Greywick stirred uneasily that morning.
The first rays of dawn usually meant little here—merchants shouted over one another, drunkards staggered out of taverns, and gangs made their rounds with casual brutality. But this morning was different. Even the most hardened cutthroats paused at the sight of armored riders approaching the town's crooked gates.
They weren't mercenaries or adventurers. Their armor gleamed white and gold, embossed with the radiant sigil of the Church of the Radiant Flame. The Light had come.
Whispers spread faster than fire through dry grass.
"They're here for him."
"Finally. The Church'll burn that monster out."
"No, you fool—if they fight him here, Greywick's the one that'll burn."
The riders entered with mechanical precision. At the center of the small retinue was a priest draped in immaculate robes, a jeweled sunburst pendant swinging against his chest. He rode a white horse that looked too clean, too pampered, to belong in a cesspit like Greywick. At his side trotted a nervous scribe clutching a scroll case. Two armored knights followed, hands resting lightly on the hilts of their swords.
The guards at the gate didn't stop them. None dared.
Blaze watched all this from the window of the chapel he had claimed as his throne room. The building still carried the bones of its former faith—broken pews, stained-glass windows shattered into shards, an altar long defiled by blood. He sat in the high-backed chair that had once been the bishop's seat, one arm draped lazily across the side, crimson eyes half-lidded.
The sound of hooves echoed through the muddy streets. Kael stood nearby, silent as always, his eyes glinting like polished obsidian. Garrick paced like a caged wolf, muttering curses under his breath.
"They dare come here, to this den," Garrick growled. "I'll gut them before they open their mouths."
"No," Blaze said softly, not looking at him. "You'll watch. You'll listen. And you'll learn."
The heavy doors creaked open. Dust and the stench of damp stone rushed in as the emissaries stepped across the threshold. The priest wrinkled his nose as though he had just stepped into a sewer.
The scribe trailed behind, clutching his scroll case as if it were a shield. The knights fanned out, metal boots ringing against the cracked floor tiles.
The priest's gaze swept the room and fixed on Blaze lounging upon the throne. His lips curled in a sneer of deep-seated disdain.
"So. The parasite shows his face."
Kael tensed, Garrick's fangs bared—but Blaze lifted one finger, silencing them both.
The priest continued, his voice ringing with rehearsed authority. "By decree of His Grace, Bishop Armand of the Radiant Flame, I stand here to deliver a message. You sit upon stolen ground, usurper. You wallow in filth and corruption, enslaving the weak with your darkness. But the Light is merciful. Kneel now, submit yourself for purification, and perhaps your soul may yet be saved."
He paused, clearly expecting fear or defiance. Blaze merely stared.
The priest's chin lifted higher. "You will disband your so-called 'court.' Greywick will be returned to the oversight of the Church, its people cleansed of your taint. Do this willingly, and your end may be swift. Refuse… and the fires of the Radiant Flame will scour every stone you touch."
The words echoed through the hollow chapel. The scribe scribbled frantically, recording every syllable.
Garrick's claws scraped the arm of his chair. "He dares—"
Blaze cut him off with a gesture. His voice, when it came, was low, steady, and almost bored. "Go on. I assume there's more to this sermon than empty threats."
The priest blinked, unused to being interrupted so casually. His cheeks flushed, but he forced himself onward. "You think yourself clever, hiding in this cesspit. But the Light sees all. The Bishop's mercy is the only reason you still draw breath. Defy him, and armies of paladins will march. Your kind has no future. Vampires are relics, abominations. You cannot win against the gods themselves."
The scribe swallowed audibly. Even the knights shifted uncomfortably at the mention of vampires.
Silence stretched after the speech ended. Dust motes swirled lazily in shafts of pale light from the broken windows.
Blaze's crimson eyes glowed faintly as he leaned forward on his throne. He hadn't moved during the entire tirade—not a twitch of irritation, not a flicker of anger. He only listened, letting the arrogance wash over him like stale wine.
His court, however, bristled. Kael's hands twitched near his blade. Garrick's growls reverberated through his chest like distant thunder. Even the shadows themselves seemed to stir, restless with hunger.
But Blaze remained utterly still.
When he finally spoke, his words slithered into the silence like a knife sliding between ribs.
"Are you finished?"
The priest stiffened.
Blaze smiled faintly, though his eyes remained cold. "Good. I dislike interruptions."
The priest's jaw tightened, but it was already too late. Blaze was in motion.
It wasn't a quick, angry lurch, but a slow, deliberate descent from the throne. A lazy, unhurried grace, like a predator stretching after a long, satisfying nap. His crimson cloak slithered across the floor, a dark river of silk trailing behind him. Each step echoed, a precise click of leather against cracked, grimy tiles that had known centuries of footsteps, but never one so heavy with purpose.
He stopped just a few feet from the priest, close enough that the man had to tilt his head back to meet the vampire's gaze.
