THE HUNTER’S LOG – EPISODE 002 -“The Wolf In Vesnicel”
Hunter’s Log, Entry 002.
There are places in this world that do not test strength—but certainty. The Vale of Shadows is one of them. A hunter has gone seeking proof, guided by truths he believes immutable. Yet faith, once carried into cursed ground, has a way of becoming a weapon turned inward. By dawn, the path will be chosen—and not all who walk it will remain hunters.
— Abraham Van Helsing
Scene 1
Veșnicel, Vale of Shadows
The Pale Chalice Inn & Tavern
Night settles early in Veșnicel—not with darkness, but with resignation.
The Pale Chalice Inn glows like a defiant ember against the Vale’s perpetual dusk. Its warped wooden beams groan softly as if remembering older nights, heavier ones. Candles flicker in shallow alcoves along the walls, their light swallowed more than reflected. The air smells of old wine, damp wool, and something metallic beneath it all—iron, or blood, or memory.
Fewer than a dozen patrons occupy the space. None speak loudly. None laugh.
This is not a place that rewards attention.
In the far corner, half-shadowed by a leaning support beam, Cam and Gene Wrenchester sit shoulder to shoulder at a small round table. Two plates of stew steam between them, thick and hearty, untouched for long moments at a time. A pair of dented tankards sit nearby, condensation running like veins down their sides.
Gene eats. Slowly. Methodically. Eyes never still.
Cam watches.
Across the room, seated alone beneath a mounted antler rack, is an older gentleman in a red, fur-lined cloak. The garment is weathered but immaculately kept—stitched and restitched by someone who knows the value of preservation. His grey hair is pulled back, his beard trimmed short. His posture is rigid, as though standing at attention even while seated.
He eats little.
He watches the door.
Gene nudges Cam with his elbow, barely perceptible.
“Clock the cloak,” Gene mutters under his breath, chewing. “That’s not tourist wool.”
Cam doesn’t respond verbally. He’s already clocked it. The way the man’s hand rests near the table’s edge—not relaxed, but ready. The way his eyes never linger, always sweep. The way the shadows seem to lean toward him rather than away.
A hunter.
Ileana approaches the Wrenchesters, moving soundlessly across the uneven floor. She carries a pitcher in one hand, her other folded neatly at her waist. Her expression is placid—too placid. As though emotion is something she sets aside when crossing the threshold each night.
“Refills?” she asks softly.
Gene glances up at her, then back to the room. “Wouldn’t say no.”
Cam nods. “Thank you.”
As she pours, the tavern door creaks open.
Cold air spills in first. Then a figure.
The refined gentleman who enters seems wrong for Veșnicel—and yet perfectly suited to it. His coat is dark, tailored, well-kept but travel-worn. Gloves tucked neatly into a pocket. Wire-rimmed glasses that he removes immediately, polishing them with a handkerchief before returning them to his face.
He pauses just inside the door.
Not to admire the room.
To assess it.
His gaze sweeps once, precise and economical. Patrons. Exits. Corners. Shadows.
Then—recognition.
His eyes settle on the man in the red cloak.
Without hesitation, he crosses the tavern.
Cam straightens subtly.
Gene’s chewing slows.
The gentleman stops at the table. The older man looks up, eyes sharp, already annoyed.
“What do you want?” the hunter growls. His voice carries just enough to warn, not enough to invite attention.
The refined man offers a small, diplomatic smile.
“I’d like to talk about your mission,” he says evenly. “May I sit?”
A beat.
Then the hunter snorts.
“Do what you want, Harker,” he says. “My mind’s already made up.”
Jonathan Harker inclines his head and sits.
Ileana appears at once, as if summoned by inevitability. She looks at Jonathan expectantly.
“Wine,” he says. “Red.”
She nods and departs without comment.
Jonathan folds his hands atop the table, posture careful—not submissive, not dominant.
“Dracula remains dormant,” he says quietly.
The hunter’s jaw tightens.
“I want to see that for myself,” Garnett Hood replies. “Especially after what happened with Mina.”
The name lands like a blade.
Jonathan exhales slowly, pain flickering behind his eyes before discipline reasserts itself.
“That was Count Dragomir,” he says. “Not Dracula. Theater. Spectacle. Wrestling wrapped in blood and illusion.”
Garnett’s eyes narrow.
“Blood’s still blood.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches between them.
