Episode 1: The Forgotten Orphan
In a world split between hunters, vampires, and half-bloods, there are few places as dangerous—or as important—as St. Raven's Academy. A fortress disguised as a school, it produces the best vampire hunters of the age.
For Damon Cross, it is no place of honor. It is a cage.
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Damon had lived at St. Raven's for as long as he could remember. He wasn't a trainee, not really. He was an orphan boy the academy had taken in to "serve" — polishing weapons, cleaning dormitories, carrying supplies.
While other students sparred with silver blades, Damon mopped their sweat from the floors.
> Damon (inner voice, bitter):
Another morning. Another list of chores. At least I get to watch them train.
The training ground echoed with shouts and the clash of steel. Rows of teenagers in black hunter uniforms practiced lunges, their silver-tipped spears glinting under the pale light filtering through the academy's tall windows.
Damon stood at the edge, holding a crate of freshly polished throwing knives. His hands itched to throw one. To feel like he belonged.
> Student 1 (sneering):
"Careful with those, orphan. They're worth more than you."
Laughter rippled from a group of noble-born trainees. Damon's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He'd learned long ago that speaking up only earned punishment.
Above the training ground, the academy's banners fluttered — black and silver, marked with a stake driven through a bleeding fang. The emblem of the Hunters.
Beyond the academy walls, the world whispered of things even darker. Whole towns gone silent. Half-bloods caught between two races. And vampires, always vampires — beautiful, deadly, hidden in the shadows of cities.
Damon knew the stories. He'd memorized them in secret, sneaking into the library at night. He dreamed of being more than a servant. Of holding a blade and standing between humanity and monsters.
But he was nothing. No family name. No training. Just an orphan with strange, restless blood he didn't understand.
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A faint alarm tolls from distant bells.
> Teacher (distant):
"This is a drill! All trainees, formation three!"
The courtyard shifted as students snapped into lines. Even drills felt like war here. Damon tried to slip away to the storage room, but a heavy voice stopped him.
> Instructor (gruff):
"You there—Cross. Take this to the east wing."
A crate heavier than his own weight landed at his feet. Damon bent, muscles straining, and began the long walk down the narrow corridors of the academy. The hallways were empty, echoing, lined with oil lamps that flickered faintly.
Somewhere deep inside, he felt it again — that strange thrum beneath his skin, like a second heartbeat.
> Damon (inner voice, unsettled):
Why do I always feel this way near the east wing? Like the walls themselves are watching me…
He reached the storage room, stacked with crates of silver and holy water. As he set the box down, his fingers brushed against a locked, ironbound chest at the back.
It was cold. Colder than the rest of the room. For a moment he felt his hair stand on end as his heart beat became faster, eyes feeling heavy—
> Whisper (faint, eerie):
"…wh..what?...."
The room was empty. Only the dripping of water from the pipes. Damon pulled his hand back quickly. His heart hammered.
He didn't know it yet, but that chest held something the academy had sworn never to touch again.
Before he could linger, footsteps echoed. A girl's voice called out—
> Girl Trainee:
"Orphan! You're not supposed to be here!"
Damon jerked upright. He grabbed the empty crate and slipped past her, muttering an apology.
The whisper in his head faded, but the feeling of being claimed did not.
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As the drill ended outside, Damon returned to his corner of the dormitory. He pressed a hand to his chest. The strange thrum beneath his skin still pulsed, stronger than before.