Aiken took a single step forward.
Alan instinctively moved to block him, one arm raised.
"Aiken, wait—"
But before he could take another breath, a hand landed firmly on his shoulder.
Milo.
The black-haired hunter gave a single shake of the head. "Let him go."
Alan's eyes narrowed. "Milo—"
Alan hesitated, jaw clenched—but lowered his arm. His eyes never left his son.
Aiken passed between them without a glance.
William writhed in his bonds, his one remaining leg kicking weakly, eyes rolling in panic.
"Milo! Please! Please!" he shrieked. "Don't let him—! Please—!"
But no one moved.
Aiken knelt.
Their eyes met.
William's were wide and frenzied, full of terror and desperate, useless pleading.
Aiken's were calm.
Too calm.
"Don't worry…" Aiken whispered, lips curling into a slow, razor-sharp smile.
"I'll make it quick."
And then he touched him.
A single fingertip pressed against the vampire's forehead.
William didn't even have time to scream.
In an instant—
BOOM.
His entire body detonated in a splatter of gore—flesh, bone, blood, and viscera exploding in every direction.
But before the blood could even hit the floor, something unnatural happened.
The crimson spray reversed—drawn midair into a swirling stream, funneled straight into an empty, glass jar that floated beside Aiken's hand. The blood spun as it entered, forming a slow, pulsing spiral inside the vessel.
Everyone froze.
Mouths hung open.
Crossbows were half-raised, but no one fired.
Alan was the first to speak, voice taut with shock.
"What… was that?!"
Aiken rose slowly, brushing a flake of blood from his cheek.
Behind him, the remains of William Virell—what few were left—began to burn. Soft, unnatural flames curled over the bloodless pieces, consuming them with eerie silence.
Aiken turned his gaze to his father.
"Right…" he said, voice casual. "I never told you."
He turned his palm slightly—and the flames stopped.
The burning remnants crumbled into cold ash, which suddenly swirled upward and funneled into a hovering, black silk sack.
The mouth of the bag tied itself with a faint snap.
Aiken caught the floating jar and the black sack midair and turned back toward the stunned hunters.
"I am a Siphoner," he said.
The room went completely still.
Everyone—except for a woman behind the front row of hunters—tilted their heads. Some looked scared. Others confused.
"A… Siphoner?" someone whispered.
"What's that?"
"What did he just say—?"
The quiet murmurs spread like ripples, uncertainty growing with each second.
Then—she stepped forward.
Her hand rose.
She moved like a blade—sharp and purposeful. Her long chestnut hair framed her face in elegant waves, tousled but deliberate. Her features were striking—high cheekbones, soft lips, and intense eyes the color of storm-touched green. Maybe thirty—her presence made age feel irrelevant. Her voice carried command.
[Image Here]
"Stay away from him!" she shouted, voice loud and commanding.
Instantly, the hunters around her obeyed, stepping back in sync and raising their crossbows at Aiken again.
Aiken cocked his head, amused.
"Oh?" he said, the edges of his smile curling upward. "So you know what a Siphoner is."
Beside him, Alan frowned.
"Aiken… what's going on right now?"
The woman stepped forward another pace, face tense.
"Alan!" she snapped. "I don't know if your son was always like this, or if something changed—but he's dangerous. You saw what he just did!"
Alan turned to look at Aiken. His son stood relaxed, jar in one hand, ashes sealed in the other.
He remembered William. Remembered the blood. The fire. The sack.
"Oh…" Alan muttered. "That's what you mean."
But he didn't move away. His feet remained rooted, steady.
"Don't worry. He's not going to hurt us."
The woman blinked. "How can you be so sure?!"
Alan met her eyes.
"Because I raised him."
For a second, the room held its breath.
And then—Milo burst out laughing.
"Hahahaha!" he howled, doubling over, slapping his knee. "You always manage to surprise me, Alan!"
Alan blinked, expression blank. "Eh? What did I do now?"
Milo didn't respond. He was still laughing.
And soon, the other hunters started chuckling too—one by one, the tension breaking like glass underfoot.
Aiken watched it all with a genuine smile, his eyes softening just slightly.
Even Alan cracked a grin.
Only the witch remained still—arms crossed, jaw clenched, her eyes never leaving Aiken. Still frustrated. Still wary.
"I am Milo Heath," the black-haired hunter said, stepping forward and offering a firm handshake.
"I am Aiken Hill." Aiken clasped his hand. His grip was steady, controlled. Then, a faint smile pulled at his lips. "Thank you for taking care of my father all this time. He can be… very troublesome sometimes."
Milo chuckled. "Yeah. I know."
"Hey!" Alan barked, stepping in and planting a firm fist atop both of their heads.
Milo took the blow with a wince.
Aiken, of course, just leaned slightly aside, letting it pass over his head.
"You've gotten old, dad," Aiken teased, grinning.
"Hey, just a year passed!"
Alan narrowed his eyes but smiled nonetheless. "Why did you never tell me you were a… a Sophomore—"
"A Siphoner," Milo corrected, sounding exhausted.
"Yeah, yeah. That."
Aiken's grin didn't falter. "Well, I could ask you the same about that werewolf side of yours."
Alan blinked—then smirked. "Touché."
Aiken turned his gaze to the witch.
She stiffened slightly as he approached, wary.
"You must be the witch who rebelled against William and his vampires," he said, extending a hand toward her.
Her eyes widened. "How did you—?"
"It was kind of obvious," Aiken said smoothly. "The magic inside you is unbalanced… corrupted. That only happens when you're forced to use it, not when you choose to."
His gaze slid briefly down to her neck.
"And you've got a lot of marks. Old, half-healed. Those shitty vampires must've fed on you more than once."
Her face froze. The color drained slightly. The memories surged back like bile.
She looked up at him again.
He was calm.
"You don't have to worry anymore," Aiken said simply, tilting his head toward the far side of the hall.
There, lined up neatly like trophies of war, sat the mountain of blood-filled jars and black silk sacks.
"I'll get rid of all of them."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then—a sharp, collective inhale.
The hunters turned, eyes locking onto the grotesque collection of containers.
There were too many to count at a glance.
It wasn't just William.
There had been others.
A lot of others.
The realization hit like a tidal wave.
"Gods…" someone whispered. "That much blood…"
"That must've been twenty vampires…"
"At least…"
Silence fell again.
The witch looked back at Aiken.
And for the first time… her shoulders loosened.
Just a little.
To be continued...
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How was this chapter? Liked it?
Also the witch has the appareance of Elizabeth Olsen, was she a good choice?