The Chapel of Greywick, once a husked monument to a forgotten god, was no longer just a ruin. It breathed now. A low thrum of voices and the rustle of dark cloaks filled the space, laced with the faint, metallic hum of blood. The cracked altar, once a symbol of holy light, had been scoured and polished until it gleamed, a dais for a new kind of deity. Upon it sat a high-backed stone chair that the townsfolk had already started to call a throne.
Candles, plundered from Greywick's manors, guttered in sconces, their smoke curling lazily to blacken the vaulted ceiling. Around the hall, figures knelt or lingered in the shadows, every man and woman bound by blood to the will of their master.
Blaze sat in the stillness, his fingers resting against the cold metal of the ring. His gaze swept over the hall, calm and steady. He didn't need to raise his voice; the silence bent to him like the wind bends to a mountain.
At his right hand stood Kael, tall and half-wrapped in the leathers of a beastfolk warrior. His crimson eyes were the only hint of the predator beneath. On his left was Garrick, a broader, scarred man in incomplete but polished chainmail from his days as a mercenary. They were his lieutenants now, bound by both blood and choice.
Several lesser spawn waited between them—cutthroats, deserters, and the broken men who had been remade to serve the Crimson Court.
Blaze let the silence hang, letting its weight press upon their shoulders until it felt like a physical burden. Then, his voice dropped to a soft whisper.
"Greywick is mine."
It wasn't a boast, but a simple truth, stated with the finality of stone. Though his voice was low, every ear in the hall strained to catch it.
"Through fear, through whispers, through blood. This town kneels, whether it knows it or not. But Greywick is a nest, not a kingdom. It is where the roots take hold, not where the tree grows."
Kael inclined his head. "Then we must grow outward. But how far? The Church already sniffs at our door. If we reach too far, too fast—"
"They will come whether we grow or not," Blaze interrupted, his eyes sharp as a knife's edge. "The Light doesn't forgive shadows. They will hunt us until nothing remains." He leaned back, his expression unreadable. "That's why we must be ready before they realize the depth of our roots."
He raised a hand, tracing a finger across the air as if sketching a map only he could see.
"Greywick sits on the edge of three roads: one toward the Empire, one toward the beastfolk heartlands, one into the wastes. We won't march on the Empire, not yet. Their priests watch too closely. The wastes offer nothing but carrion. But the beastfolk borderlands…" A faint smile touched his lips. "There lies opportunity."
Garrick's scarred mouth tugged into a grin. "Beastfolk villages. Fighters, mercenaries, tribes that bend for coin. They're not loyal to the Church."
"Exactly." Blaze's voice was cold and clear, devoid of triumph. "The beastfolk distrust the Light. They have no love for bishops who preach obedience from gilded halls. If we move carefully, they won't see us as conquerors, but as allies. Or better…" His eyes glinted in the candlelight. "…as protectors."
A low murmur passed through the lesser spawn. Kael's crimson gaze narrowed, a spark of interest in his eyes. "Which village?"
Blaze tapped the armrest of his chair. "Thornmere. Small, but strategic. It straddles a trade crossing into the heartlands. Few soldiers, even fewer priests. But caravans pass through, and where there's trade, there's coin, information, influence. If Thornmere falls into our shadow, the rest of the border will follow."
He let the words settle, heavy and certain. Then his voice dropped lower, like steel sliding against steel.
"But we will not march as conquerors. Not yet. Thornmere must never know it has been taken. We will weave into it like a whisper. We will plant our roots in its soil until, when it finally realizes whose hand guides it, it is too late to resist."
He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Kael and Garrick. "You two will lead this. Take two of the lesser spawn with you. Enter Thornmere as mercenaries, as wanderers—shadows wearing faces. Watch. Listen. Bend it from within. A single death in the wrong alley, a whispered promise in the right ear, a wound mended when no one else would help. Make them choose us."
Kael's smile was feral. "I prefer breaking bones to bending ears. But…" He inclined his head. "Your way is slower. More… satisfying."
Garrick cracked his knuckles. "And when whispers don't work?"
Blaze's gaze cut to him, cold as midnight. "Then shadows sharpen into claws. But only when I command it."
The silence that followed was heavy, absolute.
He rose from the chair, the cursed ring on his finger glinting with a pulse of crimson light. His shadow stretched long across the chapel floor, swallowing the cracks in the stone.
"Remember this," Blaze said softly, his words carrying like a divine command. "We are not the Church. We don't demand kneeling at the point of a sword. Our power isn't in banners or trumpets. It is silence. It is inevitability. By the time they realize the shadow has touched them, they will already belong to me."
The spawn bowed their heads as one.
Kael and Garrick exchanged a glance, their crimson eyes lit with hunger, then knelt before their master.
"It will be done," they said in unison.
The road east of Greywick was a scar on the land, a forgotten artery of beaten earth that snaked between scrubland and shallow, tired hills. Along this dusty track, a rickety cart groaned and rattled, pulled by a mule so thin it looked like a walking skeleton.
