Greywick had never truly known silence.
Even in the dead of night, the town hummed with a low, constant energy. It was the rhythm of dice clattering in smoky backrooms, of raucous tavern songs, of a fight breaking out in a muddy alleyway. But tonight, the downpour had washed all that away. A hush had fallen over the town, as if the rain had drowned its voice.
Gutters became makeshift rivers, and lamplight sputtered against the wet wind, casting weak, shivering pools of yellow. Even the gangs, usually so bold, huddled indoors, muttering uneasily. They felt it too—the sense of something unseen prowling the slick, cobbled streets.
And they were right. Something was.
A shadow slipped across the rooftop of a butcher's shop, a figure that moved with no more noise than the rain itself. His cloak, a slick black second skin, clung to him, his face a mystery beneath a deep hood. His hands, gloved in leather waxed against the wet, held a dagger whose blade shimmered faintly with pale, hungry runes—holy script meant to cut flesh and soul alike.
This was Seren Valen. The church's most efficient blade.
Once, years ago, he had been a knight of Aurelion, the Sun-God. His days were spent in glorious battle, paladins clashing with heretics under gilded banners. But Seren had never cared for the banners. He cared for the silence, for the efficiency, for that quiet moment when a throat opened and the light went out of his enemy's eyes.
The Holy See had recognized that talent early. They had stripped him of his armor and heraldry and trained him in the darker arts of sanctified murder. Where paladins fought in the open sun, Seren stalked in the shadow, carrying out the church's quiet purges.
Tonight, his quarry was no ordinary heretic. It was the so-called Nameless Vampire.
He had followed the whispers from Greywick's underworld, pieced together the bloody trail, and tracked the invisible web of fear his target had woven. The church spoke of this vampire like a ghost—too cunning to strike openly, too dangerous to ignore.
But Seren had never believed in ghosts. All things bled.
From his rooftop vantage, he studied Greywick with a hunter's patience. Below, drunks stumbled out of a tavern, two mercenaries argued over a stolen coin purse, and a stray dog barked at shadows. He watched, cataloging every movement. None of them saw him. That was as it should be.
He dropped into an alley, landing with a grace that left not a single splash of mud. His cloak seemed to drink the light, the runes on his dagger fading as he tucked it away. Moving through the streets, he became just one more shadow among many.
The stench of Greywick clung to him—ale, sweat, smoke, and rot. But beneath it all, his trained senses caught something else. A faint, metallic tang that didn't belong to the town.
Blood.
The vampire's presence lingered here, faint as the last wisp of ash from a fire. Seren followed it, his nose sharp, his instincts honed by years of hunting.
He ghosted past gang hideouts and mercenary halls, their guards blind to him. He slipped through the gaps between the Crimson Hand's patrols. Twice he brushed past beggars who never even looked up from their misery.
At one point, he paused beneath a crooked balcony. On it sat a figure cloaked in shadow, watching. Seren went perfectly still, breath shallow, every muscle poised. But the figure turned its head and walked away, never seeing him.
Good. He was still invisible.
Hours passed, marked only by the rhythm of the rain and Seren's quiet heartbeat. With each step, he drew closer to his prey.
At last, he found it: a crumbling warehouse on the edge of Greywick, its doors barred, its windows boarded. To ordinary eyes, it was just another ruin. But Seren saw the faint traces of wards scratched into the stone, the unnatural stillness of the air around it.
He crouched in the shadows, watching. Patience first. Always patience.
Two hours crawled by. The Crimson Hand's guards patrolled by, oblivious. A stray cat slunk past. No one entered, no one left.
Finally, Seren moved.
He scaled the wall like a spider, each motion precise, flowing. At the second floor, he wedged a silver spike into the wood, drawing a glyph with chalk that glowed faintly before fading. It was a ward-breaker, subtle enough not to trigger alarms.
The barrier shimmered, weakened. Seren slid through, landing silently on the floorboards inside.
