The Hunter’s Arms hummed with the low buzz of conversation, the scrape of chairs on weathered floorboards, and the occasional clink of tankards. Smoke curled lazily in the air, mingling with the scent of ale and leather, underscored by something faintly metallic—the lingering trace of old weapons and the remnants of past battles.

Nestled in Farringdon, on the edge of the City, the pub felt like a relic of another time, blending the grit of London’s underground with the weight of guild tradition.

For ordinary passersby, it would hardly warrant a second glance. Like many establishments that preferred to remain in the Metro’s shadow to better serve their more Londinium-inclined clientele, its façade was cloaked by a subtle Ignore and Forget glamour, permanently anchored by wardstones discreetly embedded into its exterior.

But for those in the know—hunters, spellcasters, and craftspeople like ward masters, weaponsmiths, and potion brewers—it was unmistakable: a haven for exchanging intel, collecting contracts, and finding fleeting camaraderie in a dangerous trade.

Inside, the long, scarred bar bore the marks of countless stories, its oak surface worn smooth in places and chipped in others. Weapons adorned the walls—axes, crossbows, and swords, some mundane, others etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the dim lantern light.

And then, there was The Board of Marks.

At first glance, it looked unremarkable, no different from the community noticeboards pinned with flyers in local cafés. A large corkboard near the entrance, cluttered with parchment, wax seals, and hastily scrawled messages. Names, bounties, warnings—all crammed together in a chaotic arrangement that, to outsiders, might seem disorganized.

But for over a hundred and fifty years, this board had been the unofficial heart of the hunter’s world—the closest thing to an official registry for those who operated in Londinium’s underbelly. Contracts were matched here. Deals were brokered. Some of the most infamous hunts in modern history had begun as a single, unassuming scrap of parchment tacked to its surface.

And those who knew how to look understood that the most valuable postings weren’t the ones left in the open. The real jobs—the high-stakes bounties, the dangerous hunts—were tucked beneath seemingly innocuous listings, hidden in plain sight for those who had the right eyes to find them.

Tonight, an unusual presence was here to do exactly that.

In one shadowed corner, barely noticeable to the untrained eye, sat a figure cloaked in mystery—literally. The faint shimmer of a stealth charm danced along the edges of his hood, obscuring him from casual observation.

His mask, an abstract impression of a skull—smooth where it should have been hollow, curved where bone should have been sharp—caught the lantern glow in an unnatural way, its surface neither fully reflective nor entirely dull. The hood of his cloak deepened the illusion, casting his face into perpetual shadow, making it impossible to tell where the mask ended and the darkness began.

Mordred.

The name alone carried weight in the magical underground. For years, he had been a specter, a myth made flesh.

He was not a bounty hunter in the usual sense—he did not chase coin, nor did he live by the Board of Marks like the others. He rarely participated in hunts, but when he did, his feats were nothing short of legendary.

The kind of monsters that entire teams of hunters wouldn’t dare approach—he faced alone.

And he always did it alone.

His name held a coveted position on the Hunter’s Arms leaderboard—not as a regular contender, but as a reminder. Proof that even the elusive could leave an indelible mark.

Tonight, his presence was no different. Mordred had arrived early, slipping into the pub during the quieter hours and claiming his usual corner with an air of unspoken authority. Few noticed him, and even fewer dared to approach.

He sat perfectly still, his gloved fingers resting lightly on the table. The subtle charm woven into his cloak blurred the edges of his figure, lending him an almost spectral quality. Shadow and substance merged until he seemed more myth than man.

He was here for a purpose—to choose a bounty. It had been some time since he’d last done so, and tonight, he found himself in a rare mood, ready to indulge.

His dagger, Hellsing, had just fed.

The weapon lay concealed beneath his cloak, but he could feel its presence humming against his hip, its hunger momentarily sated. In the Docklands, it had drawn deep from the reckless and the foolish—Archaists who had neither the skill nor the understanding to wield what they sought. Their failure had been inevitable. Hellsing had simply reaped the excess.

A weapon of its nature did not grant power freely. Every strike drained it, a transaction measured in force, and unless replenished, it would turn its hunger on its wielder instead. That was the danger, the cost of something that did not merely channel power but consumed it.

For now, though, it was satisfied. And so was he. He simply sat and observed.

It was a ritual of sorts. Whenever Mordred came to the Hunter’s Arms, he took his time, letting the atmosphere seep into him.

Tonight was Friday, and the pub was more alive than usual, its energy thrumming through the crowded space. His dark eyes, hidden beneath the mask, took in every detail—the hum of voices, the clink of tankards, the occasional burst of laughter or argument. It was a world he preferred to witness from the edges, unbothered and undisturbed beneath the shadows of his cloak’s stealth charm.

Then, his attention snagged on a figure entering the room—smaller than most in the rough crowd, yet moving with the kind of certainty that made size irrelevant.