“I’m going into the Vale,” Garnett says at last. “Castle Dracul.”
Jonathan closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, resignation has replaced hope.
“If you’re set on that path,” he says, “then I’ll help you gain access. I’ll go with you.”
Garnett scoffs. “I don’t need the Watchers’ help.”
“No,” Jonathan agrees. “But you’ll need protection from those who don’t care about the seal.”
He leans in slightly.
“The Crimson Hand is active. The Cult of Resurrection is sniffing too close to the borders. Neither will hesitate to remove you if you disrupt their designs.”
That gives Garnett pause.
“…You can get around them?” he asks.
Jonathan nods once. “Back channels. Paths the Vale tolerates. Known only to the Watchers.”
Garnett considers. The wolf behind his eyes calculates.
“First light,” he says finally. “But first—”
He tilts his head subtly toward the corner.
“—I lose Van Helsing’s babysitters.”
Cam and Gene, unaware of the exchange’s substance, watch as the two men rise and depart moments later.
Gene exhales. “Well. That looked ominous.”
Cam stands. “Rooms. Now.”
They follow.
The Pale Chalice’s door closes behind the hunters.
The candles flicker.
And Veșnicel remembers.
END SCENE 1
Scene 2
The First Light Departure
Veșnicel does not wake.
It merely loosens its grip on the night.
First light bleeds slowly into the Vale, not as sunrise but as permission. A pale silver glow creeps along the crooked streets, clinging to rooftops and chimneys like reluctant ghosts. Frost clings to windowpanes even in summer. The village exhales.
From the upper floor of the Pale Chalice Inn, Garnett Hood steps into the street without ceremony. His red cloak is drawn tight, fur collar turned against the chill. He carries no visible weapons—but the air around him hums with the quiet certainty of a hunter who has never traveled unprepared.
Moments later, Jonathan Harker joins him.
He looks back once—at the inn, at the street, at Veșnicel itself. Not with fear. With acknowledgment.
“Once we pass the markers,” Jonathan says softly, adjusting his gloves, “the Vale stops tolerating mistakes.”
Garnett snorts. “Good. I don’t make them.”
They move.
Not toward the main road.
But away from it.
From a shadowed window on the second floor, Cam Wrenchester watches them disappear between two leaning buildings that no longer align the same way twice.
“They’re moving,” he murmurs into his sleeve.
Behind him, Gene finishes strapping on his coat, already halfway out the door. “Then we’re moving.”
The trail beyond Veșnicel is barely a trail at all.
What passes for a path bends subtly, drifting between clusters of twisted trees whose roots claw at the soil like grasping fingers. Birds do not sing here. The wind does not howl. Sound feels… discouraged.
Jonathan leads with quiet certainty, never consulting a map. He turns where instinct says turn, pauses where the ground feels wrong, and steps only where the earth seems willing to accept his weight.
Garnett follows without comment.
Behind them—far enough to avoid obvious detection but close enough to maintain visual—Cam and Gene move with practiced precision. No banter. No jokes. Just breath, boots, and focus.
Gene gestures once.
They know.
Cam nods.
And then—
The path splits.
Except it hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Jonathan stops. Tilts his head. Murmurs something under his breath—words not meant to be overheard.
He steps left.
Garnett follows.
Cam hesitates.
The ground beneath his foot shifts.
The world lurches—not violently, but decisively. Trees slide past one another like cards being reshuffled. The air thickens, then snaps—
—and the trail ahead is empty.
Gone.
Gene swears. “Son of a—”
Cam raises a hand. Too late.
They are alone.
No footprints. No sound. No lingering presence.
Just the Vale, quiet and satisfied.
Minutes later, they stand where the trail should have been, weapons ready, adrenaline burning off into irritation.
“They didn’t outrun us,” Gene growls. “They erased us.”
Cam exhales slowly. “Harker.”
Gene spits into the dirt. “Yeah. That tracks.”
They don’t chase.
Because chasing in the Vale is how you die.
Back in their room at the Pale Chalice, Cam closes the door and seals it with a practiced ward—old, subtle, barely more than habit.
Gene drops onto the edge of the bed, already dialing.
The line clicks.
Then—
“Report.”
Van Helsing’s voice is calm. Too calm.
“We lost him,” Cam says. “Cleanly. Hood met with Jonathan Harker last night. They departed at first light. Harker led them into the Vale. We were… dismissed.”
