The city streets reeked of holy oil, a scent that hung in the air like a silent alarm. Blaze could smell it the moment the adventurers left their inn. Wards, charms, consecrated silver trinkets—they weren't showy, nothing that would draw too much attention in a city like Greywick, but they were there, a subtle mark of their purpose.
The Gilded Fangs walked as if they owned the night, their polished armor and gleaming weapons reflecting the torchlight.
Blaze waited in the shadow of a crumbling watchtower, with Kael crouched beside him, his eyes now faintly glowing red.
"They're splitting up," Kael whispered, his voice rough and guttural. "The little one is scouting ahead."
Blaze's lips curled into a smile. The scout—light on his feet, his nervous eyes darting everywhere—separated from the group, weaving through the alleys like a fox on the hunt. The others stayed on the main road: Garrick the knight in front, his shield on his back; Selene the mage flanked by the archer, a tall woman with short blonde hair and a cold stare.
"They're disciplined," Blaze murmured. "Not amateurs. That means they'll be harder to break… but when they finally do, it will be for good."
Kael's claws flexed against the stone, impatient. "Let me take the scout now."
"Not yet," Blaze said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Fear is more powerful when it builds. We let them feel watched. Then we strike."
He watched as Garrick's group disappeared around a corner, the scout lagging several streets behind. A faint, knowing smirk touched his lips. Hunters were so predictable. They always saw themselves as the predators, even when they were walking straight into a wolf's den.
Blaze melted into the shadow, his body dissolving like mist. Kael followed, the cursed bond between them guiding him without a word.
The scout never saw Kael coming.
He had stopped at the mouth of an alley, hunched low, his eyes darting back and forth as if sensing danger but unable to pinpoint it. He gripped his dagger tightly, its silver blade catching the faint light from a distant torch. A blessing from a church clung to the weapon, but it did nothing to calm the fear now gripping him.
Kael slid out of the darkness, a blur of motion. One hand clamped over the scout's mouth, the other spearing his claws into the man's stomach. The silver dagger flashed upward in a desperate attempt to fight back.
But Blaze's voice cut through the night, calm and cold.
"Drop it."
The scout froze, his eyes wide with terror. The dagger fell from his hand, clattering on the cobblestones. Blaze stepped into the alley, his crimson eyes reflecting the distant torchlight. He didn't rush. He simply watched as Kael held the man pinned against the wall, blood soaking through his tunic. The scout whimpered against Kael's hand, struggling to get free.
"Tell me," Blaze said, his voice soft and almost casual. "When the guild sent you after me, did they warn you what happens when you hunt shadows?"
The man's eyes darted around, trying to speak, but only muffled whimpers came out. Blaze tilted his head.
"No? Then let me show you."
He moved in a single, fluid step, his gaze locking onto the man's soul. An overwhelming, hypnotic pull surged from his eyes, dragging the scout under, drowning him in a crimson tide. The man's struggles weakened. His body went limp, his will crushed before his body gave out.
"Drink," Blaze commanded.
Kael didn't hesitate. He pulled his claws free and sank his fangs into the scout's throat. A fountain of hot blood erupted, filling the alley with its metallic smell. Kael drank deeply, a low growl rumbling in his chest. The scout's eyes rolled back in his head. He rattled one final breath and was still.
Blaze crouched down, his fingers brushing the discarded dagger. The silver felt like a faint burn against his skin, but he held it anyway, studying the church symbols etched into the hilt. He smiled faintly and let it fall beside the corpse.
"One down," he murmured. "The mage is next."
Selene. She walked close to Garrick but never too close, her staff glowing with protective runes. She was cautious, a woman who trusted magic and foresight over brute strength. Blaze knew her type would be the easiest to break.
He and Kael circled ahead, disappearing into the maze of backstreets until they reached a stretch of ruined houses. The crumbling walls jutted out like broken teeth, and torchlight flickered just beyond.
Blaze whispered, "Make her think she has the advantage."
Kael melted into the shadows while Blaze stood openly in a ruined doorway, waiting.
Selene rounded the corner moments later, her staff instinctively raised at the figure waiting in the shadows. Her eyes widened when she saw him: tall, dark-haired, with a crimson gaze fixed on her.
"You're a vampire," she hissed. The staff flared with a bright light.
