Greywick's nights were never silent. The border town throbbed with the familiar hum of life and death—dice rattling in smoky taverns, the coarse laughter of mercenaries, and the dull thud of fists in back-alley brawls. It was a hive of scum, greed, and blood, a place where night was often safer than day because shadows could hide a knife.
But tonight, the noise was different.
The dice seemed to roll softer, the laughter carried a nervous tremor. Even the drunks staggered more quickly toward doorways, a primal instinct overriding their stupor. Somewhere deep in the marrow of Greywick, a new fear pulsed like a drumbeat. Something was coming.
Seren felt it first.
The assassin crouched on the eaves of a collapsed chapel, he pale eyes reflecting the moonlight. The shadows around her seemed to curl like cats, clinging to her form. He had been watching the alleys for hours—nothing unusual. A few sellswords stumbled out of a brothel, a gang boy scuttled past with a stolen loaf of bread, a wolf-blood whore deftly picking a merchant's pockets. Just the normal filth.
But then, he heard it—footsteps. Too steady. Too ordered.
Seren's gaze sharpened. He saw armored figures, cloaked in white, slipping silently through Greywick's crooked lanes. They moved in squads of three, their blades wrapped in cloth to hide the gleam, their boots padded to muffle every sound. Their silence was more terrifying than a warhorn. He didn't need to see their insignias. The burning ache in her chest told him everything.
Paladins.
He vanished into the shadows, a wraith of black cloth and pale flesh.
High in the spire that served as his throne, Blaze stirred. His crimson eyes snapped open, and the cursed ring on his finger pulsed with a faint, searing heat. The sensation was unmistakable—like molten needles running under his skin.
Holy power.
He rose from his throne. The night air pressed against him, humid and heavy, as if the very wind knew Light was intruding on his domain. Below, he could hear it now: a rising chorus of screams, shouts, and the sharp, undeniable clash of steel. The streets were boiling over with chaos.
Kael burst through the spire's chamber doors, the scent of wolf-blood sharp in his voice. "My lord," he growled, fangs bared. "The Light's dogs are in our streets. Dozens of them. Armored. Blessed."
Garrick followed, axe already in hand, his armor smeared with blood. He was breathing hard, but his eyes gleamed with a savage readiness. "They struck the south quarter first. Burned two spawn alive with their damned fire. They're not here to scare us—they're here to kill."
Blaze's lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl.
"Then let us teach them how to die."
The first flames lit up Greywick's crooked skyline. Holy fire roared against the night, a brilliant white-gold that licked at rooftops that had stood in darkness for decades. The screams rose sharper. Spawn and gang men scrambled, clashing with the intruders in the narrow alleys.
But the paladins didn't falter. They moved like a tide—disciplined, brutal, efficient. Shields locked. Swords swept with practiced precision. Every blow carried the sear of consecrated light. Vampires who tried to pounce from rooftops were struck midair, bursting into ash before they even hit the ground. From his vantage point, Blaze watched, his mind dissecting their every move.
They came prepared. Paladins weren't soldiers. They weren't bandits. They were believers. And belief, armed with steel, was always dangerous.
"Positions," Blaze said, his voice cold as the grave.
Kael slammed a fist to his chest. "I'll lead the street assault. They'll learn what a wolf's hunt feels like." Without waiting for a dismissal, he charged into the night, a blur of muscle and fury.
Garrick hefted his axe, his eyes on Blaze. "I'll hold the chokepoints. Buy time. Let's see if holy bastards bleed." He spat, then lumbered after Kael.
Seren emerged from a ripple of shadow, already bloodied from his scouting. "I'll silence their torchbearers. Without their light, they stumble."
Asha appeared, wolves padding silently behind her, their eyes aglow with feral hunger. She knelt, her grin sharp. "The packs are unleashed. Their screams will echo, master."
Even Ledo, trembling near the doorway, swallowed hard and nodded. "M-my men are building barricades. We'll keep the rats penned where you want them."
Armand, calm but pale, adjusted the straps of his armor. "The guild will hold the northern square. But if we're outmatched…" His voice trailed off. He didn't need to finish the thought.
