Qrow Branwen—one of the most renowned Huntsmen of his generation—moved with lethal grace through the forest clearing, carving down Grimm with grim efficiency.
His claymore-scythe hybrid flashed with every motion, slicing through Beowolves and Ursas alike in a deadly arc of steel and speed. His white coat fluttered with each twist of his body, stained with soot, blood, and time. Aura shimmered faintly around him, flickering at the edges, barely holding.
On the surface, he looked like he always had—composed, unflinching, lethal.
But beneath that facade, **Qrow was running on fumes**.
His breaths came ragged between attacks. His footwork, though precise, carried the weight of exhaustion long denied. He wasn't here by chance. He wasn't here for another cleanup mission.
He was here because of her.
**Summer Rose**—his missing teammate, his comrade, his friend. She had vanished without a trace, and Qrow had followed the whispers, the signs, the silence left in her wake. Every wrong turn, every ambush, every Grimm attack chipped away at him.
And now, surrounded and alone, he was burning through what little strength he had left just to keep standing.
The Grimm were circling.
He was tired.
But still he fought.
In the shadows of the treeline, the triplets remained silent, watching
with narrowed eyes.
Suddenly, an Ursa burst from the underbrush, charging straight toward Qrow's blind spot.
He pivoted instinctively, weapon raised—but he was a breath too slow.
Or so he thought.
*Crack.*
The Ursa's skull exploded mid-lunge, its body collapsing before it could even touch him. Qrow blinked, stunned, his stance faltering just slightly. He hadn't fired. No one else was supposed to be here.
Then he felt it.
A pressure in the air—sharp, cold, and heavy. A **deathly gaze**, not directed at him, but at the Grimm.
The surrounding beasts growled, stepped back, and snarled with unease. Their aggression faltered. Even primal rage couldn't silence their instincts. Something more dangerous had arrived.
From the treetops above, three silhouettes descended in complete silence.
Aetherion landed first, his twin-edged sword drawn and humming with refined aura.
Zephine followed, kneeling with one leg extended, her sleek rifle already lining up another shot.
Virelia hit the ground with both gauntlets gleaming, the earth beneath her feet cracking slightly from the force of her landing.
And then—
They moved.
To Qrow, it was a blur. One moment they stood beside him, the next—
Every Grimm in the area collapsed.
Decapitated. Impaled. Disintegrated.
Not a second wasted.
Not a single one left alive.
The forest was silent once more.
Qrow turned slowly, breath caught halfway between disbelief and awe, eyes darting between the three small figures now standing calmly where the Grimm once stood.
Children.
No—*monsters in the shape of children.*
The only word that managed to cra
wl out of his throat was:
"…What the fuck…"
Qrow snapped back to reality, the haze of adrenaline and disbelief clearing just enough for him to truly *see* them.
Three children.
No older than **five**—and yet…
The way they moved. The pressure they emitted. The calm control in their presence. He had fought alongside the best of the best, stood shoulder to shoulder with legends—but these three… they eclipsed all of them.
**Power**, raw and refined, wrapped in the unassuming form of children.
Zephine stepped forward, her rifle slung casually across her back. She crouched in front of Qrow, tilting her head slightly with a calm, curious expression. Her pale white hair swayed gently in the breeze as she offered him her hand.
"Are you okay, mister?" she asked softly, a faint smile playing on her lips.
Virelia stood just behind her, hands planted firmly on her hips. Her black hair shimmered under the broken light filtering through the trees, her expression unreadable but sharp. Her gaze scanned Qrow head to toe—assessing him, analyzing, silently judging.
Aetherion didn't move closer. He remained where he had landed, his sword half-drawn, silver edge glinting faintly. His two-toned hair framed narrowed eyes that locked onto Qrow with calm authority.
"Who are you, mister?" he asked, voice low and clear. "Why are you here?"
Qrow let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He didn't stand. He just looked down at the dirt beneath him—at the blood, the dust, the fading traces of battle.
And then, after a long pause, he spoke.
"…I was looking for my old teammate," he muttered, eyes
distant. "Summer Rose."