The chapel bells wheezed out their evening call like an old man trying to clear his throat. Half the notes came out flat, the other half barely made it past the square before dying in the narrow alleys. Most of Greywick had learned to tune them out years ago—when you lived in a place where money and muscle did the talking, a priest's voice didn't carry much weight.
But Blaze heard every cracked note. Each one reminded him that somewhere down there, an old man in robes was still watching, still waiting, still thinking. And that was becoming a problem.
He perched on the edge of a tavern roof that had seen better decades, pulling his cloak tight against the evening chill. Below him, Greywick's nightlife was hitting its stride—mercenaries stumbling between drinking holes, working girls leading customers into shadowy doorways, street gangs arguing over card games with voices loud enough to wake the dead. The usual symphony of a town that had given up pretending to be respectable.
It should have felt like home. This was the kind of place where predators thrived, where violence was currency and nobody asked too many questions. So why did he feel like he was being hunted?
"That priest is getting bold," Kael muttered beside him, crouched like he was ready to spring at the first sign of trouble. His ears twitched at every sound from the street. "Saw him in the market today, pulling people aside. They're starting to talk about you openly now."
Blaze felt something cold settle in his stomach. He'd been careful—maybe too careful. In a place like Greywick, being invisible just made you look weak. "Good," he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. "Let them talk. Fear spreads faster than gossip."
"But what if they do more than talk?" Kael's golden eyes reflected his worry. "What if they organize?"
The thought had been gnawing at Blaze for days. A mob of terrified townspeople was manageable. A mob led by someone who knew what to look for? That was dangerous. "Then we make sure they understand the cost of defiance before they get that far."
Kael shifted uncomfortably. "You're thinking about revealing yourself."
"Not revealing. Teaching." Blaze studied the crowd below, his mind already working through possibilities. "They don't need to know what I am. They just need to know that crossing me ends badly."
The cursed ring on his finger gave a little pulse of warmth, like it approved of the direction his thoughts were taking. Sometimes he wondered if the thing was more parasite than tool, feeding off his darker impulses. But right now, he needed those impulses.
He'd spent weeks being the mysterious stranger, the shadow that made people nervous. But shadows could only intimidate for so long before someone got brave enough to shine a light on them. What he needed was respect—the kind that came from watching your enemies broken and begging.
"Where?" Kael asked, reading his mood with the uncanny accuracy that came from their bond.
Blaze's gaze swept over Greywick's sprawl until it settled on the cluster of taverns and brothels that formed the town's black heart. The Broken Pike squatted in the middle of it like a diseased tumor, spilling light and noise and trouble into the surrounding streets. "There," he said, pointing. "Every thug, every cutthroat, every wannabe hard case in town drinks there. Make an impression on that crowd, and the story spreads to every corner of Greywick by sunrise."
"That's a lot of drunk, angry men in a very small space." Kael's tail was doing that nervous twitch it always did when he was worried. "Even for you."
Blaze felt a familiar flutter of uncertainty in his chest. Thirty-to-one odds. Maybe more. If this went wrong—if he'd misjudged his own capabilities, if someone got lucky with a blade—this would be a very short demonstration indeed.
But the alternative was worse. Keep hiding, keep skulking, keep letting some decrepit priest chip away at his reputation one whispered conversation at a time. Eventually, someone would get brave. Someone would try to be a hero.
Better to end that possibility before it started.
"I'm not going there to fight them," he said, as much to convince himself as Kael. "I'm going there to show them. There's a difference."
Kael's expression shifted from worry to something like understanding. The beastfolk had always been good at reading between the lines. "Theatre instead of slaughter."
"Exactly." Blaze stood, checking that his weapons were secure beneath his cloak. His hands only shook a little. "Give them a performance they'll never forget, and I won't have to repeat it."
The ring pulsed again, stronger this time, sending a warm tingle up his arm. Whether it was encouragement or hunger, he couldn't tell. Maybe there wasn't a difference anymore.
Below them, the Broken Pike's doors swung open, spilling yellow light and raucous laughter into the street. Men stumbled in and out, voices raised in drunken argument or celebration. None of them had any idea what was coming.
Blaze took a deep breath, tasting the night air. Smoke, sweat, fear, and opportunity. This was either going to solve his problem or create a dozen new ones.
"Stay close," he told Kael. "But not too close. If this goes sideways, I need you mobile."
"And if it goes perfectly?"
Blaze allowed himself a thin smile—the first genuine one he'd worn in days. "If it goes perfectly, by tomorrow morning every criminal in Greywick will be working for me instead of against me."
He stepped to the edge of the roof, looking down at the street that would either make or break his hold on this town. The old priest could watch all he wanted. After tonight, there wouldn't be anything left to investigate.
Just a new order, with Blaze at its head.
The Broken Pike was exactly the kind of place your mother warned you about. The air was thick enough to chew—a nauseating cocktail of body odor, stale beer, and whatever perfume the working girls could afford. Smoke from cheap tobacco and cheaper oil lamps hung in the rafters like a dirty blanket, making everything look soft and grimy at the same time. The noise hit you like a wall: dice clattering across tables that had seen too many fights, coins changing hands with the desperation of people betting their last coppers, voices raised in the kind of laughter that came from the bottom of a bottle.