A pause.
Then: “Expected.”
Gene frowns. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It shouldn’t,” Van Helsing replies. “Harker would not have gone unless Hood was already committed.”
Cam glances toward the window, where Veșnicel’s streets remain deceptively still. “What are our orders?”
“You will remain in Veșnicel,” Van Helsing says. “Do not pursue. Do not improvise.”
Gene scoffs. “You’re killing me.”
“I am keeping you alive.”
Another pause.
“I will send someone,” Van Helsing continues. “A guide who knows which paths remain… negotiable.”
Cam stiffens. “Who?”
“You’ll know them when they arrive,” Van Helsing says. “And when they do—listen.”
The line goes dead.
Gene stares at the phone. “I hate it when he does that.”
Cam nods. “Means things are worse than we thought.”
Outside, the village bell tolls once.
Not for the hour.
For the threshold.
END SCENE 2
Scene 3
The Mysterious Watcher
INT. RAVENSHOLD LODGE – VAN HELSING’S OFFICE – NIGHT
The fire has burned low.
Only embers remain in the hearth, casting long, skeletal shadows across the stone walls of Van Helsing’s office. The Codex Obscura lies closed on his desk—not out of disinterest, but restraint. Some truths are better not consulted.
The rotary phone rests heavy beneath his hand.
Van Helsing exhales, then dials.
The line rings once.
Twice.
Then—click.
A voice answers.
Old. Calm. Layered with something heavier than age.
“Speak.”
Van Helsing does not waste time.
Van Helsing
“Harker met Hood in Veșnicel,” he says. “He’s leading him into the Vale.”
A pause.
Then the voice replies, measured—but sharp.
“How did Jonathan know Hood would be there?”
Van Helsing closes his eyes briefly.
“I called Kris,” he admits. “Had him warn the Watchers.”
A sound comes through the line—not laughter.
A derisive snort.
“So,” the voice says, “the net still whispers even when it pretends not to.”
Van Helsing does not argue.
“They evaded Cam and Gene,” he continues. “Cleanly. I need someone to go to Veșnicel. Someone who can guide them through the Vale without provoking it.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
When the voice speaks again, it carries memory—and regret.
“It has been many years since I walked that cursed land,” the voice says.
“And the last time I did… it did not end well for anyone.”
Van Helsing’s shoulders sag—not in weakness, but recognition.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I would not be asking if it were not vital.”
He hesitates.
“If Hood is right—”
The voice interrupts, colder now.
“Then he is walking into his own death,” it says.
“As would anyone who follows him.”
Another pause.
“So let us hope,” the voice continues, “that he is wrong. That Dracula still sleeps.”
Van Helsing grips the edge of his desk.
“I need you,” he says simply.
A long breath passes over the line.
Then—
“Tell Cam and Gene,” the voice says, “that I will be there in two days.”
Van Helsing straightens. “Two days may be too late.”
“It is the fastest I can manage,” comes the reply. “I am… not near friendly roads.”
Another beat.
“But,” the voice adds, “there is someone closer. They could reach Veșnicel in less than a day. I will send them ahead—and follow once I am free to move.”
Van Helsing nods, though the other cannot see it.
“Thank you, old friend,” he says. “Who should I tell them is coming?”
The answer comes without hesitation.
“Carmilla.”
Van Helsing closes his eyes.
A long, weary sigh escapes him—equal parts relief and dread.
“…Very well,” he says at last. “Safe travels.”
The line goes dead.
Van Helsing remains still for several seconds, staring at the silent phone.
Then, softly—almost to himself—
“God forgive us all.”
The fire flickers.
Somewhere, far beyond the Lodge, the Vale shifts.
END SCENE 3
Scene 4
The Journey
The Vale of Shadows does not permit straight lines.
What should be a day’s march stretches and folds, paths curving where none should exist, distances breathing in and out like a living thing. Fog clings low to the ground, never thick enough to blind—only enough to mislead.
Jonathan Harker moves with quiet certainty, his steps measured, deliberate. He does not rush. He does not hesitate. He walks like a man who knows precisely which mistakes not to make.
Garnett Hood follows, red cloak brushing against twisted roots and stone. His senses are wide open—eyes sharp, ears tuned, nose testing the air with every breath.
The Vale tests them early.
