Chapter 1: The Hunt Begins
" Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame. "
— Sir Thomas Wyatt, Whoso List to Hunt
The Cameroonian jungle didn't whisper.
It growled.
Jada Buonavento crouched on the edge of a crumbling stone wall, black curls damp with sweat. Heat rose through the soles of her boots. At five foot three, she shouldn't have been intimidating—but she radiated the kind of reckless confidence that made even grown men hesitate.
The ruins of the old French fort cracked beneath her like bones too long buried. Thick vines twisted around her thighs as she leaned forward, watching like a hawk. Her brown eyes were locked on the scene below—sharp, furious, calculating.
On the ground, six Clave enforcers moved through the trees. Black-clad. Blade-hungry. Holier-than-thou bastards, dragging silver-lined restraints behind them like trophies. The kind of perfection you could only get from decades of colonial arrogance and institutional murder.
She didn't move. Didn't blink. Her fingers twitched around the hilt of her seraph blade.
They looked clean.
They wouldn't stay that way.
Jada exhaled, slow.
Then, muttering under her breath—more to herself than anyone else: "Where the hell is Oliver when I need him?"
She could already picture the tiny vampire lord: stupid grin, sunny curls, skipping through the brush with that quiet elegance that made murder look polite.
Behind her, Atreus leaned against a vine-wrapped column like the jungle was a chaise lounge. His emerald coat hung open, smoke curling from the hems. Shaggy blonde hair spilled across his brow in wild waves, and those acid-green eyes gleamed with mischief beneath the shadowed archway.
"At midday? The little menace is probably organizing his knives by moon phase," Atreus said, grinning. "You know how he gets when he's not properly caffeinated."
Jada rolled her eyes.
"He's sweet," she muttered.
Atreus grinned, shark teeth glinting. "He is. But let's not pretend he isn't also a goddamn menace."
Genevieve Doumbé didn't say a word. Not that she physically could. But that was beside the point.
The towering werewolf general stood with arms crossed, ebony skin, white box braids tied back like a war banner. A silver bite scar slashed across her throat—a visual reminder of the werewolf bite that had both Turned her and taken her voice. Her crystal-blue eyes cut through the trees with brutal precision.
She signed, sharp and swift: Focus.
Jada nodded once, expression shifting.
The werewolves below were being herded—no, dragged—into a semi-circle. Enforcers snapped restraints onto wrists. Silver glinted in the light. One Downworlder cried out. Another snarled, half-shifted.
Jada watched.
Her jaw locked.
"Preemptive cleansing," the Clave had called it.
Translation: massacre.
Jada didn't wait for Genevieve's signal.
She dropped from the ledge like a thrown blade.
The jungle floor rushed up. Her seraph blade flared to life mid-fall—sunlight on steel, holy fire catching the air. The scent of scorched silver hit her first, sharp and chemical, mingling with blood and soil.
She landed in the center of the clearing and exploded into motion.
Jada fought like chaos incarnate—feral grace sharpened by years of war. She ducked low, elbowed high, her blade slicing in brutal arcs.
Precision was for surgeons and snipers. She had seconds.
A Clave enforcer lunged. She pivoted. Kicked his knee backward, caught his throat with the pommel of her blade, then spun into a slash that sprayed blood.
He screamed.
She didn't stop.
Genevieve was at her side a breath later. Quiet death.
She moved like smoke and memory—dagger flashing, limbs sure. When an enforcer raised a blade to her throat, she snapped it in half with one motion and drove her knee into his gut.
Atreus, on the other hand, strolled through the chaos like he was late to a brunch reservation.
He flicked his fingers, and a ward cracked open like a dying star.
One of the Shadowhunters dove at him, and Atreus sighed, turned him into a plant, then walked around it with a flourish.
"You know," he called over the din, "for someone who grew up in a medical clinic, you are alarmingly good at guerilla warfare, darling."
Jada dodged a spear, grabbed the shaft, and drove it through the enforcer's thigh. "I grew up in a medical clinic for Downworlders, Atreus. Guerilla warfare was just a regular Tuesday."
