Welcome to Volume 3: Blood vs. Light. In this volume, we are going into the expansion of Blaze's territory and the reactions of other kingdoms and parties in this world. Expect more outside views in this volume. As was stated in the last chapter, this volume will be a long one. Follows us as we explore more of Blaze's journey.
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The ruined temple had found new purpose in the weeks since that first terrible night. Gone was the hollow emptiness that had haunted it for so long—replaced by something altogether more alive and infinitely more dangerous.
Torches now lined the walls in neat rows, their flames dancing with an unnatural restlessness, as if even fire itself felt nervous in this place. The broken pews that had once held weeping widows and desperate fathers had been cleared away, making room for long wooden benches salvaged from abandoned buildings throughout the city. Upon these rough seats sat the new aristocracy of Greywick's underworld—men and women who had once ruled their own small kingdoms of vice and violence, now reduced to nervous courtiers awaiting their master's pleasure.
The altar at the chamber's far end had been transformed from a place of worship into something far more practical: a throne for the age of shadows. Its cracked marble bore the permanent stains of old prayers and fresh blood, creating a mottled pattern that looked disturbingly like a map of some hellish continent. The broken crucifix that had once crowned it now lay discarded in a corner, replaced by nothing but empty space that somehow felt more ominous than any symbol.
And there, seated upon that altar-throne with the casual authority of a born ruler, was Blaze Carter.
He didn't lounge or slump like a man at rest. Every line of his body spoke of coiled tension, of power held in careful check. The shadows that had always seemed drawn to him now moved with purpose, flowing across the floor like living ink, occasionally reaching toward the assembled criminals before retreating with what almost looked like playful malice. His eyes held that now-familiar crimson glow, but tonight there was something else in them—a patience that was somehow more terrifying than any display of supernatural wrath.
The silence stretched between them all like a held blade, sharp enough to cut. Every cough, every shuffle, every nervous clearing of throat seemed to echo with unnatural loudness. Blaze understood the power of that silence, how it made men's minds fill the emptiness with their own fears and guilt.
Finally, it was Garrick who broke the spell.
He stood at his master's right hand, a position that would have made him a target in the old days but now marked him as untouchable. The transformation from desperate adventurer to supernatural enforcer had changed more than just his appearance—it had given him the kind of confident bearing that came from knowing you were exactly where you belonged. His movements carried the precise economy of a career soldier, each gesture deliberate and meaningful.
With practiced efficiency, he unrolled a piece of parchment that rustled with the authority of an official document. His voice, when he spoke, carried across the chamber with the crisp enunciation of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
"Weekly tributes from the Rat's Teeth organization," he announced, his gaze finding and fixing on a particular figure among the benches. "Captain Tobias 'Shiv' Morrison reporting."
Morrison—a wiry man whose neck bore the faded tattoos of three different gangs he'd outlived—sat rigid as a board. His hands, scarred from years of knife work, trembled slightly as they rested on his knees. The relief that flooded his weathered features when Garrick nodded approvingly was almost painful to witness.
"Coin, weapons, and personnel delivered as agreed," Garrick continued, making a neat check mark beside Morrison's name. "Operations proceeding smoothly in the southern docks."
Blaze inclined his head in the slightest of acknowledgments—barely more than a twitch, but Morrison's entire body sagged with relief as if he'd been pardoned from execution.
On the throne's left side, Kael provided a stark contrast to Garrick's military bearing. Where the former adventurer stood with disciplined stillness, Kael prowled like a caged predator. He moved constantly—shifting his weight, rolling his shoulders, spinning his appropriated dagger between his fingers with the kind of casual skill that made everyone nervous. His grin revealed teeth that had grown noticeably sharper since his transformation, and his eyes held the bright, unsettling gleam of someone who genuinely enjoyed his work.
