The moon hung high, casting a ghostly glow over the ruined landscape, illuminating the four figures moving silently through the forest. The Harbingers were relentless, and their steps were methodical. They were hunting, and Sioux’s scent had led them here, across broken earth and shattered ruins.

Their quarry was close, too close for comfort.  

She moved like a shadow, her obsidian mask reflecting only the faintest light, its smooth surface concealing any emotion. The Widow had been trained to track with precision, to discern every trace left behind by the prey. And tonight, it was Sioux’s bloodline she was hunting.

The sigil’s disturbance had been unmistakable. The ancient markings had flared, confirming the presence of the Blood Omen, and it was only a matter of time before they tracked him down. 

Her gloved fingers danced through the forest air, picking up on the faintest traces—his scent, mixed with the faint tinge of blood—left like breadcrumbs on the wind. 

She had always been an expert in deception, in following without being seen. But she felt a strange curiosity about this one—Sioux. There was something… off about the way the Blood Omen had reacted. She’d heard whispers, yes, of a dhampir—a hybrid of human and vampire blood—but she had dismissed them as rumors, as things that did not concern her. 

Yet the closer she got to Sioux’s trail, the more she began to wonder if those rumors held some truth. 

The last of the Blood Omen was a dhampir? 

It was almost laughable. 

And dangerous.   

The Hound had no use for finesse or quiet. He was a brute—a force of nature meant to destroy. His towering form cut through the woods like a storm, crashing through underbrush and stepping over fallen logs. His senses were acute, his instincts sharper than any of the others. His mind, however, was singular in purpose. 

“Blood,” he growled to himself. “I smell it.” 

A wolf’s nose never lied. 

His gaze darted toward the Widow, watching her methodical movements with distaste. He preferred to rip and tear. But he had learned enough to know that stealth would only serve them here. The prey was close, and he could already taste the hunt in his veins. 

"He's a dhampir," he muttered to himself, watching the Widow’s precise movements. "Hunting him will be a challenge. But a challenge makes it worth the kill." 

The Revenant was a creature of silence, his presence barely noticeable even among the quiet whisperings of the forest. Unlike the Hound, his approach was meticulous, calculated. His ability to sense the flow of energy, to track the invisible threads of magic, made him an invaluable part of the Harbingers’ team. 

And Sioux’s bloodline… 

It was riddled with magic, a tapestry woven with power and destruction. He could almost taste it in the air—so entangled with the sigil. 

The dhampir’s bloodline was more than just a source of power. It was a key. 

His fingers twitched as he moved forward, watching the Widow and the Hound close in on the trail. "We can’t let him escape," the Revenant whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. "Not now." 

The pulse of energy from the sigil would echo in the blood of the last Omen. He could feel it now, beating beneath his own skin, a warning. The Blood Omen was awakening. 

At the back of the group, the Ashen Saint stood still, observing, calculating, his face hidden behind the mask of the holy. He didn’t need to rush. 

The dhampir was close, yes, but the Ashen Saint knew that time—time was on his side. He had waited long enough to cleanse the world of this filth. A half-breed of vampire and human, existing as a stain on the natural order. 

The Blood Omen had to be eradicated, no matter the cost. 

He could feel the presence of Sioux’s bloodline like a gnawing itch beneath his skin, a reminder of the centuries-old curse that had been passed down through the ages. The last of the Blood Omen was something more than a mere heir—it was the catalyst for a new era. An era where those like the Harbingers could finally eradicate the stain of the forgotten. 

Let Sioux run. Let him hide. 

The Ashen Saint was patient. 

— 

As they moved closer, the Harbingers felt a strange shift in the air—a pulse of energy that was unmistakable. The trail they followed had led them to the edge of the river. 

Sioux had been here. 

The scent of the dhampir was unmistakable now, clinging to the rocks, the trees, the very earth. 

The Widow’s fingers clenched around the hilts of her blades. "He won’t get far." 

"Agreed," the Hound grunted, his nostrils flaring. "Let him run. He can’t hide from us forever." 

But as they prepared to close the distance, the Revenant stood still, his sharp gaze scanning the surroundings. "Wait. There’s something else here." 

The Ashen Saint stepped forward, his voice cold and unwavering. "You’re certain?" 

The Revenant nodded, a faint smile curling beneath his mask. "His bloodline calls to us. But something else is… waiting." 

Sioux wasn’t alone anymore. 

They weren’t the only ones watching the Harbingers.