The darkness within was not ordinary. It was the kind that seemed to breathe, thick and oppressive—the cursed kind.
Perfect.
He drew his blades, twin daggers etched with scripture, their glow hidden beneath leather scabbards. The words of his training rose unbidden in his mind:
Strike first. Strike unseen. Do not falter. Vampires are beasts, not men. Cut them, and they will bleed.
He moved deeper, through hallways that twisted like veins. His senses told him he was close. The faint scent of blood grew sharper, more potent.
At last, he reached a chamber lit by a single candle. Papers and maps covered the desk. Shadows stretched long across the walls.
And there, seated as if he'd been expecting him, was Blaze Carter.
Seren's breath slowed, every nerve alive. His fingers tightened on his daggers. He could already imagine them biting into pale flesh, severing sinew, silencing this so-called lord of shadows.
The silence between them was a wire pulled taut, ready to snap.
Blaze didn't stir from his chair. He simply lifted his head, his crimson eyes catching the candlelight, reflecting it with the serene stillness of a predator at rest. His hands were steepled on the desk, pale fingers motionless.
"You've been watching me for hours," he said, his voice a low, amused murmur. "And still you came. Interesting."
Seren gave no reply. Assassins didn't waste breath on conversation. He just struck.
The dagger left his hand in a flash of lethal silver. Its rune-flare was a muted gleam until the final instant, a whisper of holy light meant to pierce both heart and soul.
But Blaze wasn't the kind of target to just let a knife find its mark.
The shadows under his chair rippled, and he flowed sideways as though poured from a jar, a liquid dancer in the darkness. The dagger sliced through empty air, burying itself with a hiss of protest into the desk where he had been. Sparks flew where sanctified silver met wood.
Blaze rose in one smooth motion, his form dissolving and reforming from the darkness itself, a ghost made solid.
"Ah," he murmured, brushing a nonexistent speck of dust from his sleeve. "They finally sent someone competent."
Seren's second dagger was already in his hand. He lunged, closing the gap with terrifying silence, the blade arcing low for Blaze's ribs. Blaze sidestepped, but Seren was ready. A garrote wire flashed, smelling faintly of sanctified incense. He looped it toward Blaze's throat, intent on cutting through flesh and windpipe in one lethal motion.
The wire caught, tightening—
—but Blaze's body flickered into a wisp of smoke, slipping free. The garrote hissed through empty mist.
A low, echoing laugh whispered as Blaze reformed several paces away.
"Holy oil? Clever. Painful, too, if it had found purchase." His crimson eyes narrowed. "Tell me—does the church truly believe string and knives are enough to end me?"
Seren's face remained a mask. He wasn't here to banter. His hand traced a glyph in the air—one seared into his very flesh. Light exploded, a sudden circle of sunfire that sealed the chamber. The shadows shrank back, pinned down, forcing Blaze into the open. The vampire hissed softly, his skin prickling, smoke rising where the holy light brushed too close.
So. This assassin carried the sun into his lair.
Blaze moved first. His hand flicked, and the shadows that remained lunged like hungry snakes, tendrils snapping at Seren's legs. Seren leapt with impossible speed, flipping over the tendrils, striking downward with both daggers.
Steel kissed flesh. One blade sliced Blaze's shoulder, the wound searing like acid. The other grazed his side, leaving a smoking trail.
Blaze staggered back, his teeth bared in a feral snarl.
Seren pressed the attack, relentless. Each strike was a whisper, every motion honed to perfection. His face remained calm, unreadable, as though he were carving wood rather than fighting a monster.
Blaze countered with raw ferocity. His claws flashed with inhuman speed, sparks flying as they met the holy silver. He ducked low, swept forward, his unnatural speed forcing Seren back a step. But the assassin never wavered—his rhythm was cold, mechanical, impossible to break.
The cursed ring pulsed against Blaze's finger. Unleash me, it whispered, its voice a siren's call. Stop playing with their toys. Show him what a king devours.