Every few moments, he would drift closer to the benches, close enough that the assembled criminals could smell the metallic scent that seemed to cling to him now. Close enough to see the way his nostrils flared slightly, as if he were sampling their fear like a fine wine. Close enough to make them shift away without quite knowing why they felt compelled to do so.
"Smuggling operations in the warehouse district," Garrick continued, his voice maintaining that same professional neutrality. But there was a subtle shift in his tone—a hardening that made several men in the audience straighten with sudden anxiety. His cold gaze swept the benches until it settled on a particular figure. "Henrik Saltstain. Step forward."
The man who rose on unsteady legs looked like he'd aged a decade in the past month. His clothes, once merely practical, now hung on his frame like they belonged to a larger man. Salt stains—the mark of his profession—covered his boots and coat, but tonight they looked less like badges of honor and more like evidence of desperation.
Henrik's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "My lord," he began, his voice cracking slightly. "There was... complications with the last shipment. Storm season, you understand. Rough waters, lost cargo—these things happen in my business..."
The words died in his throat as if someone had grabbed them and yanked them back down.
Blaze hadn't moved—not visibly. He remained seated with that same terrible composure, one hand resting lightly on the arm of his makeshift throne. But something had changed in the air itself, something that made Henrik's pupils dilate and his breathing become rapid and shallow. Sweat began to bead on his forehead despite the chamber's chill, and his hands rose involuntarily to claw at his own throat.
"Please," Henrik gasped, the word barely audible. "I can explain—the weather was—"
"No," he choked out suddenly, his voice rising to a panicked wail. "No, that's not... it wasn't a storm! God forgive me, it wasn't a storm at all!" The words poured out of him like water from a broken dam. "I sold three crates off the books! Took the coin for myself, thought no one would notice! I've got gambling debts, my daughter needs medicine, I thought just this once—"
The benches creaked as every person in the room instinctively leaned away from Henrik, as if his confession were contagious. Several men crossed themselves with the reflexive terror of people who'd suddenly remembered they might have souls to save.
Blaze rose from his throne with the fluid grace of a dancer or a striking snake. The shadows that had been pooling around the altar's base seemed to follow him, climbing the broken stone like dark ivy, forming something that almost looked like a crown of thorns made from midnight itself. Each step he took toward the trembling smuggler rang out like a funeral bell, echoing off stone that had heard too many last words.
When he reached Henrik, Blaze extended one pale hand and placed it gently on the man's gray head—a gesture that might have been paternal if not for the way Henrik immediately went rigid with terror.
"Lies," Blaze said softly, his voice carrying the patient disappointment of a teacher who'd caught a favorite student cheating, "rot faster than corpses. And rotten things..." His crimson eyes swept the assembled criminals, meeting each gaze just long enough to plant seeds of nightmare. "...must be cut away."
Henrik's own hand moved to his belt with the jerky, unnatural motion of a marionette. His weathered fingers closed around the handle of his gutting knife—the same blade he'd used to clean fish for thirty years, to settle disputes in back alleys, to carve his initials into the masts of ships he'd robbed. Now it moved against his will, rising toward his own throat with agonizing slowness.
"Please," he whispered, tears streaming down his face. "I have a daughter. She's only twelve. Please don't make me—"
But his hand continued its inexorable journey. The blade found the soft flesh below his jaw with the practiced precision of someone who'd slit many throats, just never his own. Henrik's final sound was a sob that turned into a wet gurgle, and then silence.
The splash of blood hitting stone seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. Several gang members turned away, their faces green with nausea. Others stared with the horrified fascination of people watching their own future play out.
Kael's laughter broke the silence like glass shattering—not malicious, exactly, but delighted in the way a child might laugh at a particularly good magic trick. He applauded slowly, sarcastically, his fangs glinting in the torchlight.
Garrick merely made another notation on his parchment, his expression never changing from that mask of professional efficiency. In another life, he might have felt something watching a man die for the crime of desperation. But that man had died weeks ago, and what remained understood that sentiment was a luxury they could no longer afford.