On the cart's bench sat two men who, to a casual glance, were nothing more than mercenaries. One was a hulking shape, broad-shouldered and cloaked in shadow, a jagged scar peeking out from beneath his hood. The other was leaner, sharper, with a restless energy that radiated from him like heat—a wolf too long kept from the hunt.
Garrick and Kael.
They traveled in a quiet that was more than just silence; it was the easy understanding of predators who knew the value of patience.
Dusk was a slow creep of purple and gray when Thornmere came into view. It was a humble little place, barely a cluster of timber and thatch homes huddled around a muddy square. Smoke from its chimneys curled lazily into the twilight sky. A wooden palisade—more for keeping wolves out than for warding off an army—circled the town. Beyond it, fields stretched out toward the dark, hungry line of the forest.
At the gate, two beastfolk guards lounged with the bored indifference of men who'd seen a thousand travelers. One was a young wolf-headed kid, all gangly limbs and nervous energy. The other was an old boar-tusked veteran, his tusks yellowed by age and countless meals. They eyed the cart, but without suspicion, just the tired disinterest of their lot.
"Mercenaries?" the boar-guard grunted, his voice a low rumble.
"Passing through," Garrick replied, a rough drawl of a sellsword. He let his hood slip back just enough to reveal the scarred cheek, the weathered look of a man who'd fought for coin in countless border skirmishes. "Looking for work, if Thornmere has any."
The guard snorted. "Work, eh? Try the alehouse. Old Bram's always hiring folk to break heads."
They waved the cart through, no questions asked. The wheels rattled over the uneven ground, carrying them into Thornmere proper.
Kael leaned back, his crimson eyes dimmed, cloaked in the glamour Blaze had taught him to wear. It was a faint veil that dulled the unnatural glow of his gaze, making him seem like nothing more than an ordinary man with a cold stare.
"Pathetic," Kael muttered, his voice a low, scornful hiss as they passed the square. "A village guarded by two drunkards and a fence that wouldn't stop a half-starved wolf. Blaze was right—it's ripe for taking."
"Not taking," Garrick corrected, his tone calm and steady as a rock in a storm. "Infiltrating. Remember his words."
Kael's smirk was a flash of teeth. "Whispers, not claws. For now."
They pulled up to the alehouse, a squat building of timber and thatch that spilled a warm rectangle of light and noise onto the muddy lane. Inside, Thornmere's evening life was in full swing: farmers with hands still caked with dirt, traders with dust on their cloaks, hunters with the musky scent of blood and fur. In a corner, a broad man with a belly straining against his belt barked orders at a couple of nervous-looking youths.
"That'll be Bram," Garrick murmured.
They entered, drawing little attention. Mercenaries were as common as stray dogs in these border towns. Still, a few heads turned, lingering on the scar on Garrick's cheek and the cold glint in Kael's eye before looking away. They ordered ale, found a table near the wall, and listened.
It didn't take long to catch the rhythm of the village. Every town had its factions, and Thornmere's were laid out plain for all to see. Bram and his thugs ran the alehouse, shaking down locals and caravans for "protection fees." The village elder—an old beastfolk woman whose fur was the color of a winter sky—tried to keep the peace, but her word was worth less than Bram's coin.
And beneath it all, there were whispers. The villagers spoke in hushed tones of caravans gone missing, of beasts sighted too close to the fields, of shadows moving in the forest. They spoke of these things with a nervous, directionless fear, like sheep waiting for a predator they couldn't see.
Garrick drank his ale slowly, his scarred face unreadable. Kael, a coiled spring of restlessness, tapped the table with his fingers. He had glamoured his claws to look like ordinary nails, but they itched to bare themselves.
"This place is hollow," Kael murmured low enough for only Garrick to hear. "Rotten wood, just waiting for a spark. Why not burn it down and be done with it?"
"Because Blaze doesn't want ashes," Garrick replied, his voice a steady hum. "He wants roots. If we burn Thornmere, it dies. If we plant ourselves here, it grows into our shadow."
Kael scowled but said nothing else.
Their chance came sooner than expected. A caravan rolled in late, battered and missing half its guards. Word spread through the alehouse fast: beastfolk hunters in the woods, the survivors claimed. Bram sneered, calling them cowards, but the villagers' unease deepened.
Garrick and Kael exchanged a glance. Opportunity had just knocked.
That night, while Thornmere slept, they walked the muddy lanes, listening. They found the caravan survivors camped near the square, nursing their wounds, speaking of beasts with glowing eyes. The air around them was thick with fear.
Kael crouched beside one, a boy no older than sixteen, trembling, his arm bound in a bloody rag. "You'll live," Kael said softly. His eyes glinted, the glamour slipping just enough to let the crimson shine through. "But only because you'll remember who gave you strength when no one else would."