Blaze gritted his teeth. He refused to lose control. Not here. Not to a tool of the church.
Seren's garrote flashed again, this time wrapping around Blaze's wrist. Holy oil sizzled, burning skin and muscle alike. Seren pulled, dragging Blaze into range for a final, lethal strike.
Blaze caught the blade with his bare hand. Flesh smoked and seared, but his grip was iron. Their faces were inches apart—Seren's calm and cold, Blaze's twisted into a half-smile of fury.
"You think me a beast?" Blaze hissed, his crimson eyes boring into the assassin's cold gray ones. "Then remember what happens when a beast learns to think."
His gaze flared. The hypnotic power surged, a crimson flood slamming into Seren's mind.
The assassin staggered. For the first time, his grip faltered. His thoughts wavered, a brief, disorienting flicker of doubt breaking his perfect discipline.
Blaze shoved him back, tearing the garrote free, his wrist dripping with smoking blood.
Seren recovered quickly, his breath sharp, his eyes narrowed. He whispered a prayer, and runes ignited brighter along his daggers. He lunged again—this time faster, angrier.
But Blaze had found his rhythm. He flowed like smoke, his body dissolving between strikes, his claws raking where silver couldn't reach. His laughter echoed through the chamber, low and mocking.
"Careful, assassin," Blaze murmured, catching Seren's arm mid-strike and twisting it painfully. "Your silence is breaking. I can almost hear fear in your breath."
Seren snarled, wrenching free, but the words had struck deeper than claws. Fear? No. He had no fear. He was the church's blade, forged for this very purpose. And yet—why had his will faltered under that gaze? Why had the vampire's voice lodged in his skull like a seed of doubt?
The fight dragged on, neither gaining full ground. Blood spattered the floor—Blaze's, smoking where the silver burned, but already knitting back together. Seren's, shallow cuts from claws, but ignored as though meaningless. The air stank of iron and incense, shadow and light locked in a furious dance.
And then the door creaked.
A new figure stepped into the chamber—broad-shouldered, scarred, with eyes glowing a faint, menacing red. It was Garrick.
Seren's instincts screamed. He had stalked one quarry, but the shadows had birthed another. For the first time, his perfect precision cracked.
Blaze saw it. The predator's smile spread across his face as he whispered:
"Now you bleed."
The air in the chamber grew thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and the quiet hum of power. Shadows stretched long and grotesque, as if bowing to the new master of this lair. At the doorway, Garrick's presence was a looming monolith of silent menace, his red-tinged eyes fixed on Seren like a wolf scenting a wounded stag.
The assassin shifted his stance, daggers raised, but the flawless rhythm of his movements was gone. Two enemies now. One, a scarred mercenary reforged in shadow. The other, a vampire lord who had already tasted his resolve and found it wanting.
Blaze circled him slowly, a smear of blood still on his hand, yet his smile had only sharpened.
"You did well," Blaze said, his voice a soft caress, as though to a favored student. "Better than the priest. Better than the paladins. You almost drew true blood." His crimson gaze bored into Seren, digging in like nails. "But now, you'll serve me."
Seren spat to the side, a gesture of defiance, refusing to answer. His breathing was still controlled, his grip on his daggers steady—but Blaze heard the faintest tremor in the man's heart. The seed of doubt had been planted.
The cursed ring pulsed against Blaze's finger, a low, warm thrum. Yes. Break him. Shatter him. He will make a fine fang in your crown.
Blaze didn't need the encouragement. He wanted this one.
"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" Blaze asked, his words a slow, circling poison. "A blade. Sharp, deadly, yes. But a blade is useless without a hand to guide it. You've been wielded by others your whole life, haven't you?"
Seren's jaw tightened. His silence was the only answer Blaze needed.
Blaze pressed in, the words flowing like venom. "A knight once, perhaps? I can see it in your stance. Disciplined. Honorable. Until the church took it all from you. Stripped away your pride, left you a ghost in black cloth, stabbing in the dark for masters who never bleed for you."