Blaze descended the steps of his throne. Shadows stirred at his feet, coiling upward like smoke, drawn to his will.
"No," he said softly. "You are not outmatched. You are mine. And they…" The spire shook as another wave of holy fire burst across the streets. "...are prey."
The streets boiled with battle.
Kael ripped into the first paladin squad, his claws raking through armor, his jaws snapping bone. Even as radiant swords slashed his skin, his regeneration fought back, the blood sizzling against consecrated steel. His howl shook the alleys, summoning Asha's wolves into the fray.
Garrick crashed into another squad, his axe cleaving through shields. Light burned across his arms, smoke hissing from his flesh, but the mercenary spawn didn't falter. He laughed as he cut a paladin in half.
Seren's knives flashed in silence, cutting throats and severing tendons. Every time a torch flared, he extinguished it with blood.
And then Blaze himself walked into the street.
The air shifted. Shadows thickened, curling along the cobbles, climbing the walls, suffocating the golden glow of holy fire. His crimson gaze swept across the armored intruders, and for the first time, their formation trembled.
One of them shouted, his voice cracking with fear. "There! The vampire lord! The Nameless One!"
Blaze tilted his head, his lips curving into a slow, mocking smile. "Nameless?" His voice slid into their ears like silk drawn across a blade.
"I have more names than you have prayers."
The paladins struck like a spear.
Greywick's alleys, twisting and treacherous, were meant to break an army, to turn formations into a panicked mob. But for these holy warriors, the narrow channels only sharpened them. They pressed forward as a single, unyielding unit, their shields a polished wall, their every step a testament to centuries of doctrine. Their weapons, polished to a mirror sheen, shone with blessings older than Greywick itself.
"Break them!" one of their captains roared, his voice a hammer blow that echoed above the din. The head of his warhammer flared with golden radiance, holy words etched across its face.
The first line of spawn lunged—gang men given drops of Blaze's blood, their eyes burning with unnatural fervor. They came with knives, clubs, and stolen blades, shrieking with a lunatic frenzy. But as they met the shield wall, their cries turned to screams of agony. Consecrated steel ripped through their bodies, the holy light burning their vampiric essence into ash. The smell of charred flesh filled the streets, a sickening perfume of death.
For a moment, the raiders were an unstoppable force, carving a brutal swath through Blaze's meager forces. Civilians screamed from shuttered windows. Wolves howled as the holy light seared their fur. It seemed the tide of the Light would crush Greywick beneath its weight.
But then, Blaze stepped forward.
His presence rippled across the street like an eclipse. The shadows thickened until the paladins' own torches sputtered, their light dying under his gaze. Their ordered steps faltered, boots slowing as a cold, primal fear wormed its way into their bones.
"Children of Light," Blaze said softly, his words a tide of ice that rolled across them. "You think you march with purpose, but look at you."
He raised a hand. Shadows slithered upward like living chains, coiling around shields, dragging them down. Paladins grunted, straining to keep their arms up, to maintain their flawless formation. But Blaze's voice pressed harder, a weight on their minds.
"You stumble into my nest, into my home, carrying your fire as if it will save you. But fire…" He smiled, his crimson eyes gleaming like jewels in the gloom. "…fire only feeds the dark."
One paladin screamed, dropping his weapon to clutch at his helmet as if trying to tear off his own skull. His spirit had cracked under Blaze's gaze, his will splintering like glass. Another fell to his knees, weeping soundlessly, the holy prayers withering in his throat.
The line faltered. That was all Kael needed.
With a snarl, the wolf-blooded lieutenant ripped through their ranks, claws slashing, teeth sinking into exposed flesh. He tore a paladin off his feet, smashing the man against a wall until bone shattered. Holy fire scorched Kael's arms, but he roared in defiance, blood dripping from his fangs.
Asha moved with him, her wolves darting into the gaps in the paladin formation. They snapped at ankles, tore throats, and dragged armored men screaming into the dark. Her laughter, wild and unhinged, rang above the chaos, a sharp counterpoint to the paladins' dying prayers.
