Page 40 of The Blood Moon Hunt

“Yes,” I say, my voice cold and detached. I turn back to Garrett, who looks at me like I’ve just struck him. “I’m sorry.”

The ritual is swift, efficient. I choose a spell that leaves no mark, no evidence, just a quiet collapse as Garrett crumples to the floor, lifeless. The silence that follows is suffocating. My father nods, a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes.

“Well done,” he says, his tone measured. “You’ve proven your resolve.”

My mother steps forward, placing a hand briefly on my shoulder. Her touch is light, almost imperceptible, but I feel its weight. “You’ve done what was necessary,” she says softly. “Remember that.”

I stare at Garrett’s body, the emptiness in his eyes. Necessary. The word echoes in my mind, cold and hollow.

The daysthat follow are a blur of whispers and praise. My father tells the rest of the family that Garrett was a traitor, that his execution was swift and just. No one questions it. No one questions me. I am the blade of the Thorne family now, sharp and unfeeling.

But late at night, when the house is silent and the shadows stretch long across my room, I feel the weight of what I’ve done pressing down on me. I tell myself it was the logical choice, the right choice. And yet, the guilt lingers, buried deep where no one can see it.

Because this is who I am now. This is who I’ve been groomed to be. And I can never let them see me falter.

The silenceof Garrett’s absence lingers like a stain. It’s in the spaces he used to fill: the chair across from mine in the study, the sparring circle where we’d test our magic late into the night, the sarcastic quips that used to break through my carefully measured calm. Now, the absence is absolute, and I feel it most keenly in the library.

But the family moves on. We always do. Thornes are architects of power and strategy, and sentiment has no place in our plans. My father makes no mention of Garrett after the night of the ritual, and my mother treats it as though it never happened.

The academy fills the void.

The Blackthorne Academy for Warlocks stands as a monument to our family’s influence. It’s a sprawling complex of towering spires and arcane laboratories, its walls etched with runes that hum with contained power. Warlocks from allied families send their sons here to train, to learn the art of the arcane under the tutelage of Blackthorne instructors. My father oversees it all, ensuring the academy’s reputation remains as untarnished as the family name.

I’ve been part of the academy since I could walk, learning spells before I could read and studying strategy while other children played. But now, with Garrett gone, my responsibilities shift. My father insists I take on a more active role in the academy’s operations. “You will oversee the initiates,” he says one evening, handing me a stack of scrolls outlining their ranks, skills, and weaknesses. “They must see you as a leader. Someone they can follow. Someone they fear.”

The initiates are young, their magic raw and unpolished. They look at me with a mix of awe and terror, whispering my name in hushed tones as though I’m a myth come to life. To them, I’m the perfect Blackthorne heir—the one who does what needs to be done, no matter the cost.

But I see their flaws, their vulnerabilities. I see the hesitations in their casting, the cracks in their confidence. And I see myself in them—once eager, once trusting, before I learned what loyalty really meant.

The academy is morethan a training ground. It’s a tool, a network of influence that extends the Thorne name far beyond the estate. Every graduate leaves with a debt to our family, a connection that binds them to us. My father ensures they remember who gave them their power, who shaped them into what they are.

One night, as I review the initiates’ progress in my quarters, my father enters without knocking. He’s holding a letter, the wax seal already broken, his expression unreadable.

“The Order has summoned us,” he says, setting the letter on my desk. The insignia of the Order gleams faintly in the lamplight—a sigil of balance and control, a constant reminder of their reach. “They’ve invited us to send a representative for this year’s Hunt.”

I look up at him, frowning. “Why me?”

“Because you are the future of this family,” he replies, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “And because you understand what it means to lead. The Hunt is not just a game, Adrian. It’s an opportunity to prove our family’s strength and to forge alliances that will secure our place for generations.”

The Hunt. I’ve heard the stories—warlocks chasing prey through the woods, wielding power without restraint, claiming souls to strengthen their magic. It’s chaos disguised as tradition, brutality wrapped in ceremony.

“And if I refuse?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

My father leans forward, his dark eyes boring into mine. “You won’t.”

The forest isalive with power, the air thick with magic and the scent of damp earth. The prey scatter as the warlocks advance, their screams piercing the night. I watch from a distance, my heart steady, my mind calculating.

The other warlocks revel in the chaos, their magic wild and untamed. Lucien is a storm, his fire lighting up the darkness, his laughter echoing through the trees. Damien moves with precision, his power controlled and deliberate. But I... I wait. I watch.

The Hunt isn’t about strength; it’s about strategy. And strategy is where I thrive.

When I finally make my move, it’s swift and decisive. My prey doesn’t see me coming. I corner her against the edge of a ravine, my magic coiling around her like a vice. She’s trembling, her eyes wide with terror, but I feel nothing. No thrill, no satisfaction. Just the quiet hum of power as I take what I need.

The Hunts become routine,an annual tradition that I approach like any other challenge. I study my opponents, learn their weaknesses, and exploit them with precision. The prey are tools, no different from the students at the academy or the pawns on a chessboard.

But in the quiet moments after the Hunt, when the forest is still and the firelight fades, I feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. The power I take doesn’t fill the emptiness inside me. The victories don’t quiet the guilt that lingers from Garrett, or the choices I’ve made since.

My father calls it progress. My mother calls it legacy. I call it survival.

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