A group of stern-looking figures, including a priest, a woman, and a young boy with weapons, stand in a misty, skull-laden field before a gothic manor.

The mist clung to York Manor, veiling the trees and lake. The manor, weathered by time, stood behind the gathering, its windows dark. Today was the hunt — steeped in pride, secrecy, and menace. Reverend John, the host, stood at the center. A stern man in his fifties, his deep-set eyes shadowed beneath a greying brow. He wore a dark overcoat over a faded cassock, boots muddy. A vintage rifle rested on his shoulder, and a tarnished crucifix hung from his neck. Beside him, Miss Peny, his wife, wore a burgundy jacket and black boots. Her blue eyes pierced through the mist, and a dagger rested against her thigh. Her grace concealed a hidden threat. Don, their son, a plump teenager, wore a tweed vest and oversized boots. His crossbow was ornamental, and snacks littered his belt. He laughed loudly, oblivious to the tension. Charles, the wealthiest guest, stood apart in a tailored navy suit. His revolver, hidden beneath his jacket, gleamed in the mist. Veronica, rugged in denim, stood with a double-barrel shotgun, wary. Dr. Felix, elderly and frail, nervously scanned the group. Mr. Cook, muscular and scarred, stood stoically. Raj, the gardener, trembled among the flowers, and Mary Blunder, pale and hollow-eyed, carried a pistol. See more