Blaze stepped delicately around the spreading pool of blood, returning to his throne with the same unhurried grace. The shadows followed him like faithful hounds, settling at his feet once more. When he seated himself again, it was with the satisfied air of a judge who'd seen justice served.
"Lies rot," he repeated, his voice carrying clearly to every corner of the chamber. "And I will not rule over corruption."
The silence that followed was different from before—heavier, more complete. Even the torches seemed to burn more quietly, as if they too understood that something fundamental had changed in the balance of power.
"Garrick," Blaze said quietly, "please continue."
The pale enforcer cleared his throat and returned to his list, speaking over Henrik's cooling corpse as if it were nothing more than an unfortunate stain on the floor.
"The Black Scar gang," he announced, and every person on the benches felt their heart skip a beat as they wondered if their name would be next. "Captain Sara 'Widow' Thorne reporting."
Sara rose on legs that only trembled slightly—a improvement over Henrik's performance, and one she was desperately grateful for. "Tribute delivered on schedule, my lord," she said, her voice steady despite the sweat on her palms. "Operations in the eastern quarter remain stable and profitable."
Blaze's nod of approval was like sunshine after a storm. "Excellent work, Captain Thorne."
The reports continued, one by one, each name called out like a judgment. Coin counted with mathematical precision. Weapons catalogued like a quartermaster's inventory. Bodies tallied like livestock. And through it all, Henrik's corpse served as a silent reminder that in the Crimson Court, honesty wasn't just the best policy—it was the only policy compatible with continued breathing.
As the night wore on, the assembled criminals began to understand something that would reshape how they conducted business for the rest of their likely-shortened lives: they were no longer independent operators playing by their own rules. They were subjects in a kingdom built on fear and enforced by supernatural will.
And their king, seated upon his throne of broken marble and old blood, watched them all with eyes like dying stars—patient, eternal, and absolutely merciless.
The copper scent of fresh blood still hung heavy in the air, a metallic perfume in the old temple. A few men tried not to look at the corpse sprawled on the stone floor, but their eyes were drawn to it anyway, like moths to a gruesome flame. Garrick continued to read from his parchment as if nothing had happened, while Blaze watched them all, silent and still.
Finally, Garrick's voice cut through the tension. "The docks. Ledo's smugglers have exceeded their quota. Four extra shipments brought upriver—silk, enchanted trinkets, and contraband wine." A murmur rippled through the men on the benches. Everyone knew the name. Ledo, a thick-necked man with a sailor's tattoos, shifted nervously under their scrutiny, half-expecting punishment.
Blaze leaned forward. Shadows pooled down the altar steps and crept across the floor like dark ink, reaching the benches. The men tensed as the darkness washed over their boots, not touching them but brushing the ground as if searching for weakness.
Blaze's voice was different this time—calm, almost approving. "Four extra shipments." His crimson eyes fixed on Ledo. "Ambition. Risk. And profit."
Ledo swallowed hard. "Aye, m-my lord."
"You did well." Blaze lifted his hand, and the shadows drew back, slinking toward him. "For that, the western docks will be yours. The Rat's Teeth have grown lazy there. Strip their claim. Their waters are yours now."
The benches stirred. Heads whipped toward Blaze, then to Ledo. Envy burned in their eyes, but no one dared speak. Ledo froze, his mouth agape in shock, then dropped to one knee so fast his head nearly hit the stone. "Y-you honor me, my lord," he stammered. "I will bleed the docks dry for you."
Blaze gave a slight nod. "See that you do."
The mood in the chamber had shifted, subtle but profound. A moment ago, Blaze had been pure terror—death incarnate. Now, he was the source of reward and power. The message was clear: obedience and ambition wouldn't be punished; they would be fed.
Garrick rolled up his parchment and stepped forward. "My lord, if I may," he said, his deep voice filling the silence.
Blaze gestured for him to continue.