A bridge of old stone spans a narrow ravine, its surface slick with moisture and age. Halfway across, the sound of running water changes pitch—too low, too wrong. Garnett stops abruptly, fist raised.
Jonathan freezes.
Below them, something shifts beneath the surface. Pale shapes ripple just under the black water, circling.
“Don’t look too long,” Jonathan murmurs. “It invites attention.”
Garnett bares his teeth slightly—not in fear, but irritation—and steps forward anyway. The shapes scatter, retreating into the dark.
Further on, the ground gives way beneath Garnett’s boot—a shallow sinkhole masked by leaf rot and shadow. He catches himself easily, but the earth tries to pull him down, gripping like fingers.
“The Vale remembers hunters,” Jonathan says quietly. “And resents them.”
Hours pass.
They pass through a stand of trees stripped bare despite the season, their bark carved with old symbols—warnings, wards, or prayers long since ignored. At one point, a whisper follows them for nearly a mile, repeating Garnett’s name in a child’s voice before fading into silence.
They do not acknowledge it.
Near dusk, they stop.
A narrow outcropping of stone overlooks a valley choked in mist. Jonathan produces a small ration pack, efficient and unremarkable. Garnett eats little, eyes never leaving the fog below.
Finally, Garnett speaks.
“How did you know I was in Veșnicel?”
Jonathan doesn’t look up.
“Van Helsing warned the Watchers,” he says evenly. “Advised us you were coming.”
Garnett’s eyes narrow.
“And if he hadn’t?”
Jonathan meets his gaze then.
“Our eyes never leave this region,” he says. “Not truly. Twenty-four hours a day. The Vale demands witnesses.”
Garnett grunts, unconvinced—but lets it pass.
A moment later, he speaks again, voice low.
“How did Mina’s Blood Heart leave the castle?”
Jonathan stills.
“The pendant,” Garnett continues. “It was forged there. Bound there. How did it reach Count Vlad’s hands?”
Silence.
Jonathan opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“I don’t know,” he says finally.
The words hang between them.
Garnett’s gaze hardens—not accusatory, but calculating. A hunter’s look. The look he reserves for prey that hasn’t revealed itself yet.
They move on.
Night creeps in—not darkness, but compression. The air thickens. Sound dulls. Even Garnett’s footsteps feel muted now, swallowed by the land.
After nearly a full day’s march, Jonathan stops.
“Close,” he says softly.
Ahead, through the thinning mist, jagged silhouettes rise from the mountainside—spires and battlements grown from stone itself.
Castle Dracula.
Garnett inhales deeply.
Then stops.
His head snaps to the side. His nostrils flare.
“We’re not alone.”
The mist stirs.
Not drifting.
Circling.
Crimson tendrils bleed into the grey fog, coiling like smoke given purpose. Shapes form within it—humanoid, robed, deliberate.
The Crimson Hand.
Garnett reaches for the knife at his belt.
Then—something wrong.
The world tilts.
His vision blurs at the edges. Sound distorts, stretching like wax. He shakes his head hard, growling in frustration.
“No,” he mutters. “No—”
His knee hits the ground.
Strength drains from his limbs like water through cracked stone. He forces himself upright for a heartbeat longer, eyes burning with fury—
—and looks up.
Jonathan Harker stands above him.
Calm. Composed.
Not surprised.
Around him, members of the Crimson Hand step forward, their faces hidden beneath deep red cowls, sigils stitched in black thread along their sleeves.
Jonathan’s expression is not cruel.
It is resolved.
“Collar the dog,” he says quietly.
Hands seize Garnett’s shoulders.
Darkness closes in.
END SCENE 4
Scene 5
The Arrival
INT. THE PALE CHALICE INN – UPSTAIRS ROOM – NIGHT
The room is quiet.
Too quiet.
A single candle burns on the dresser, its flame bending slightly as though the air itself is unsettled. Outside the window, Veșnicel’s street lies empty—cobbled stones slick with mist, lanterns guttering low.
Cam Wrenchester sits on the edge of the bed, methodically reassembling a disassembled pistol, movements calm, practiced.
Gene Wrenchester paces.
“So,” Cam says without looking up, “you think Van Helsing was upset we lost Hood and Harker?”
Gene snorts. “I don’t think ‘upset’ is really in his emotional toolbox.”
Cam clicks a piece into place. “You think he was disappointed?”