On the other side of the street, Garrick swung his axe in great arcs, cleaving through shields as though they were parchment. His skin smoked where holy steel nicked him, but he pressed on, a feral grin splitting his face. "Come on, bastards!" he bellowed, his voice a thunderclap over the clash of steel. "Let's see how long your god holds your guts in place!"
The battle spread through Greywick like a brushfire.
In the northern square, Armand and his mercenaries fought to hold their ground. Unlike Kael and Garrick, Armand fought with precision, a cold, calculated efficiency. He commanded his men to break apart the paladins' tight formations with hit-and-run tactics, his blade darting in to find chinks in armor and exploit openings. Even so, every clash left him reeling—the sheer weight of holy energy was anathema to his undead nature.
Seren, meanwhile, stalked through the rooftops like a ghost. Where he passed, torches sputtered out, leaving squads blind. His knives whispered in the dark, cutting throats before prayers could even be finished. To the paladins below, he was a phantom, a shadow that came and went without a sound.
The clash was no longer a raid. It was a warzone.
Blaze advanced slowly, each step a deliberate judgment. Shadows rippled outward from him, curling like waves on black water. Every paladin who met his gaze faltered.
But then—
A voice rose above the chaos, a single, righteous cry.
"Hold fast!"
A captain, his face a mask of resolve, stepped forward, lifting a blazing standard high into the air. The cloth bore the sigil of the sun, stitched in golden thread, and the sight of it seemed to steel the paladins' will. They roared in unison, slamming their weapons against their shields. Radiant light burst outward, a golden wave that pushed against the encroaching darkness, forcing Blaze to pause.
The holy radiance burned. Blaze's shadows hissed, recoiling under its brilliance. His lips curled into a snarl.
"Faith," he murmured. "Such a fragile thing."
He lifted his hand, and the cursed ring gleamed faintly in the dark. Shadows surged, thicker than before, writhing like serpents. They wrapped around the paladin captain, a crushing embrace that stole the air from his lungs. His hammer fell with a clatter as he gasped, struggling against the suffocating dark.
Blaze stepped close, his voice a whisper only the captain could hear.
"Your god does not hear you tonight."
The man's spirit shattered in an instant. His scream was cut short as the shadows dragged him into the ground, leaving nothing but a helmet clattering on the cobblestones.
The paladins recoiled. For the first time, their perfect formation broke completely.
The tide had turned.
Kael's claws shredded through wavering lines. Asha's wolves dragged holy men into alleys where their prayers died in silence. Garrick swung until his arms were black with burns, his laughter echoing through the night.
Seren's daggers flashed, extinguishing life as quickly as he had snuffed out their torches.
And Blaze moved through it all like a storm, shadows flowing at his heels, his crimson eyes blazing in the dark. Wherever his gaze fell, resolve withered. Paladins trembled, their chants faltering, their holy light dimming against his overwhelming presence.
The raid that had begun as righteous execution was collapsing into a brutal, one-sided slaughter.
But Blaze knew better than to think it was over. The Church was not foolish. They had sent more than one wave.
And already, he could feel it—the second strike.
A surge of holy energy rose from the eastern quarter, brighter, stronger than the first. The very air vibrated with it. This was no mere squad. This was a consecrated strike force, led by one who wielded faith like a blade.
Blaze's smile widened, cruel and eager.
The first clash had ended in chaos—blood on the cobbles, paladin corpses smoking where shadows had burned away holy light, and the smell of iron and ash clinging thick in the night air. But Blaze's instincts stirred like an alarm. The battle wasn't finished.
The eastern quarter of Greywick glowed with a stark, unnatural gold that burned away every shadow it touched. Doors slammed as citizens ducked into their hovels, muttering frantic prayers. Dogs howled and wolves whined, slinking back as the light spread.
And then they appeared.
Twenty knights, their armor etched with sun sigils that blazed like molten fire. They marched not in chaos, but in perfect, synchronized unity, the cobblestones shaking with every step. At their center strode a figure taller than the rest, his armor lacquered with gold, his blade radiating pure, consecrated fire.
The citizens whispered his name from behind barred windows. "Ser Avelar… the Dawnbreaker."
