The banners of the Holy Empire of Aurelion snapped in the wind, white and gold streaming down from the capital's spires. In the training yard of the palace barracks, sunlight gleamed against polished steel, and the air thrummed with shouts, clashing weapons, and bursts of magic.
Blaze Carter's classmates—the ones the gods had chosen—were already beginning to look like the heroes sung of in church hymns.
"—Flame Serpent!" shouted Marcus Hale, his sword sweeping outward. From the blade erupted a coiling dragon of fire, roaring across the yard. Trainee knights stumbled back as the blaze scorched a line of stone black.
Applause followed from watching nobles, priests, and officers. Marcus grinned, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, basking in the attention.
"Show-off," muttered Claire Danvers, though her lips twitched with reluctant amusement. She herself was no ordinary trainee: with a murmured prayer, she raised her hand and a man whose arm had been blistered by Marcus's flames sighed in relief as pale-blue light mended the burns. The priests watching her nodded, whispering the word saint.
Behind them, two others sparred under the watch of a general. Ethan Ward, the swordsman blessed with "Heaven's Edge," moved like a silver streak, each strike ringing pure against his opponent's shield. His partner, Hana Lee, the archer chosen by the wind goddess, loosed arrows that curved in midair to strike bullseyes painted on moving dummies.
The Empire had chosen its prodigies well.
Except, of course, for the one who wasn't chosen.
Blaze Carter's name was never spoken here, not unless in passing, a joke tossed into the air like refuse.
"Remember that look on Blaze's face?" Marcus laughed between cheers, drawing a goblet of water from a squire. "Standing there empty-handed while the priests called him rejected? Priceless. I thought he'd cry right there in the throne room."
A few laughed. Others shifted uneasily.
"He… he wasn't supposed to be summoned, right?" Hana asked hesitantly. She lowered her bow, eyes uncertain. "One of the clerics said it was a mistake."
Marcus shrugged, dismissive. "Mistake or not, he's probably dead by now. Poor bastard couldn't light a torch without flint. The wilds don't forgive the weak."
Claire said nothing, though her hand lingered on the cross at her neck. She remembered Blaze's expression better than the others—the quiet disbelief, the way he clenched his jaw and refused to beg. Something about it unsettled her still, though she could not say why.
"Enough chatter," barked the general, clapping steel-gauntleted hands. "You are the chosen. The Empire has placed its future in your hands. Train until the gods themselves tremble."
The youths snapped to attention, pride swelling in their chests.
Far away, in another part of the world, their forgotten classmate licked blood from his lips in a canyon ruin.
The bells of the Grand Cathedral tolled low, somber notes reverberating beneath vaulted ceilings gilded in gold. Rows of robed priests gathered in a chamber where stained glass cast colored light over a long stone table. At its head sat Cardinal Theophilus, his jeweled crozier resting against his chair. His face was drawn, lips pursed tight.
Before the assembly lay three bloodstained tabards—white cloth embroidered with the sunburst sigil of the church, now ripped and burned.
The air was heavy.
"Five sent. Two returned." Theophilus's voice was low, grave. "Paladins sworn to the Radiant Lord, cut down near the ruins of Kael'thar Canyon."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. Some whispered prayers for the fallen, others whispered curses for their killers.
"Was it bandits?" asked one bishop.
Theophilus's eyes, dark as old stone, swept the room. "No. The survivors speak of fangs. Of crimson eyes in the dark. Of shadows that bent to his will."
The chamber hushed.
"Vampire," breathed an elderly abbot, the word trembling from his lips like a curse. "But… that cannot be. The last of their kind were purged three centuries ago."
"Then one escaped the purge," snarled a younger priest, slamming his fist against the table. "Or something new has arisen. Either way, it festers in our lands."
Another voice—measured, cutting—spoke from the far end. "Or perhaps this is no coincidence at all."
Heads turned. It was Bishop Lucien, a thin man with hawkish features and eyes that glittered like obsidian. He tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. "We summoned the chosen. And yet a mistake was made. A name was dragged across realms that the gods had not blessed. The useless one. The mistake."
Theophilus's expression darkened. "You think this is his doing?"
"I think," Lucien said softly, "that the one the gods rejected may have found… other patrons."
The silence that followed was sharp as a blade.
Finally, Theophilus rose. His crozier rang against the marble floor. "Whether coincidence or not, the church cannot ignore this. The blood of paladins cries for vengeance. If a vampire has indeed returned, it is an omen of calamity."
One by one, the priests lowered their heads in assent.
"Send word to the Inquisition," Theophilus commanded. "And double the patrols along the western marches. We will find this shadow, and when we do, we will burn it out root and stem."
In the courtyard outside the cathedral, the two surviving paladins knelt, armor battered, faces pale. A scribe inked their testimony onto parchment.
"I saw him," whispered one, voice raw. "Not a man. Not a beast. His eyes—like fire in the dark. He moved faster than thought. My blade… it passed through nothing but air."
The other paladin's hands shook. "He spoke to me. No words—just… pressed into my skull. I couldn't breathe. I wanted to kneel, to beg, though I knew it meant death. I've faced ogres, sorcerers, horrors in the deep. Nothing has ever broken me so."
The scribe's quill paused, his hand trembling. He dipped ink again, refusing to look up.
The first paladin closed his eyes, whispering, "He is no ordinary vampire. He is something worse."
Above them, the bells tolled again.
Back in the capital, the heroes feasted in the palace hall, golden platters set before them, wine poured by servants. Nobles toasted their strength, priests spoke blessings, and laughter filled the vaulted chamber.
Claire listened, smiling politely, but her gaze drifted to the high windows where the night pressed black against glass.
For just a heartbeat, she imagined crimson eyes staring back.
And far to the west, in the ruins of a forgotten age, Blaze Carter fed in silence, blood trailing from his mouth. Alone in the dark, he whispered words no priest would ever hear:
"Let them have their light. The night is mine."