The whispers had grown teeth.
Blaze could feel it in the way people moved when he entered a room, the way conversations softened just enough to track his presence. He didn't need to strain to hear them. The whispers came willingly now, eager to be caught, feeding his patience with morsels of rumor.
But whispers had another habit: they reached ears they weren't meant for.
That was how the invitation came.
A boy no older than fifteen, mud on his clothes, eyes darting like a cornered rat, found Blaze in the tavern on a foggy morning. The tavern had thinned—only a few drunks slumped over their cups and a barmaid cleaning halfheartedly. Kael sat with his boots on the table, chewing a strip of dried meat, while Blaze sat with the same calm stillness that unsettled half the town.
The boy stopped two steps from their table, clutching a folded scrap of parchment. "Uh… s-sir…? A message for you."
Kael's eyes narrowed, his hand flexing with the instinct to remove problems before they grew. But Blaze gestured for patience.
The boy extended the scrap. Blaze took it without a word. His eyes flicked over the neat script.
The guildmaster of Greywick's Mercenary Hall requests your company. Dusk. The Black Lion hall.
The letters were clean, precise, written with the practiced hand of someone used to command. Blaze folded it once and slipped it into his cloak.
"Who gave you this?" he asked, his tone mild.
The boy licked his lips. "A… a man in armor, sir. Paid me a copper to deliver it. Said if you come, you come. If not, then that's your choice."
Blaze studied him for a moment, then flicked a silver coin onto the table. The boy's eyes widened—more than he'd likely see in a month.
"Forget you ever saw me," Blaze said, voice quiet but heavy.
The boy grabbed the coin and bolted like a hare.
Kael leaned forward. "A trap."
Blaze set his cup down. "Of course."
"You want me to gut their hall before they breathe the same air as you?" Kael's tone was half-serious, half-hopeful.
"No," Blaze said softly. His gaze drifted to the faint light through the tavern's grimy windows. "If the guildmaster wants to meet me, then they already know too much. That makes this useful."
Kael frowned. "Useful how?"
Blaze's eyes, pale and unblinking, shifted to him. "Because curiosity can be a chain, Kael. And once you see the links, you can decide whether to bind them… or break them."
Dusk arrived in Greywick like a thief—fast, muffled, and thick with shadows. The Black Lion Mercenary Hall stood near the eastern quarter, a two-story fortress of timber and stone, its sign carved into the shape of a roaring lion. Men with swords lounged by the door, their laughter sharp and mean. Inside, the hall was a cavern of smoke, ale, and weapons gleaming on racks.
Kael bristled the moment they stepped inside. The mercenaries looked their way, their eyes curious, assessing, some mocking. But Blaze walked through as though the hall belonged to him. His presence carved a path that no mercenary dared to block.
A man waited by the staircase. Broad shoulders, clean armor—not gaudy, but well-kept. He gave a shallow nod. "The guildmaster will see you now."
Blaze followed without hesitation. Kael walked half a step behind, his predator's grin promising violence to anyone foolish enough to draw steel.
The upstairs office was quiet, smelling of leather, smoke, and old parchment. Behind a heavy desk sat a man who looked less like a warrior and more like a hunter. His beard was trimmed short, his hair streaked with gray, his eyes sharp with a kind of patient calculation.
"Welcome," the guildmaster said, voice steady. "I've been waiting for you."
Blaze did not sit when the man gestured to the chair. He stood, silent, studying him.
The guildmaster leaned back, unconcerned. "They call me Varik. I run this hall. And you… are the stranger they whisper about."
Blaze's lips barely curved. "Whispers carry far."
"They do." Varik's gaze was direct, unflinching. "And the louder they grow, the more I need to know whether they're smoke… or fire."
For the first time, Blaze sat. Slowly. Deliberately. The chair creaked under his stillness.
"Then ask," he said.
Varik's eyes flicked toward Kael, then back to Blaze. "Your beastfolk friend calls you Master. The gangs are quiet where you walk. Men swear you can unmake them with your eyes alone. That you're more shadow than flesh. Some think you're cursed. Others… think you're opportunity."
The silence stretched. Blaze let it.
Varik smiled faintly. "So tell me, stranger. Which are you?"
Blaze leaned back, the cursed ring cold against his skin. His voice was calm, almost conversational. "Perhaps I am both."
Varik studied him with a hunter's patience. For the first time in many months, Blaze felt the faintest spark of interest—not hostility, not fear, but a careful curiosity that edged close to respect.
The office door clicked shut behind Kael, who stayed posted near it like a wolf on guard. His shoulders were tense, his hand resting almost too casually on the hilt of his sword. Blaze knew Kael didn't like this—rooms with one exit made him twitchy—but he held his ground.