Blaze pushed through the door and immediately regretted breathing through his nose.
At first, nobody cared. Another guy in a cloak? In Greywick, that was about as noteworthy as rain in autumn. But when the door swung shut behind him with a solid thunk, something shifted. The conversations didn't stop exactly, but they... hesitated. Like when a wolf walks into a chicken coop and the birds sense something's wrong before they see the teeth.
"Oi, hood boy!" The voice came from a table near the door—some thick-necked mercenary with a nose that had been broken at least twice and a gut that spoke to too many nights like this one. He slammed his mug down hard enough to slosh beer everywhere. "Entry fee's a drink or a fight. Your choice."
The tavern erupted in approval. These people lived for moments like this—someone new to test, someone to push around, a distraction from their own miserable lives.
Blaze turned his head toward the loudmouth. Not quickly, not dramatically. Just a slow, almost lazy movement, like he had all the time in the world.
Their eyes met.
The mercenary's grin died like a snuffed candle. The color drained from his face so fast it was almost comical. His hand, still gripping the mug, started shaking so badly that beer slopped over the rim and down his wrist. For maybe three seconds, he just sat there, frozen, like his brain couldn't process what he was seeing.
Then he scrambled backward so fast his chair toppled over, muttered something that sounded like "sorry" or "gods" or maybe just wordless panic, and fled toward the back of the tavern like his ass was on fire.
The laughter that followed had a nervous edge to it now.
Blaze walked deeper into the room, his footsteps somehow audible over all the noise. He found an empty table right in the middle of everything and sat down like he owned the place. Didn't order a drink. Didn't push back his hood. Just sat there with his hands folded in front of him like he was waiting for something.
The tavern's energy shifted. Conversations became quieter. People kept glancing over at him, then quickly looking away when they caught themselves staring.
Eventually, the tavern keeper—a scrawny guy with the kind of permanent scowl that came from years of dealing with drunks and deadbeats—worked up enough courage to approach. He wiped his hands on a stained apron, trying to project authority he clearly didn't feel.
"You gonna order something, friend, or just take up space?" His voice had that forced loudness of someone trying to sound tougher than they felt.
Blaze looked up at him.
Whatever the keeper saw in those eyes hit him like a physical blow. His knees actually buckled. He stumbled backward, one hand clutching at the nearest table for support, his face going the color of old parchment. A sound escaped his throat—not quite a gasp, not quite a whimper.
The people at nearby tables started murmuring, that low buzz of confusion and growing unease.
"What just happened?"
"Did you see his face?"
"Something's not right about this guy..."
Finally, Blaze spoke. His voice wasn't particularly loud, but it seemed to cut through the tavern noise like a blade through silk:
"You mistake noise for strength. Tonight, you learn the difference."
From the far side of the room came a harsh laugh. "Big talk from someone hiding his face!" Some drunk with more balls than brains was pushing back from his table, a wicked-looking knife already in his hand. "Come on then, let's see what you really look like!"
The guy swaggered forward with the confidence of someone who'd won too many bar fights against people smaller than himself. The crowd sensed blood in the water and started cheering him on.
He made it about halfway across the room before Blaze turned to look at him.
The drunk stopped dead. Just... stopped. Like he'd run into an invisible wall. The knife slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a metallic clatter that seemed impossibly loud in the sudden quiet. His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, no sound coming out. His hands flew to his throat, clawing at it like something was choking him.
Then his legs gave out and he collapsed to his knees, eyes wide with the kind of terror you usually only saw in nightmares.
Blaze hadn't moved from his chair. Hadn't even raised his voice. He'd just... looked.
The tavern went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop in that sudden, suffocating quiet.
"Jesus Christ, he didn't even touch him."
"What the hell is he?"
"I need another drink. I need several more drinks."
Blaze stood up slowly, his cloak settling around him like smoke made solid. When he raised one hand—not threateningly, just a simple, deliberate gesture—every person in that room flinched like he'd cracked a whip.
"This town belongs to me now," he said, and his voice carried to every corner of the room despite being barely above a whisper. "Your laughter, your knives, your little displays of dominance—none of it matters. You'll remember this feeling, this fear. You'll carry it with you when you leave here. You'll tell others about it. And maybe, if you're smart, you'll remember that there are things in this world that don't kneel to anyone."
The drunk on the floor made a sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper, clutched at his chest like his heart was giving out, and promptly fainted.
Blaze looked around the room one more time, taking in all the pale faces and trembling hands and wide, frightened eyes. Then he turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing in the unnatural quiet.
Nobody moved until the door closed behind him. Then it was like someone had released a held breath—everyone started talking at once, chairs scraped against the floor as people pushed back from tables, coins hit the bar as patrons settled tabs and headed for the exit.
By the time Blaze reached the street, the story was already growing in the telling. By morning, half of Greywick would know that something had walked into the Broken Pike and turned grown men into terrified children without lifting a finger.