"Your Bishop sends you with big words," Blaze said, his voice a smooth, polite rumble that felt anything but. Every syllable carried an undertone of something vast and ancient, an invisible pressure that made the air in the ruined chapel thicken, humid with unspoken threat. "Kneel, purify, disband. Threats dressed in silk, aren't they?"
Blaze leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a sharp, calculating light. "Tell me something, little priest. Where was your Church when Greywick rotted? When its people were extorted, raped, and left to starve? When gangs ruled these streets and your priests pocketed the alms meant for widows and orphans?"
The priest's lips tightened into a thin, white line. He had no answer.
Blaze's smile sharpened, a flash of pure predatory glee. "You didn't care then. But now that someone else holds the leash, now you come riding in like saviors. How… convenient."
The knights shuffled their feet, their unease a palpable thing. The scribe's quill scratched frantically across his parchment, a panicked little beetle leaving a trail of ink.
The priest finally found his voice, forcing it steady. "Your blasphemy changes nothing. The Light cleanses in its own time. You are no ruler, vampire. You are a shadow squatting on holy ground."
A low, mirthless chuckle rippled from Blaze's chest. It was the sound of a growl, a rumble that vibrated through the chapel's bones.
"Holy ground?" Blaze's arms spread wide, a grand, theatrical gesture that encompassed the desecrated chapel. He gestured at the shattered stained glass, the broken altar now slick with old, dried blood. "Your god abandoned this place long before I arrived. The only thing sacred here is hunger."
Garrick let out a bark of laughter, a guttural, joyful sound. Even Kael's stoic lips twitched.
The priest's face flushed a furious red. He raised a trembling finger. "Do not mock the Light—"
Blaze's eyes flared, twin pools of crimson fire. "I mock nothing. I simply state fact."
He was gone and then he was there. A blur of movement, and he was inches from the priest, his hand resting lightly on the man's shoulder. The priest froze, breath caught in his throat.
"You came here delivering ultimatums," Blaze whispered, the words a lethal blend of silk and steel. "But allow me to offer one in return. Greywick belongs to me. This nest is mine. You and your Bishop have no claim here."
His fingers tightened, a slight, almost imperceptible pressure. The priest winced as if a blade had dug in.
"My counter-offer is simple," Blaze continued, his voice dangerously soft. "You may leave quietly, and I may permit you to live. Or…" His smile widened, revealing a glint of fang, bright and sharp. "…you may stay, and become nothing more than meat for my Court."
The scribe gasped. One knight reached for his sword, but froze at the sight of Garrick's grin—a flash of far too many teeth.
"You dare threaten envoys of the Church?" the priest managed, though his voice cracked like old wood. "Do you have any idea who you are defying?"
Blaze tilted his head, studying him with a mild, detached curiosity. Then he leaned in close, his crimson gaze boring into the man's soul.
"Yes," he murmured. "I am defying you."
The priest's breath hitched. His pupils dilated, his body going rigid as stone. Blaze's hypnotic gaze sank its hooks in deep, bypassing pride and faith and settling into the very marrow of the man's will.
"Look at me," Blaze said, the command a silken cord.
The priest obeyed. His lips trembled.
"You came here thinking yourself righteous. Thinking your words had weight. Thinking your god would shield you." Blaze's tone was conversational, almost gentle, as if discussing the weather. "But tell me, priest… where is your god now?"
The man tried to speak, but his throat locked up. Sweat poured down his temples, and his knees trembled as if invisible weights had been tied to them.
"Do you feel it?" Blaze asked, tilting his head. "That hollowness in your chest? That creeping dread that your prayers go unanswered? That's truth, little priest. Truth you've never dared to admit."
The man whimpered. His knees buckled slightly before he caught himself, teeth gritted in a desperate attempt at control.
The knights shifted, their anxiety a nervous ripple. The scribe scribbled no more; his hand shook too badly to hold the quill steady.
Blaze smiled faintly and pulled back, releasing the man from his gaze. For now. The priest staggered a step backward, chest heaving as though he'd just escaped drowning.
"You should thank me," Blaze said, turning away, heading back toward his throne. "Most liars never get to taste honesty before they die."
He settled back onto the stone seat, resting his chin on one hand, the picture of elegant boredom. "Now then. What shall I do with you?"
Kael stepped forward slightly. "My lord, they've insulted you. Let us tear them apart."
Garrick growled his agreement. "Rip their tongues out and nail them to the gates."
Blaze lifted a single finger, a silent, imperious command that stilled them both. His gaze swept lazily over the emissaries, a king considering a chess move.
"No," he said softly. "This requires precision. A message, not a slaughter."
His eyes locked back on the priest, a final, chilling threat. "We're not finished, little candle. Not until you've burned out completely."
The words dripped like oil, and the emissaries shivered, their faith a fragile, flickering flame.
The tension in the chapel was a physical thing, thick and heavy, pressing down on everything like a shroud. The only sounds were the faint creak of ancient beams and the strained, ragged breaths of the emissaries.