"Shut up," Seren hissed, the first crack in his perfect composure.
Blaze's grin widened. "Ah. There it is. The voice. I wondered how long before the silence broke. Tell me, assassin—what did they promise you? Redemption? Salvation? Do you even believe anymore?"
Seren lunged suddenly, the strike a desperate, sloppy thing, his daggers flaring with a weak holy light. Garrick intercepted him with brute force, catching Seren's arm and holding it steady despite the searing pain the silver caused.
Blaze stepped in close, a single claw pressing against Seren's throat.
"I don't need to guess," he whispered, his voice dangerously low. "I can feel it. You don't fight for faith. You fight because they tell you to. Because you're too afraid to stop. They own you."
Seren's eyes flickered, his gray irises trembling. Blaze's gaze flared red, hypnotic power driving in like a blade, seeking the core of the man's soul.
"No…" Seren muttered, though the conviction in his voice was already weakening.
"Yes," Blaze purred. "Kneel. Accept what you already know. The gods are liars. The church is chains. You were forged to kill—but under me, you will be free to be what you are."
The assassin's mind writhed under the weight of Blaze's will. His body shook, daggers trembling, as the urge to resist warred with the inexorable pull of obedience. Garrick wrenched the last dagger from his grip and shoved him to his knees. Seren panted, sweat dripping, the holy glyphs on his skin flickering like dying embers.
Blaze crouched before him, a single claw drawing a thin line of blood across his cheek.
"Your gods cannot hear you here," Blaze said softly, his voice almost kind. "But I can. Choose, Seren Valen. Die here, forgotten by the light—or drink of me, and live as my fang in the dark."
The assassin's lips parted, a soundless word forming. His pride screamed no, but his will, frayed by doubt and the primal urge to survive, dragged him toward yes.
Blaze didn't wait. He seized Seren by the jaw, forced his head back, and bit deep into his neck.
Hot blood surged across his tongue—sharp, laced with a bitter holy residue, burning like fire in his veins. Blaze growled low, savoring it, holding Seren until the man went limp, shuddering, his heart slowing.
Then Blaze tore his own wrist open with his fangs and pressed it against Seren's mouth.
"Drink," he commanded.
For a heartbeat, Seren resisted. Then instinct overrode defiance. His lips fastened around the wound, gagging on the copper-sweet flood of corrupted power. The chamber filled with a low hum, the sound of a life unraveling and reshaping. Holy runes branded on Seren's skin flared, cracked, and burned away, leaving blackened scars. His veins pulsed crimson, glowing faintly under his pale skin. His eyes snapped open, no longer gray but burning red, like twin coals.
Seren collapsed forward, trembling, gasping like a man dragged from a drowning.
Blaze stood over him, blood still dripping from his wrist, his eyes gleaming with triumph.
"Rise," he said. "No longer a blade of the church. Rise, my Fang."
Seren lifted his head slowly. The last shards of his former life lingered in his expression—discipline, restraint—but beneath it now swam hunger, crimson and feral.
"I… serve," he rasped, his voice hoarse, the words torn between old loyalty and a new, brutal compulsion. His body shook, but his will had bent, reforged by the blood bond.
Blaze smiled thinly. "Good. You'll make a better weapon in my hands than theirs."
Garrick smirked faintly from the doorway, watching with arms crossed. "Another brother, then."
Seren's new eyes flicked to him, assessing, calculating—yet no longer with the cold detachment of an assassin. Now with hunger. With blood singing in his veins.
Blaze turned away, his cloak swirling. "The church thought they sent fangs against me." He chuckled darkly. "Now their fang has become mine. Let them choke on the irony."
The cursed ring pulsed, pleased, its voice a whisper across his thoughts: Yes. Build your court, piece by piece. Even their holy tools cannot resist you. Soon, the world itself will kneel.
Blaze let the thought linger, then dismissed it. For now, Seren Valen was his. Another shadow weapon added to the Crimson Court.