Her hair was an unassuming, muted hue, somewhere between ashy brown and faded gold, shifting subtly with the light. The pixie cut lent her a boyish edge at first glance, but her face quickly dismissed that impression. Her piercing grey-blue eyes, framed by dark lashes, held a quiet intensity. High cheekbones gave way to a sharply defined jawline and a delicate neckline, a striking balance of strength and elegance. 

Her movements were fluid, each stride purposeful and unyielding, yet exuding a quiet grace, as if she carried with her an unshakable serenity that stood in stark contrast to the chaos of the pub around her.

Chris Lynn.

He had known that name since the moment she entered this sphere two years ago.

The name, unremarkable on its own, had been like a stray spark catching on dry kindling—small at first, but impossible to ignore as it spread through the hunter’s grapevine, igniting curiosity and disbelief in equal measure.

Female hunters were rare enough, but Chris was something entirely her own. She looked different, talked differently, and moved differently from the hardened veterans in this bloody line of work. Her presence unsettled some, challenged others, and earned more than a few dismissive glances from those who believed she didn’t belong.

And yet, here she was.

A fully licensed Constable of the Londinium Night Watchmen—the official title for a sanctioned demon hunter, recognised by the book in Londinium’s world.

The Londinium Night Watchmen—a civilian force that predated the institutional police system—had once patrolled the streets under the flickering glow of gas lamps, maintaining order in the shadows of the city’s darker alleys. Originally formed in the 19th century, it had long outlived its intended purpose, surviving only because of the Londinium Council’s continued backing.

Now, it was little more than a bureaucratic artifact, a loophole that allowed licensed hunters to operate within the Metro without interference.

Chris wasn’t law enforcement. No hunter was.

Most worked outside the law entirely—skirting regulations, carrying weapons they weren’t permitted to have, dealing with threats that couldn’t be reported under the Metro sun. Licensed or not, almost all hunters lived in the murky in-between, always one misstep away from being classified as criminals.

But Chris had chosen the official path, a legal ghost straddling two worlds—a relic of an old system that should have faded long ago, yet persisted in the cracks of modern oversight.

A name in the Night Watchmen’s records. A Constable’s clearance.

The right to carry a blade—her rapier—without question. A long-standing clause still recognized swords under Night Watchmen’s jurisdiction.

It set her apart from many of her peers. It made her movements in both Londinium and the Metro cleaner, safer.

To some, however, it also made her suspect—a hunter with one foot in sanctioned bureaucracy and the other in the chaos of demon hunting.

No wonder people talked.

And then, of course, there was the rapier.

An outdated weapon, most would say. In the brutal trade of demon hunting, it was dismissed outright by nearly everyone.

Modern hunters relied on practicality. Crossbows—whether traditional or automatic repeaters—were standard. Shotguns, legally permitted under Night Watchmen allowances, were the preferred choice for those who followed the system.

Then there were the unlicensed hunters.

The ones who operated in the grey, dealing in black-market artifacts, handling supernatural bounties that had no official sanction. They carried what they pleased—pistols, semi-automatic firearms. Illegal, of course. But no one cared when the things you hunted didn’t belong in police reports.

But swords?

And a rapier, of all things?

It was inconceivable to many that anyone could train to wield such a medieval weapon with enough precision to make it practical. The technique, the discipline, the audacity to confront monstrous foes with nothing but a thin blade—it defied all logic.

Yet history had its ironies.

The first official police force—the Thames River Police, one of the earliest models of civilian law enforcement—once carried cutlasses as standard issue. A relic of an era when the blade was as much a deterrent as it was a weapon.

The Londinium Night Watchmen, formed in the same period, had retained that legacy.

Their sanctioned weapons reflected their origins—shotguns, batons, and, curiously, swords. Not just the broad-edged cutlasses of the old dock patrols, but finer blades as well—sabres, cavalry swords, and rapiers.

An allowance buried deep in the Night Watchmen’s historical framework—a holdover that most hunters ignored in favour of more practical options.

But Chris Lynn had made full use of that technicality. She wielded her rapier with a skill that silenced even the most vocal doubters. Her strikes were sharp, precise, and unrelenting, carving her own path through a profession that had never expected her to succeed.

Mordred had heard the stories among the hunters over the past two years—tales of her sudden emergence from the countryside into Londinium’s demon-hunting scene. Her efficiency, her unyielding independence, and her unusual choice of spellcasting collaborators had all become topics of whispered conversations.

Most recently, there was even talk of her securing a deal with the Londinium Councils—an unusual arrangement for anyone in this circle, one that would certainly raise even more eyebrows and spark further controversy.

Until tonight, Mordred had never encountered Chris Lynn here, at the Hunter’s Arms.

It was a rare convergence, this moment, as if the fabric of Londinium itself had conspired to bring her into his view. As she stepped into the pub, a faint murmur of recognition followed her, the atmosphere shifting slightly in response to her presence.

Mordred, cloaked in the shadows of his corner, watched her with quiet intrigue.