Atreus twirled a dagger in one long-fingered hand, grinning like a devil on holiday. "Still doesn't explain the theatrics."
The Clave fell back. They weren't defeated—just humiliated.
The Shadowhunters vanished into the trees, pride bleeding like a slow wound Jada couldn't heal.
Jada stood panting in the clearing, blood on her boots and a tightness in her chest she couldn't name. The werewolves were free. No Downworlder casualties. No surrender.
But even now, her blade trembled in her grip—too heavy, like it had absorbed every scream.
This wasn't supposed to be war.
Shadowhunters were meant to protect.
She wasn't meant to fight her own kind.
Not like this.
Genevieve came to her side, wiping blood from her hands with a torn scrap of linen. Her pale eyes met Jada's.
She signed: Reckless.
Jada blew out a breath. "They're gone. That's what matters."
Genevieve's look was unreadable. Then: No werewolf casualties. That matters more.
A shimmer at the edge of the clearing.
Light bent like it was ashamed, and Meliorn stepped into view, wearing an expression carved from disdain and dust.
His moss-green eyes were unreadable. His armor gleamed faintly, more ceremonial than practical.
"Another success," he said dryly.
Jada arched an eyebrow. "You're not here to critique my strategy."
"No," Meliorn agreed. "I'm here to deliver a summons. The Seelie Queen requests an audience with you. Immediately."
Atreus stepped beside her. His emerald coat trailed smoke. His jagged grin was still intact.
"So let me get this straight," he said, voice smooth as oil, "you've been ignoring Magnus Bane for two weeks—his words, not mine—but Solana crooks one jewel-encrusted finger and you're sprinting through jungle fire to kiss the ring?"
"I'm not kissing anything," Jada said.
Atreus snorted. "Of course not. Just casually sleeping with her. Purely political."
Meliorn turned slightly (more) green.
Atreus leaned closer, grinning like he was delivering bedtime gossip laced with arsenic. "I'm just saying, you're gaining quite the fan club, peanut. The High Warlock of Brooklyn knocking on your door. Seelie Queen summons. Your Network's lighting up—werewolf insurgencies in London, warlocks are rioting in Prague, a few rogue vampires just blew up a Clave outpost in Lima…"
Jada rolled her eyes. "Your point, Atreus?"
He slowed slightly, hands in his pockets, the smile widening. He kept going, voice velvet-laced and indulgent, like a doting uncle drunk on prophecy and two glasses of aged sarcasm.
"You are my point, my sweet little Shadowhuntress. I remember your father changing your diapers. Now you are all grown up. Killing Clave enforcers. Taking audience with creatures older than the Covenant." A beat. "You still think you're the one holding the leash?"
She stopped. Turned.
"Just open the damn portal, Atreus."
Atreus wagged a finger. "Ah, ah, darling. Not until you say the magic words."
She glared. "I hate you."
He cupped a hand to his ear. "I'm sorry. I can't hear you over all the repressed affection."
She growled: "I love you, Atreus."
He beamed. "And I love being needed, sweetheart."
With a snap of his fingers, a portal flared open.
Swirling. Glowing.
Danger ahead.
Atreus stepped aside, gesturing with exaggerated flourish.
"After you, darling. Try not to sell your soul to the Seelie Queen."
Jada walked through.
Atreus followed.
And the portal snapped shut behind them, leaving only blood, and smoke, and the jungle that didn't just whisper.
It was a war, waking up.
💌 Love Letters from Fishie:
Welcome to the jungle, darlings.
This is the first drop of blood in a story about power, loyalty, and what it costs to hunt monsters when you're starting to become one.
Tell me—what hit hardest? Was it Jada's fury? Genevieve's ghost-silent power? Atreus being a walking disaster in a smoke-trailing coat? I live for the chaos you love most.
Coming soon: character art, unhinged polls, and more war crimes (the emotionally devastating kind).
Comments and kudos don't just feed the algorithm—they feed Atreus's ego. So, you know. Be careful what you post.
From the shadows of The Hunt,
Love, Fishie 🐟