Blaze said nothing, simply tilting his head and watching. She raised her staff higher, already beginning a chant. But before she could finish the spell, Kael lunged from behind, his claws raking sparks against her magical wards. Selene screamed, and a brilliant flash of protective light burst outward.
Blaze stepped closer.
"Go on. Cast your spell. Call your light," his voice was soft, weaving into her thoughts. "But you can feel it, can't you? No matter how brightly you burn, the shadows here are deeper."
Her chant faltered. Her eyes were locked with his. The staff trembled in her hands.
"No," she whispered.
"Yes," Blaze breathed. "You're already mine."
Her voice broke. The staff's glow flickered and died. Kael grabbed her throat, pinning her against the broken wall. She thrashed weakly, half-formed words of a spell tumbling from her lips before dissolving into sobs.
Blaze moved so close she could see the faint points of his fangs. "Fear isn't a weakness. Fear is recognition. It means your soul already knows who rules it."
Her final scream never came. Blaze's fangs sank into her neck, piercing her warm skin and drawing a rush of blood so hot it burned his veins. The taste was intoxicating—laced with magic and bitter with terror. His body sang with it, his cells and muscles trembling. He forced himself to drink only what he needed before pulling back.
Selene's body went limp, her eyes glassy, her head lolling against the wall. Kael let her fall. Blaze wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, savoring the lingering taste. He looked at Kael. The beastman's lips were slick with blood from the scout, his expression wild.
"Control," Blaze said sharply.
Kael let out a low growl, then bowed his head, his breathing ragged.
"Two down," Blaze whispered, his crimson eyes gleaming.
And the night was just beginning.
Of course. Here is a more humanized version of the passage, focusing on the internal sensations and emotional weight of the transformation.
The silence that fell was heavier than any sound. It was the silence of a stopped heart, a final stillness that settled in the hollow of Garrick's throat. Blaze stood over the body, the slow, steady rhythm of his own breathing the only movement in the ruined temple. But that calm was a lie. Beneath his skin, a revolution was underway.
It started like a fever in his veins. The blood that pumped through him grew hotter, thicker, a molten current of darkness that threatened to burn through him from the inside out. His muscles coiled, knotting into something beyond mere flesh and sinew, something harder, denser. Even the shadows in the room seemed to hold their breath, shifting in a way that had nothing to do with the flickering torches.
A few feet away, Kael was a knot of tense muscle, his beastlike form low to the ground. His eyes, wide with a terrifying reverence, were fixed on Blaze. "Master…" The word was a scraped, broken thing. "Something's happening to you."
Oh, he felt it. His world was expanding, the edges of his senses fraying and stretching into the unseen. He didn't just see in the dark anymore; he felt it as an extension of himself. Every dancing shadow, every wavering flame was a string, and he was the puppeteer.
He lifted a hand, a silent invitation. The darkness answered. It bled from the cracks in the walls, pooling at his feet before crawling up his arm like cool, living silk. It solidified around his wrist, forming razored claws of pure night before dissolving back into nothing.
A low sound rumbled in his chest—not a laugh of joy, but of sharp, cutting satisfaction.
"Stage II," he breathed, the word tasting of metal and old secrets.
The ring on his finger pulsed with a life of its own, its wicked whisper clearer than it had ever been. Yes… deeper. Bind the dark to your blood. Bleed the world of its light.
A new hunger twisted inside him. It was no longer just the simple thirst for blood, but a craving for something more: for power, for control, for the feeling of another's will bending and breaking beneath his own. He clenched his jaw, riding the intoxicating wave, fighting to keep a sliver of himself from drowning in it.
"Your eyes…" Kael stammered, shifting on his feet. "They're burning. And the shadows… they're obeying you."
When Blaze turned to look at him, his crimson gaze was a physical force. Kael flinched and dropped his head, a whimper caught in his throat. The bond between them, master and spawn, flared white-hot. Blaze could feel the creature's fear, his absolute loyalty, and the sharp, painful edge of his awe. A flicker of a thought, a mere suggestion from Blaze, and Kael's body went rigid, seized by an invisible power.
He let him go. The spawn crumpled to one knee, gasping.
"…Forgive me, Master. I couldn't… I couldn't fight it."
Blaze tilted his head, a cold curiosity blooming within him. This new strength wasn't just physical; it was absolute. His will was a blade that could pierce minds, shattering resistance. Kael was the first proof.