Blaze rose again, slow and deliberate. His shadow stretched, a living thing of utter darkness that bled across the cracked tiles. It curled like black tendrils, and when it touched the priest's boot, the man flinched as if burned.
"You came here with arrogance," Blaze said, his voice a low, soft rumble that seemed to carry from every corner of the ruined chapel at once, echoing from the jagged, shattered windows. "You leave with clarity."
He lifted a single pale hand, fingers crooking ever so slightly. A strangled yelp burst from the scribe as his body lifted clean off the ground, hauled upward by invisible force. His scroll case clattered forgotten to the floor.
"Please!" the man gasped, legs kicking desperately in the air. "I only—I only record—I'm not—"
Blaze tilted his head, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "A quill is as much a weapon as a sword. Words spread farther than steel ever could."
With a sudden flick of his hand, the shadows tightened around the scribe's throat. His cries turned to gurgles, then a horrifying silence. Blood trickled from his nose and eyes before the life finally drained from him. When Blaze let him go, the corpse crumpled into a heap at the knights' feet.
The priest staggered back, a silent scream of horror etched across his face.
One of the knights snarled, his hand tearing his blade free. "Monster!" He lunged forward.
Kael moved to intercept, but Blaze held up a hand. "No. This one is mine."
The knight's blade swung down in a silver arc. Blaze caught it between two fingers. The sound was a screech of tormented steel grating against solid stone. The knight's eyes widened, disbelief warring with pure terror.
Blaze leaned in close, his voice a whisper meant for the knight alone. "Your faith gives you strength. My hunger gives me more."
He snapped the blade like it was dry kindling. Before the knight could even process it, Blaze's hand punched through his chest. Claws burst from the knight's back in a spray of gore, and he convulsed once before going limp, dangling from Blaze's arm like a puppet with its strings cut.
He withdrew his hand and let the body fall.
The second knight froze, terror rooting him to the spot. The hilt of his sword shook violently in his hand.
Blaze turned his crimson gaze on him. "Run."
The knight blinked, confused.
"Run," Blaze repeated, his voice edged with a power that made the very air vibrate. Shadows writhed at his feet like a nest of vipers. "Run back to your Bishop. Tell him what you saw. Tell him what awaits any who trespass here again."
The knight's eyes rolled back in his head. He stumbled backward, then broke into a frantic sprint, bolting from the chapel and leaving his fallen comrades behind.
Blaze turned back to the priest. The man was trembling, caught between the sanctity of his faith and the primal terror of what stood before him. His lips moved in a broken, silent prayer.
Blaze's eyes burned brighter, locking the priest in place. The priest's prayer faltered, his body stiffened.
"Kneel," Blaze whispered.
The priest fought it, his knees quivering, muscles straining. Tears welled in his eyes.
"Kneel."
With a choked sob, the priest collapsed to the floor, his knees hitting the cracked stone with a sickening crunch.
Blaze stepped close, his towering form a shadow of pure menace. "Renounce your Light."
The priest's lips trembled. "N-never…"
Shadows coiled around his throat, a velvet noose. His breath hitched. His eyes bulged.
"Renounce," Blaze said, his voice low and cold as a tomb.
The man's will shattered. The words tumbled from his lips in a broken sob. "I—I renounce… the Light…"
The chapel fell into a terrible silence. Even Garrick, who had been pacing impatiently, stopped, stunned by the spectacle.
Blaze leaned down, his lips brushing the man's ear. "And now… die for your truth."
He sank his fangs deep into the priest's neck. The man's scream was a choked, muffled sound, fading into a pitiful whimper as his blood drained away. Blaze drank slowly, deliberately, savoring every terrified heartbeat.
When the body finally went limp, Blaze released him. The corpse slumped to the ground, pale and empty.
Blaze wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a crimson smear against his skin. He turned, his gaze sweeping over his court.
"Hang him," Blaze ordered, his voice casual, almost bored. "Crucify him upside down on the chapel gates. Nail his relics into his flesh. Let Greywick see what happens to those who bring the Light here."
Kael bowed silently. Garrick grinned savagely and dragged the corpse away.
By dawn, the macabre spectacle was complete.
The priest's body hung inverted above the chapel gates, nailed in place with his own sunburst pendant. Blood dripped down the stone, a dark stain against the pale morning light. The scribe's corpse lay discarded in a gutter. The knight's mangled body sprawled in the mud, his armor split open like a butchered pig.
The citizens of Greywick gathered in horrified silence. None spoke. None dared.
Whispers spread like a disease. The Crimson Lord had defied the Church. He hadn't hidden. He hadn't bargained. He hadn't begged for mercy. He had simply torn them apart and left their corpses as a warning.
Blaze sat upon his throne, watching the dawn bleed through the shattered glass. His court stood before him, silent, waiting for his word.
He rested his chin on one hand, his crimson eyes gleaming in the new light.
"This is only the beginning," he murmured. "Let the Light send more. We will drink their faith dry."