Varik leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "I've run this hall ten years. Seen sellswords, deserters, beastfolk raiders, even a few runaway knights. I know how to read men. And I'll admit…" He tilted his head, studying Blaze with sharp curiosity. "You don't read like any of them."
Blaze's pale eyes met his, unblinking. "Perhaps your eyes aren't sharp enough."
Varik chuckled at that, not offended. "Maybe. Or maybe you're sharper than most. Either way, Greywick has a way of grinding secrets out of people. If you plan to stay, stranger, you'll need to understand this: the guild is the balance in this town. Everyone else—gangs, merchants, cutthroats—they move because we let them. The church doesn't bother much with us, not yet. That leaves me. And I like to know what kind of man's making waves in my pond."
He said it casually, like a fisherman tossing scraps to the water. But Blaze heard the weight beneath it: don't unsettle my order unless you mean to play by my rules.
Blaze let the silence stretch. Patience was its own weapon. Varik's fingers tapped the wood, steady and unhurried, but Blaze saw the faintest tightening around his eyes. Even a man like this wasn't immune to stillness.
Finally, Blaze spoke. "You think you run Greywick."
"I know I do." Varik's smile didn't falter.
"Then you should know control is an illusion." Blaze's tone was mild, but his words sank like hooks. "You balance gangs against each other, guilds against gangs, nobles against church. But all it takes is a single stone in the wrong place, and your pond turns red."
Kael shifted, the corner of his mouth curving in approval.
Varik only smiled wider. "So which are you, stranger—the stone, or the one who throws it?"
Blaze let a hint of a smile touch his lips. "I am the hand that teaches the stone where to fall."
For the first time, Varik's eyes narrowed. Not in anger—more like recognition. A hunter realizing the prey might not just bite, but bite back hard.
"Bold words," he said softly. "Most men who sit in that chair try to sell me their strength. They puff their chests, list their battles, brag about their scars. You haven't done any of that. Either you're clever enough to know words are cheap, or dangerous enough not to need them."
Blaze tilted his head slightly. "Which do you prefer?"
Varik's laughter boomed, startling even Kael for a half second. He leaned back, shaking his head. "Gods, you're a cold bastard. I like that. But cold doesn't keep you alive in Greywick. Fire does. And I want to see if you've got it."
His hand moved, pulling a dagger from the desk. He drove the point into the wood, not in threat, but with the ease of a man setting down a cup.
"I've got a job," Varik said simply. "A test. Not one of my regulars wants it, because it's messy. If you walk away, I won't hold it against you. If you take it, I'll know you're more than just whispers."
Kael bristled. "You think you can—"
"Kael," Blaze said, voice like a blade sliding free of its sheath. The beastfolk stilled instantly, though his eyes still smoldered.
Blaze turned back to Varik. "What job?"
Varik smiled faintly, as though amused by Kael's loyalty. "Simple. One of the gangs—the Crimson Hand—decided to skim too much from the guild's merchants. I don't want a war, but I want them reminded who runs Greywick. Deliver the message, make sure their leader bleeds a little, but don't burn the house down."
"Why not send your own men?" Blaze asked.
"Because," Varik said with deliberate slowness, "if my men do it, it's politics. If you do it, it's… curiosity."
The ring pulsed faintly against Blaze's skin, whispering of blood, of dominance, of bending this Varik to his knees. But Blaze ignored it. He watched Varik, weighing him. The man wasn't reckless. He wasn't desperate. He was testing Blaze, the same way Blaze tested others.
A dangerous curiosity indeed.
At last, Blaze stood. "Very well. I'll deliver your message."
Varik leaned back in his chair, satisfied. "Good. Return when it's done. Then we'll see if you and I can do more than just share whispers."
Blaze's lips curved faintly as he turned toward the door. "Be careful what you wish for, Guildmaster."
Varik's chuckle followed him out. "And be careful what stones you throw, Stranger."
The guildhall's heavy oak doors creaked as Blaze and Kael stepped back into the evening air. The sun had fallen low, bleeding red across the crooked rooftops of Greywick. The streets were already turning meaner, shadows crawling with drunks, beggars, and cutthroats.
Kael walked stiffly at his side, jaw tight. "That man thinks he can toy with you, Master. Test you like some sellsword." His voice was low, restrained only because Blaze had already silenced him once inside.
Blaze glanced sideways. "You disapprove?"
"I don't trust him. His smile hides too many teeth. He'll use you if you let him."