Gene stops pacing. “I think if he was disappointed, we’d already be dead.”
Cam smirks. “Fair.”
Gene leans against the wall, arms crossed. “You notice how when things go sideways, he never yells?”
“Yeah,” Cam replies. “That’s how you know it’s bad.”
A beat.
Gene frowns slightly. “…You hear that?”
Cam freezes.
The candle flickers.
Then—
CRASH.
The door explodes inward as figures dressed in black surge into the room. Simultaneously, the window shatters—two more attackers rolling through shards of glass with inhuman coordination.
They wear no insignia save for one symbol stitched in dark red on their chests:
Bloodied fangs.
The Cult of Resurrection.
“CONTACT!” Cam shouts.
The room erupts into violence.
Gene slams the nearest cultist into the wall, cracking wood as he drives an elbow into the man’s throat. Cam fires twice—controlled shots—dropping one attacker before pivoting to smash another across the face with the butt of his weapon.
But they keep coming.
Knives flash. Hands grab. A cultist chants under his breath, blood running from his nose as he lunges again.
Gene catches a blade in his shoulder, grunts through it, and responds with a savage headbutt.
“Starting to think this isn’t a social call!” he growls.
Cam is forced back, pressed hard against the dresser as another cultist rushes him. He blocks—barely—then stumbles as a third grabs him from behind.
The numbers are too much.
Gene’s back hits the wall. Cam drops to one knee.
And then—
WHAM.
A cultist is ripped off his feet and hurled across the room like a discarded toy—slamming into the far wall with bone-cracking force.
Another flies through the air.
Then another.
The chanting stops.
The room goes still.
A figure steps forward through the broken doorway.
A woman clad in black leather, long dark hair flowing like spilled ink down her back. Around her neck rests a black lace choker, from which hangs a crimson pendant, glowing softly—pulsing like a living heart.
Her eyes flare red to match it.
She moves with lethal grace—each strike precise, efficient, final. One cultist tries to flee.
She doesn’t chase.
She appears in front of him.
A blur. A scream. Silence.
When the last body hits the floor, the room is wrecked… and suddenly very calm.
Cam and Gene stare.
Gene exhales slowly.
“…Well,” he says. “That escalated.”
The woman turns.
Her smile is slow. Knowing. Dangerous.
“Carmilla Nocturne…” Gene breathes, awe creeping into his voice.
Carmilla looks between them, eyes gleaming with amusement. Her gaze lingers just a moment longer on Cam—enough to send a chill straight down his spine—before settling on Gene.
“Well?” she purrs. “Hello, boys.”
Cam swallows.
Gene grins. “Happy to see you?”
Carmilla laughs softly. “Careful. That tone has gotten men killed.”
She glances at the fallen cultists, unimpressed.
“But we don’t have time for fun.”
Her expression sharpens.
“Harker and Hood have nearly a full day’s head start,” she continues. “By now, they’ll be close to the Castle.”
Cam stiffens. “Then we’re already too late.”
Carmilla shakes her head. “If you followed their path, yes.”
She steps closer, the pendant’s glow intensifying.
“Luckily,” she says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I know a shortcut.”
Gene raises an eyebrow. “Define shortcut.”
She smiles wider. “Half the distance. Twice the danger.”
Cam stands. “Figures.”
Carmilla turns toward the door. “Gather what you need. We leave now.”
Gene slings his bag over his shoulder, still grinning. “You always make an entrance like that?”
Carmilla pauses, looks back over her shoulder.
“Only when I want to be remembered.”
They follow her into the night.
Veșnicel watches them go.
The Vale stirs.
END SCENE 5
EPILOGUE
Hunter’s Enclave Stronghold
The Office of Van Helsing
The office is crowded.
Too crowded for a man who prefers solitude and silence.
Van Helsing stands near his desk, arms folded behind his back, listening—enduring—as the room fills with voices that have nothing to do with looming catastrophe and everything to do with wrestling.
Hansel leans against a bookcase, one arm still favoring an old injury, grinning as he gestures animatedly.
“I’m just saying,” he says, “Title versus Title at Boxing Day Wrestlefest? That Rich Athlete’s gonna underestimate him. Again.”
Huck Finn lounges in a chair meant for scholars, boots propped up without apology. “Ain’t nobody ever learned humility from a mirror and a gold robe.”
Tom Sawyer snickers. “Bet the kid thinks Van Helsing’s just another part-timer.”