And that was exactly what he'd wanted.
The cobblestones outside the Broken Pike were slick with that persistent drizzle that never quite stopped in Greywick—the kind that soaked through your boots and reminded you why nobody chose to live here. Blaze's footsteps echoed in the empty street, each one deliberate, unhurried. He could have moved silently, but tonight he wanted to be heard. Behind him, the tavern door stayed firmly shut, though he could practically feel the eyes pressed against the grimy windows.
Let them look. Let them remember.
Kael materialized from the alley across the street, practically vibrating with excitement. The kid was still learning to control himself after a feeding, still riding that high of borrowed life and power. "Master," he whispered, falling into step beside him, "you should have seen their faces. That one man actually pissed himself when you looked at him."
Blaze allowed himself a small smile. "Fear is more valuable than gold here. And unlike gold, it spreads by itself."
He pulled his hood up against the drizzle and kept walking, already planning their next move.
By the time the sun dragged itself over Greywick's crooked skyline, the story had grown legs.
In the fish market, where gossip flowed faster than the gutters, vendors leaned across their ice-packed stalls to share the tale with anyone who'd listen: "Stranger walked into the Pike last night. Didn't say much, but when he looked at Bart the Bruiser, the man just... collapsed. Like something had reached inside him and turned off a switch."
The story mutated as it traveled. In the back alleys, where the gangs conducted their uglier business, the whispers took on a different flavor: "He claimed the whole damn city, right there in front of everyone. Didn't raise his voice, didn't draw a blade. Just sat there like he owned the place."
Down at the mercenary hall, grizzled fighters laughed a little too loud when the story reached them, each one secretly hoping their paths would never cross with the hooded stranger. Even the working girls at Madame Rosette's were trading the tale for tips, half-scared and half-fascinated by the idea of a man who could break someone without laying a finger on them.
With each telling, the details shifted like water finding new cracks. Some swore he'd summoned shadows that danced without light. Others claimed his eyes had glowed like coals in the tavern's dim interior. But the heart of the story stayed the same: there was someone new in Greywick who could crush your will to live with nothing but a stare.
And somehow, probably because fear needed a name to cling to, people started calling him The Crimson Shadow.
Blaze hadn't chosen the name, but he had to admit it had a nice ring to it.
In his small chapel on the north side of town, Father Armand's hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The candle flame danced as he set it before the altar, its light barely touching the faded sunburst carved into the stone wall above. He'd heard the same stories everyone else had, but unlike the rest of Greywick's residents, he couldn't dismiss them as tavern exaggeration or mass hysteria.
He'd felt something shift in the air three days ago—a wrongness that made his teeth ache and his prayers feel hollow. Now that wrongness had a face and a name.
"Sweet merciful Light," he whispered, pressing both palms flat against the cold altar stone. "If this man is what I think he is..." He swallowed hard, his mouth dry as parchment. "Then we're not dealing with just another killer or sorcerer."
The chapel was silent except for the drip of water through the cracked roof and the distant sounds of the city waking up. No divine voice answered his prayer, no sudden flash of inspiration struck him. Just the growing certainty in his gut that something ancient and hungry had come to his town.
Something that shouldn't exist anymore. Something the Church taught had been wiped out centuries ago.
Vampire.
The word felt like a stone in his throat.
From his perch on the roof of a grain warehouse, Blaze watched Greywick's morning routine unfold below him. The stolen life from last night still hummed through his veins, warm and satisfying, but that was just the physical hunger. The deeper satisfaction came from watching the fear spread through the crowd like ripples in a pond.
People walked a little faster now. Conversations were quieter, more furtive. He could practically taste the nervous energy rising from the streets like smoke.
Kael crouched beside him, still grinning like a cat who'd found a particularly fat mouse. "Look at them, Master. They're already jumping at shadows. You've got them trained and you haven't even started yet."
Blaze's gaze drifted from the bustling marketplace up to the chapel spire that poked above the surrounding buildings like an accusing finger. Up there, he knew, someone was probably putting the pieces together. Someone with enough knowledge to be dangerous.
"Not everyone scares that easily," he said quietly. The ring on his finger pulsed against his skin, warm and eager, feeding off his satisfaction. "But they will."
He stood, his cloak catching the morning breeze. The city spread out below him looked different now—not just a collection of buildings and people, but something that was slowly becoming his. Not through force or threats, but through something much more powerful: the simple, human need to submit to something stronger than yourself.
"This place will kneel," he murmured, more to himself than to Kael. "Not because I'll make them. Because they'll want to."
And so the legend began to take root in Greywick's collective consciousness.
In the gang territories, where violence was currency and reputation meant survival, hardened criminals found themselves looking over their shoulders. In the guild halls, where merchants and craftsmen gathered to complain about taxes and trade routes, conversations kept drifting back to the stranger who could kill with a look. In the chapel, an aging priest sharpened his suspicions into something approaching certainty.
The shadow had a name now. The shadow had presence.
And Greywick would never feel quite safe again.