A faint smile curved Blaze's lips. "Everyone will try to use me, Kael. That's the nature of power. The difference is whether they realize I am using them first."
Kael frowned, but there was a flash of respect in his amber eyes. "Then what of this job? You don't intend to be his hound, do you?"
"No," Blaze said simply. His cloak whispered as he turned down a narrow lane, ignoring the beggar who scurried aside. "I intend to see the Crimson Hand. Measure them. Break what needs breaking. And in the process, I'll learn what kind of man Varik is—whether he truly holds Greywick, or if his grip is slipping."
Kael grunted, though satisfaction rippled through his tone. "So his test becomes yours."
"Exactly."
They walked in silence for a time, the city breathing around them. From a nearby tavern, a bard's cracked lute carried a tune about some war hero long dead. In the alleys, dice clattered and curses flew. Somewhere distant, a scream went unanswered.
Blaze let his senses drift outward. The ring's curse sharpened everything—the thump of hearts, the tang of sweat, the subtle tremor of fear when eyes flicked toward him. People still whispered. He could feel it. The story of the alley had grown fangs, and now every glance that lingered on him carried a question: Is that the stranger? The one they talk about?
He breathed it in like smoke. Fear and curiosity, two sides of the same coin. Useful currency.
Kael broke the silence again, his tone more hesitant. "Master… back in the guild. When he said he'd seen many men—you reminded me of them. Not the mercenaries or the thieves. The ones who didn't flinch, who never had to raise their voices to command the room. My old tribe called them spirit-bearers. Men who carried something greater than themselves."
Blaze's gaze flicked to him. "Do you believe I carry something greater?"
Kael met his eyes without wavering. "I don't know what it is. But I know it's heavier than anything I've ever followed. And it pulls me whether I will it or not."
The words settled between them, weighty and raw. Blaze said nothing for a long moment. He didn't need to. The blood bond made Kael's loyalty absolute, but there was something in those words that went beyond compulsion.
A choice.
Blaze filed it away. Choices could be sharpened into weapons too.
The streets bent toward the river, where lanterns swayed over the water and the stink of fish fought the stench of refuse. They stopped on a narrow bridge, watching barges drift under like shadows with sails.
"Crimson Hand," Kael muttered, almost spitting the words. "A petty gang. They cut throats for coins and beat merchants who don't pay. I could gut their leader tonight, and be done with it."
"No." Blaze's tone was firm, measured. "We don't simply kill. We unravel. Fear is worth more than blood."
Kael's lips curved, showing a fang. "Then what's the plan?"
Blaze leaned on the railing, eyes fixed on the murky water below. "First, we let them see us. Not all at once. Just enough. A shadow in the corner, a whisper in the tavern, a stranger whose eyes they can't quite meet. Then, when they start to doubt their own strength, we strike. Not to destroy—only to break their leader, bend him low enough that the rest bow without a fight."
The ring pulsed faintly, echoing his words like a heartbeat: Bend. Break. Bow.
Kael inhaled sharply, nodding once. "You're building something, aren't you, Master? Not just fear. An order. A kingdom in the shadows."
Blaze's pale eyes glinted in the lantern light. "One step at a time. Greywick is the beginning. Nothing more."
The words felt heavier than he intended, as if the night itself leaned closer to hear them.
A sudden shout broke the quiet—a pair of drunks brawling near the bridge. One stumbled too close, crashing against Blaze's shoulder.
"Watch it, bastard!" the man snarled, raising a fist. His companion laughed, egging him on.
Kael's hand went to his sword, but Blaze lifted a finger.
He turned his gaze on the drunk. Not a glare, not even true anger—just the still, sharp weight of his presence, the barest push of his will. The man froze mid-motion. His face drained of color, lips trembling as though the stranger's eyes had peeled him bare. His companion, confused, tugged at his arm.
But the drunk staggered back on his own, muttering something incoherent, and fled into the alley. His friend cursed and followed.
Kael exhaled a low laugh. "Didn't even need steel."
"Fear cuts deeper," Blaze murmured.
They moved on, leaving the bridge behind. The city swallowed them again, but the whispers followed. By dawn, Blaze knew, the story would spread: a drunk had met the Stranger's eyes, and ran screaming into the dark.
And so the myth grew, fed by nothing more than silence, patience, and shadows.
As they returned toward the inn, Kael finally broke the silence once more. "Master… what will you do if Varik's test proves he's more threat than ally?"
Blaze's answer was simple, soft as the night wind: "Then I'll remind him who truly holds the stone."
The ring pulsed warmly at his finger, satisfied. And above Greywick's crooked skyline, the first stars flickered like watchful eyes.