"These men fear you," Garrick said plainly. "That fear will keep them from getting too bold. But fear alone frays with time. They need to see order. Structure. Regular tribute collections, public punishments, openly distributed rewards. Discipline will hold them tighter than terror."
Murmurs rose among the gang captains and smugglers as they glanced at each other, unsure whether to agree or be afraid.
Kael's sharp, mocking laugh cut through the whispers. "Discipline? They're rats, Garrick. Rats don't need order; they need teeth at their throats." He prowled between the benches, dragging his dagger across the wood with a screech. "Fear keeps them sharp. Fear keeps them alive. If you start feeding them comfort and schedules, they'll grow soft. And soft things break easy."
"Soft things," Garrick said evenly, "also serve poorly in war."
The two men's gazes locked. Garrick was steady as stone, his eyes unflinching. Kael's feral grin was wide, his fangs glinting. The men on the benches leaned away from the invisible clash, as if the air itself might ignite.
Blaze watched them both, letting the silence stretch. His spawn were loyal, but their methods were different. Garrick wanted to build something lasting, a structure that could endure. Kael thrived on chaos, on blood, on the sharpened edge of terror. Both were right, and both were wrong.
Finally, Blaze stood. Shadows swirled with the motion, licking the cracked altar like smoke.
"Fear," Blaze said, his voice low and commanding, "will keep their hearts pounding. Discipline will keep their hands from trembling. You will both have your way."
Kael tilted his head, curious. Garrick's brow furrowed slightly.
"Garrick," Blaze continued, turning toward him. "You will oversee structure. Collect tributes. Mark who delivers on time, who lags, who cheats. Order will be your blade."
Then he turned to Kael. "You will punish. You will make an example of any who falter. You will bare the fangs of the Crimson Court so that none forget what shadows they serve."
Kael's grin sharpened. Garrick inclined his head respectfully.
The gangs and smugglers looked between the two, and understanding settled in. There would be no cracks to exploit, no divide to play. They would face the hammer of Garrick's order and the dagger of Kael's cruelty.
Blaze stepped back to the altar, shadows folding around him. "Together, fear and reward will bind this city. Together, order and chaos will forge something greater." His eyes gleamed red. "This city is not a pit. It is a nest. And in this nest, I will raise wolves from rats."
The words hit them like stones thrown into still water. A nest. It was the first time he had called the city anything more than a tool, anything more than a pit of filth to be tamed. And though they didn't yet understand its full meaning, they felt its weight—the weight of a vision larger than themselves.
The chamber fell silent again, save for the crackling torches. The corpse still bled quietly into the floor, the stench of death and ambition thick in the air.
Blaze leaned back against the altar, his crimson eyes glinting in the dark. "Greywick is mine," he said simply. "And soon, the world will learn what it means to trespass in my nest."
The meeting could have ended there, with fear and ambition coiling in the room like smoke. But Blaze wasn't finished. Not yet.
He let the silence stretch, the tension in the room so thick it was a physical weight. Then, slowly, he raised a hand. A coil of shadows uncurled in the air, twisting and taking shape: a dark nest with a crimson ember at its heart, pulsing like a living thing.
Every eye in the room was fixed on it.
"This city has been rotting too long in its own filth," Blaze said, his voice measured and deliberate. "Every gang tears at another's throat. Every hired blade sells to the highest bidder. Every smuggler feeds on scraps in his corner." His gaze swept the benches. "No more. Greywick is mine. And under me, it will change."
The ember at the center of the shadow-nest beat once, a red light washing over the chamber like blood spilled on stone.
"You aren't gangs, mercenaries, or smugglers anymore. You are teeth. You are claws. And this city is my nest."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Uneasy, confused, but strangely captivated. The image hung in the air: a nest, an ember, darkness, and blood.
Kael's laughter was a low, hungry sound. Garrick's face was unreadable, but a faint spark of approval lit his eyes.
