if others really were still on the trail of that vampire, and maybe one day they'd all meet again. Or even if, maybe, there was some place out there where they wouldn't know he was a Belmont, or, better yet, wouldn't care. He wondered if someday he could move on.

He wondered. He did not have the luxury of hope.