The Victorian Age.

An age of elegance and invention, of towering cities veiled in coal smoke, grand estates glowing with candlelight, and ancient forests that few dared enter after nightfall. But this was no ordinary Victorian Age.

This was an age of magic.

Children grew up hearing stories of pixies dancing beneath the moon, their wings leaving trails of golden dust that sparkled like sunlight. Ogres roamed the towering forests, pounding enormous clubs against the earth to warn travelers from their lands. Centaurs thundered across open fields alongside deer and wild horses, flourishing where mankind had yet to reach. But not every creature was so peaceful. Vampires lurked within abandoned castles, emerging beneath the cover of darkness in search of blood. Werewolves prowled beneath the full moon, sirens haunted rocky coastlines, and harpies descended from mountain nests upon unsuspecting travelers. The world held incredible beauty, but terrible dangers as well. And as mankind adapted to living among creatures of magic, they also learned to fear them. From that fear came the Monster Hunters. Trained for years—sometimes decades—hunters studied ancient texts, mastered specialized weapons, and memorized the weaknesses of creatures most men would never survive encountering. Vampires, werewolves, sirens, and harpies became their greatest targets. Eventually, the Crown issued a decree: every village within the kingdom would be protected by hunters and royal guards. Any dangerous creature discovered near human settlements would be captured or destroyed. Those that escaped were pursued. Those that hid were found. And those deemed too dangerous to contain were hunted until their final breath. Among these hunters, one name had become feared by monsters throughout the kingdom.

Alistair Blackwood.

A former knight of the King himself, Alistair had built his reputation accomplishing what others called impossible. He tracked creatures that left no footprints, entered forests from which entire hunting parties had vanished, and returned from hunts no other man dared accept. He caught the uncatchable. He defeated the undefeated.

Alistair knew his duty. A hunter did not question the creature he was ordered to kill. He did not hesitate. He did not sympathize.

He hunted.

Tonight, his orders would lead him beyond the northern forest, where an ancient castle stood upon a jagged mountainside. For months, nearby villagers had vanished. Livestock were discovered drained of blood, and travelers whispered of pale figures watching from between the trees.

The castle was supposed to have been abandoned for generations.

Yet candlelight still appeared behind its windows after midnight.

Three hunters had already been sent to investigate.

None had returned.

Now the task belonged to Alistair.

As daylight disappeared behind the mountains, he mounted his black horse and stared toward the distant castle, its towers piercing the darkening sky like blackened spears. Beneath his coat waited silver, sharpened steel, holy water, and wooden stakes.

The villagers warned him not to enter after sunset.

Alistair went anyway.

By sunrise, he intended for every vampire within those walls to be dead.