His gaze fell back to Garrick, whose armor still held the faint glint of torchlight. The knight captain had been a fortress of faith and duty, a man of iron will. Now, he was just an empty vessel.
Blaze crouched, his fingers tracing the cold steel over the knight's chest. "All that strength," he murmured, his voice a low thrum. "All that discipline, that pride… and in the end, fear. It's all mine now."
He rose, and the shadows rose with him. For the first time, the night didn't feel like a cloak to hide in. It felt like his throne.
Kael got to his feet, his awe-filled eyes never leaving Blaze's face. "What now?"
A faint, cold smile touched Blaze's lips. "Now," he said softly, "we put our spoils to use."
His eyes narrowed on Garrick's still form. This new power had awakened more than just strength; it had awakened possibilities. He had bent the shadows. He had bent Kael's mind. Perhaps it was time he bent death itself.
His tongue darted out, tracing the sharp point of a fang.
"Yes," he whispered to the listening darkness. "One more piece on the board."
And the shadows drew in closer, hungry for the game to begin.
Blaze knelt beside what was left of Garrick. The knight's face, slack and pale, still wore the ghost of his stubbornness—the hard set of his jaw, the faint line between his brows. The man was a fighter, even in death.
His new, predatory instincts screamed at him, whispering of what could be. He had turned a beastfolk before, but that was a clumsy, desperate act. This was different. This was deliberate. Garrick was a weapon forged in the light, tempered by years of discipline. What an exquisite prize he would be, shattered and remade in the dark.
Behind him, Kael made a choked sound. "Master… you're not going to…"
A glance from Blaze's crimson eyes was all it took to kill the question. Kael bowed his head.
The ring throbbed, its voice a curl of venomous smoke in his mind. Yes… Break him. Bind him. Turn their champion into your shadow. Taste the delicious irony of it.
Blaze laid a hand on the cold breastplate. He paused, then with deliberate intent, sank his fangs into the palm of his other hand. His own blood, now thick and black as pitch, welled up and dripped onto the dead knight's lips.
It was not a gentle process. His will became a spear, thrusting down through the blood and into the lingering vestiges of Garrick's soul. He felt a phantom resistance, like rusted iron bars that refused to break. The man was a knight to his very core.
Blaze's voice cut through the silence, low and resonant with command.
"Rise."
The shadows writhed. His corrupted blood seeped into dead muscle and bone. Garrick's body arched off the floor with a violent crack, his fists clenching as if struck by lightning. His eyes snapped open, no longer the blue of a summer sky, but the blazing, unholy red of his new master. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, a sound of agony and rebirth.
Kael scrambled back, a curse dying on his lips.
Blaze pressed his will down harder, a crushing weight on the struggling soul. The knight thrashed, teeth bared in a final, defiant snarl. Leaning in close, Blaze let his lips brush against the man's ear.
"You gave your life to the light," he whispered. "And the light let you die. Now… kneel and serve me."
For one heart-stopping moment, the dead knight's fury held. Then, a shudder racked his entire frame, and the fight simply… bled away. The glow in his crimson eyes dulled, replaced by the vacant sheen of submission.
The bond snapped into place—a tether of iron and shadow forged between their souls. It was stronger, colder, and sharper than the one he shared with Kael. This was no mere spawn. This was a weapon.
Garrick pushed himself stiffly to one knee, his head bowed. His voice, when it came, was the rough sound of grinding stone.
"…Master."
The word echoed in the dead quiet, a final verdict.
Kael swallowed, his throat working. "You did it… You turned their strongest."
Blaze straightened up, the living shadows at his back forming a tattered, regal cloak. He looked down at his new thrall, a cold flicker of triumph in his chest. Garrick's face was a blank slate now, his pride erased, his will scoured clean, leaving only perfect, unshakable obedience.
"Yes," Blaze murmured. "And he is only the first."
The ring pulsed on his finger, humming with glee. You see now? Every soul is but clay. Mold them. Twist them. Build your throne from the bones of your enemies.
The raw hunger inside him had cooled, replaced by the slow, hot burn of ambition. Greywick was just the beginning. The church would send more knights, more priests, more self-righteous fools.
But they would not find a monster hiding in the ruins.
They would find an army. And its first knight was already kneeling at his feet.