The boy's breath hitched. His fear shifted, a subtle, profound change. It wasn't gone, but it had a new target—a new loyalty.
A seed, planted.
Garrick worked differently. He approached the caravan master, a grizzled beastfolk fox whose coin pouch was nearly empty. "You've no guards," Garrick said bluntly. "Hire us. We'll see your goods safely through Thornmere and beyond."
The fox hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. "If you'll work for less than Bram's thugs, you're hired."
And just like that, the threads began to weave.
By dawn, the whispers of two new mercenaries had already spread. Some said they'd helped the caravan survivors. Others said they'd stood up to Bram's men in the alehouse—though the truth was nothing more than a well-placed silence and a look from Garrick that made Bram's thug back down.
Blaze's design was already taking shape.
The only sound in Blaze's chamber was the guttering of a single candle, its flame dancing and casting long, unnatural shadows across the stone walls. He sat at the heavy desk he'd claimed in Greywick, maps and papers spread out like a game board, but his true focus was elsewhere. His senses, honed to a razor's edge by the cursed ring, stretched outward, tasting the faint impressions of his fledgling spawn.
The bond was subtle, a mental whisper on the wind, but it was enough. He felt Kael's simmering impatience, Garrick's cold, calculated precision, and the faint, panicked trembling of newly fear-kindled hearts in Thornmere. The threads vibrated softly, a constant, low thrum against his awareness.
A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips.
The heavy door creaked open. Kael entered first, a lean wolf fresh from the hunt, his cloak spattered with mud. Garrick followed, composed as always, the quiet weight of his presence like a blade kept sharp and hidden.
"They bought it," Kael announced, his words an impatient growl as he dropped into a chair opposite Blaze. "Thornmere sees us as sellswords now. Bram's thugs are sniffing around, but they're too scared to bite."
"And the villagers?" Blaze's voice was even, a low counterpoint to Kael's aggression.
"Sheep," Kael scoffed, a dismissive flick of his clawed hand. "Just hungry for someone to lean on. I gave them a taste of fear. They'll remember who made them tremble."
Blaze's crimson eyes shifted to Garrick. "And you?"
Garrick inclined his head. "I've secured employment with a caravan master. He couldn't afford Bram's men, so he'll lean on us instead. It gives us a foothold. Whispers are already spreading—two sellswords not under Bram's thumb. That alone plants doubt."
Blaze leaned back, steepling his fingers. Doubt. It was always the first crack in a wall of control. Once the villagers questioned Bram's strength, loyalty would erode. Fear and coin wouldn't be enough to hold them.
"Good," Blaze murmured. "But whispers are fragile things. Too much pressure and they scatter; too little and they die."
He rose, pacing to the map laid out on the desk. Greywick was marked at the center, Thornmere to the east, and other villages scattered beyond. They were just pieces on a board no one else even knew was in play.
"Our task isn't to topple Thornmere overnight," Blaze continued. "It's to weave it into my web. A thread here, a thread there, until they can no longer move without my shadow following. Garrick, keep working through the caravans. They'll carry news—and fear—faster than we ever could. Kael, test Bram's men, but don't strike yet. Push them just enough to make them desperate."
Kael's lip curled. "I'd rather just tear their throats out and be done with it."
"And lose the game in one night?" Blaze's gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. "No. We build, Kael. Thornmere must invite the darkness in of its own will. Only then will it stay loyal."
The younger spawn bristled, but after a moment, he dipped his head. The bond pulsed faintly—resentment, yes, but also obedience. The blood tie held firm.
Blaze turned back to the map, tracing the outline of Thornmere with a single claw. "This village is only the beginning. If it bends to me, others will follow. A chain of shadows, stretching from Greywick to the borderlands. By the time the church realizes what I've built, I'll already be too deep to uproot."
A heavy silence settled in the room, broken only by the guttering of the candle. Garrick finally spoke, his voice a low current of caution. "And if the church sends their hounds sooner? Thornmere is small. It cannot withstand scrutiny."
Blaze's smile was a cold, amused thing. "Then we use Thornmere as bait. If their paladins come sniffing, I'll make them bleed in the mud, in front of the very people they claim to protect. Nothing turns loyalty faster than watching your supposed saviors fail."
Kael's grin returned at that, sharp and eager.
Blaze's hand tightened over the map. He could feel the cursed ring's hunger gnawing at him, urging blood, urging dominion. For once, he didn't resist. Its whispers aligned perfectly with his own.
"Begin," Blaze said. "Draw Thornmere into my shadow. Slowly, carefully. Let them think they are choosing strength. When the time is right, I will arrive myself and make it undeniable."
Kael rose, already hungry to act. Garrick bowed his head slightly, a silent oath.
When they had gone, Blaze stood alone with the map, staring at the web of lines he had just begun to draw. Greywick was no longer just a den of thieves. Thornmere would not remain a simple border village. They were all pieces now, and the game had begun.