Mulan stands near the window, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Her patience is thinning.
Van Helsing clears his throat once. No one notices.
Then—
BANG.
The office door slams open hard enough to rattle the shelves.
Jasper Fang storms in, eyes blazing, jaw clenched, coat half-buttoned like he didn’t bother finishing the thought before acting on it.
Behind him come the Sisters of the Hood.
Crimson Vane reaches out instinctively. “Jasper—”
He shakes her off.
“Where is he?” Jasper demands. “Where’s my father?”
The room goes silent.
Van Helsing turns calmly, raising one hand—not in command, but reassurance. He motions the others back. Slowly, reluctantly, they give space.
“Your father,” Van Helsing says evenly, “has gone to Transylvania.”
Crimson’s breath catches.
“…To see for himself,” Van Helsing continues, “what we have all told him. That Dracula still sleeps.”
Crimson stares at him. “He went alone?”
Van Helsing shakes his head once. “No. I sent Cam and Gene Wrenchester to observe and assist.”
Jasper scoffs. “You sent them?”
Van Helsing doesn’t rise to the insult.
“Along the way,” he continues, “your father met with Jonathan Harker. Together, they entered the Vale of Shadows.”
Jasper’s mouth curls into a grim smile. “Figures. He always did know how to disappear when he wanted to.”
Crimson steps forward, voice tight. “This doesn’t feel right. Father doesn’t go somewhere like that unless he senses something worse than we do.”
Jasper nods. “Then I’m going.”
Van Helsing meets his gaze. “I have already sent assistance.”
Crimson turns sharply. “Who?”
“Carmilla,” Van Helsing says.
Crimson flushes instantly—anger, recognition, something unresolved flickering across her face.
“And Beowulf,” Van Helsing adds.
Scarlett exhales under her breath. “The Vale will tremble again when he walks it.”
Jasper folds his arms. “I don’t trust the Enclave.”
Mulan steps forward now, her voice measured but unyielding. “Beowulf and Carmilla are both capable. And they are trustworthy.”
Jasper laughs bitterly. “You said the same thing about Mina Harker.”
The air changes.
“…What?” Crimson asks, slowly turning toward her brother.
Jasper doesn’t look at her. His eyes are locked on Van Helsing.
“You tell them,” he says flatly.
Scarlett and Ruby step forward together now.
“Tell us,” Scarlett says.
Van Helsing closes his eyes.
When he opens them, the weight in his voice is centuries old.
He tells them.
He tells them of the siege.
Of Castle Dracula.
Of Red Riding Hood—their ancestor—standing at the altar beneath bleeding glass.
Of Mina Harker enthralled, crowned, and bound by blood and love weaponized.
Of hesitation.
Of mercy.
Of the silver blade driven home by Mina’s hand.
By the time he finishes, the room feels smaller.
Crimson’s hand covers her mouth.
Scarlett’s eyes shine with unshed fury.
Ruby whispers, barely audible, “She… killed her?”
“Yes,” Van Helsing says softly. “But that was not the Mina you later knew. Dracula’s influence was broken. Mina dedicated her life to fighting the very darkness that claimed her once.”
Scarlett snaps, “She doesn’t look very redeemed now.”
Van Helsing meets her stare. “Redemption is not linear. And Mina Harker… can still be saved.”
Silence answers him.
The Hoods turn and leave—no words, no farewell.
When the door closes, Van Helsing exhales and looks to Mulan.
“They will do something brash,” he says quietly. “And stupid.”
Mulan nods. “They always do.”
Outside – Enclave Corridor
Jasper doesn’t slow down.
“I’m going to Transylvania,” he says. “Enclave be damned.”
Scarlett nods immediately. “I’m in.”
Ruby too. “Same.”
Crimson stops.
“No.”
They turn to her.
“You two stay,” Crimson says firmly. “You watch the Enclave. You watch him.”
She gestures back toward Van Helsing’s office.
“I’m going,” Jasper says.
“And I’m coming with you,” Crimson replies. “Father doesn’t need three hotheads. He needs two hunters who know when to think.”
A beat.
Jasper nods once.
Scarlett and Ruby watch them go—uneasy, determined, and very much awake to the truth they’ve just inherited.
END EPISODE 2
TO BE CONTINUED IN THE RISE – EPISODE 001 “THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS”
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