The world was too loud. That was the first thing Blaze noticed when the gray light of dawn began to bleed through the trees. He sat with his back pressed against the gnarled roots of an oak, every muscle coiled tight. He wasn't in pain, but his body hummed with a terrible, frantic energy, like a wire stretched to its breaking point.
A few yards away, the wolf's carcass was already starting to look wrong. It was shrunken, its fur matted and dull, as if the very life had been sucked from its bones, leaving a dry husk behind. Blaze could smell the rot beginning, a sweet, cloying scent that mixed with the metallic tang of the blood still crusted around his own mouth.
He scrubbed at his lips with the back of his hand, but the sensation remained—a phantom taste, a memory of warmth and salt and a satisfaction so profound it made his stomach clench with self-loathing. He'd tried to vomit earlier, kneeling in the dirt and forcing his fingers down his throat, but his body refused. It held onto its prize.
He felt… sharp. Dangerously so. The forest wasn't just a collection of trees; it was a tapestry of agonizing detail. He could see the intricate web a spider was weaving on a branch twenty feet away. He could hear the frantic, terrified heartbeat of a rabbit hiding in a burrow beneath him. The sounds didn't just enter his ears; they pierced him.
What is happening to me? The thought wasn't a question so much as a spiraling panic.
The ring on his finger answered with a pulse of warmth that felt like a drop of poison sinking into his skin. The voice was in his head again, no longer a thrum but a smooth, confident presence that felt more invasive than any sound.
You are waking up.
Blaze flinched. "Get out of my head."
I am not in your head, it whispered, a soundless echo of amusement. I am in your blood. You drank. You accepted the gift. Did you think it would ask for nothing in return?
Images flashed behind his eyes, unbidden. The sneering faces of the nobles. The priest's dismissive gaze. Useless. Forgotten. Nothing. The voice was weaving his own memories into a weapon.
They cast you out, it purred. They left you to die. But you are not dying. You are being reborn.
His hand trembled as he reached for the ring, his fingers brushing against the cold, alien metal. For a second, he imagined tearing it off, throwing it into the deepest part of the canyon. But the thought was met with a wave of absolute terror from a part of him he no longer controlled. It was a primal fear, the fear of an animal about to chew off its own leg to escape a trap.
"What did you do to me?" he rasped.
I gave you what my master left behind. The legacy of the First King. You are his heir now. You are a child of the night.
"A vampire," Blaze spat the word. It felt foul, like something from a cheap horror story told to frighten children. Monsters hunted by heroes in shining armor.
A predator, the voice corrected, its tone turning hard. The world is divided into sheep and wolves, Blaze Carter. You have spent your entire life as a sheep. How does it feel to finally grow teeth?
He didn't have an answer. He only knew that the power humming under his skin felt both incredible and obscene. He had to know. He had to be sure.
With a shaking hand, he unsheathed his dagger. The blade was dull, stained with the wolf's dry blood. Without letting himself think, he dragged the edge across his palm. The pain was real, a sharp, clean line of fire. Blood welled, shockingly red against his skin. He stared, transfixed.
And then he watched as the edges of the wound pulled together. The skin flowed like wax, knitting itself shut in a seamless line. A second later, not even a scar remained.
A choked, hysterical laugh escaped his lips. It wasn't a sound of joy. It was the sound of something breaking. He was a monster. It was real.
And a dark, secret part of him, a part he was already beginning to hate, was thrilled.
He couldn't stay near the wolf's body. He walked for hours, moving through the forest with an unnerving grace he didn't recognize. He made no sound. The leaves didn't crunch under his boots. He was a ghost in his own body.
He heard them long before he saw them. The rhythmic clink of chainmail, the heavy tread of armored boots, and something else—a low, irritating hum, like a wasp buzzing just at the edge of hearing. It was the sound of their faith, a faint aura of holy magic that grated on his new senses.
Instinct, not thought, drove him into the shadows of the undergrowth. He moved parallel to the path, peering through the leaves. Five men. Church knights, their tabards emblazoned with the golden sunburst he remembered with a fresh pang of humiliation.
"...drained completely dry," one of them was saying. "The work of a leech, no doubt."
"Abominations," the leader grunted, his hand resting on a silver-etched mace. "They are a plague upon the world. The Light shows them no mercy, and neither should we."
The words were like stones thrown at him. He felt a defensive anger rise, hot and sharp. But then, another knight laughed.
"Speaking of wastes of space, you hear what they did with that useless summon? The Carter boy?"
Blaze went utterly still.
"Sent him on a 'training mission'," the first knight snorted. "A convenient way to get rid of him. He's probably decorating a wolf's gullet by now."
"Good riddance. Imagine the shame. To be rejected by the gods themselves."
The world narrowed to the sound of their mocking laughter. Every cruel word, every casual dismissal, landed like a physical blow. This was what they thought of him. This was all he had ever been to them. A joke. A failure. A piece of trash to be disposed of.
The hunger returned, a sharp, vicious ache in his throat. He wanted to move. He wanted to show them what a 'useless summon' could do. He imagined the taste of their blood, the sound of their laughter turning to screams.
But he stayed frozen, hidden in the leaves, his fists clenched so tight that his knuckles were white. The wounds on his palms opened and closed, opened and closed.
They walked on, their voices fading, leaving Blaze alone in a silence that was louder than their insults.
The voice of the ring was back, no longer seductive, but cold and sharp as glass. Do you see? To them, you are nothing. An inconvenience. To the Light, you are a monster to be destroyed. They have already passed their judgment.
Blaze leaned his head back against a tree, his breath coming in slow, steadying waves. The rage was still there, but it was changing, cooling from a hot fire into a shard of ice in his gut.
They had cast him out. They had mocked him. They had left him for dead. And now, they would hunt him for what he had been forced to become.
His reflection stared back at him from the blade of his dagger. His eyes, in the dim light of the forest, held a faint, crimson glow.
They made me their enemy, he thought, the words a silent vow. Fine.
He wouldn't drown the world in shadows. He would just survive. And he would let them see what kind of monster they had created.