Blaze's gaze sharpened. "But a nest isn't built on words. It's bound by blood."
He lifted the cursed ring. The shadows writhed eagerly, alive with a hungry energy. The men tensed as the air grew heavy, thick and stifling.
"Each of you," Blaze continued, "will swear an oath. You will offer a drop of blood, bound to my shadows. Those who stay loyal will feel nothing. Those who betray..." He let the threat hang unspoken, but the shadows hissed and the ember pulsed, answering for him.
The benches stirred. They were afraid, reluctant, but no one dared to refuse. They had all seen what happened to the last man who defied him.
Ledo, emboldened by the reward he'd just received, stepped forward first. He drew a knife, sliced his palm, and let the blood drip into the waiting shadows. The tendrils drank eagerly, curling around his wrist for a moment before vanishing. Ledo gasped, his knees shaking, but when the touch withdrew, he stood taller. "My blood for the nest," he rasped.
Others followed. One by one, gang captains and smugglers sliced their palms, letting blood fall into the shadow-nest. The tendrils drank from each, their icy hunger brushing against the men's skin before fading. Some shuddered, others clenched their jaws in silence.
Each oath bound them tighter. Blaze could feel their essence weaving into the nest he was creating, like faint threads. They weren't slaves like Kael or Garrick, but they were tethered to him now. If any of them tried to betray him, he would feel it. And when the time came, he could pull those threads tight.
Finally, only one man remained seated—a burly smuggler with scarred arms and a twisted nose. He hadn't moved or spoken, hadn't even flinched when the others bled themselves.
Blaze's eyes narrowed. "Why do you hesitate?"
The man spat on the floor. "This is madness," he growled. "Oaths to shadows? To some cursed blood-drinker squatting on a broken altar? I bend my knee to coin, not to devils."
Gasps rippled through the chamber. Even Kael stopped, a predatory grin spreading across his face. Garrick's hand moved toward his blade, though he didn't draw it.
Blaze, however, only smiled. It was a cold, thin smile with no warmth.
"Stand," he commanded.
The man's muscles locked. His face twisted from confusion to panic as his body began to rise against his will. Shadows crept up his legs, binding him upright like strings on a puppet.
"You misunderstand me," Blaze said softly, stepping down from the altar. The shadows carried him forward, each stride making the man flinch harder. "You think I demand loyalty to shadows. But shadows are nothing. I demand loyalty to survival. To power. To life. Refuse me, and you refuse all three."
He stopped inches from the man, his crimson eyes burning. "Kneel."
The man shook, his teeth gritted, his muscles trembling as he fought the command. Blood vessels burst in his eyes, his veins bulged, and sweat poured down his face. But the shadows pressed harder, bending him like a tree in the wind.
With a strangled cry, his knees hit the floor.
Blaze crouched, one hand lifting the man's chin. "Better," he murmured. "You see? Even rebellion becomes obedience in the end."
Then his fangs pierced the man's throat.
The scream was instantly choked off. The chamber froze in horrified awe as Blaze drank deep, shadows curling hungrily around both predator and prey. The man's life poured into him—hot, bitter, and laced with rage and fear. Blaze drank until the man's pulse faltered, until his body sagged limp.
Then he released him, letting the corpse thud to the floor.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Blaze straightened, licking the crimson from his lips. His gaze swept the chamber, daring anyone else to challenge him. No one did. All heads were bowed.
"Let his corpse be a lesson," Blaze said, his voice sharp as a blade. "Those who offer blood willingly are bound. Those who defy are consumed. Either way, the nest grows stronger."
The shadow-nest flickered one last time, the ember pulsing bright, then faded into the air.
Blaze turned and reclaimed the cracked altar as his throne. Shadows curled around him, settling as though the temple itself had accepted its new master.
Greywick was no longer a pit of gangs clawing for scraps.
Greywick was a nest.
And Blaze Carter, the useless summon once abandoned to die, now sat upon its blood-stained throne.