Blaze's eyes narrowed. He hadn't expected the Church to send one of their consecrated champions.
Good.
Kael staggered back, his arm scorched from the last exchange. Garrick's grin faltered, ash smudging across his face. Asha hissed, her wolves whimpering as the Dawnbreaker's light washed over them, weakening their bond to shadow. Even Seren, composed as ever, adjusted his stance on the rooftop, narrowing his eyes.
This wasn't like the first wave. These men were an execution squad.
"Lord," Kael growled through bared fangs, "he's stronger than the others. His light burns… deep."
Blaze's lips curled into a razor-thin smile. "Then we'll carve that light from him."
The Dawnbreaker lifted his blade and pointed it at Blaze. "Vampire Lord of Greywick! By the authority of the Sunlit Church, you are condemned. In the name of the gods, your soul will be cast into the void!"
The strike force raised their voices in prayer, a chorus that seemed to make the very stones of Greywick tremble. Light poured from their blades and armor, each knight becoming a beacon in the night.
Blaze lifted his hand, and the cursed ring pulsed. Shadows surged in reply.
"Kill them."
The street exploded into carnage.
Kael hurled himself into the knights, his claws sparking against their shields. He tore one from the line, but three blades slashed into him at once, leaving burning gouges across his chest. He roared, fury drowning the pain, and drove his claws into a knight's visor, dragging him down in a spray of blood.
Garrick swung his axe in a wild arc that split two shields apart, but holy fire spilled across his arms. His flesh hissed and bubbled, smoke rising as he howled—but he did not stop. Instead, he brought his axe down on the knight's helm, cleaving it and the head within in two.
Asha's wolves leapt, only to yelp as searing light burned their fur. Snarling, she darted in herself, her claws raking against the knights' armor. One staggered, and her fangs sank into his throat, blood spilling hot down her chin.
Seren struck from above, knives descending like falling stars. Two knights fell before they even saw him, their throats cut, their blood caught in her waiting chalice.
But then the Dawnbreaker moved.
His sword carved through the night like sunrise itself. One sweep of his blade incinerated three wolves in a flash of golden fire. Another swing crashed against Kael, flinging the wolf-blooded vampire through a stone wall. Kael's body crumpled, twitching, smoke rising from his wounds.
Garrick roared and charged, his axe raised high. The Dawnbreaker caught it with one hand, the flames around his sword surging to melt the steel. Garrick's eyes widened as his weapon crumbled to slag in his grip. A flaming boot smashed into his chest, sending him sprawling onto his back.
The Dawnbreaker raised his sword high. "Fall, abominations!"
The blade came down.
But shadows surged.
Blaze caught the strike with his bare hand, shadows coiling around the Dawnbreaker's sword. The steel hissed as unholy dark clashed against consecrated fire, sparks showering the street. For a moment, the two forces hung in balance—light and darkness straining against each other.
The Dawnbreaker snarled. "You… are nothing but a mistake, a parasite of an old evil! The gods themselves have decreed your extinction!"
Blaze's crimson eyes glowed brighter, his fangs flashing. "Then let them come. I'll drink their blood, too."
The Dawnbreaker shoved forward, light flaring, forcing Blaze back a step. But Blaze did not relent. Instead, he whispered, his voice curling into the knight's mind. "Do you fear it, Avelar? That flicker in your heart? That whisper that perhaps… your gods cannot save you here?"
The Dawnbreaker's jaw tightened. For a heartbeat, the light around him dimmed.
And in that heartbeat, Blaze struck.
Shadows erupted like a tidal wave, swallowing the street, smothering the torches, suffocating the holy glow. Screams rose as knights found themselves blinded, their prayers faltering. The Dawnbreaker roared, swinging wildly, his blade cutting through shadows but never finding Blaze.
Then a hand seized his wrist, cold as death.
Blaze's fangs sank deep into the gap of the Dawnbreaker's helm. Hot blood poured into his mouth—radiant, powerful, laced with holy resistance that burned his throat as he swallowed. It seared like fire and ice, but he drank deeper, his body trembling with the rush of strength.
The Dawnbreaker howled, trying to pull free. But Blaze's grip was unbreakable. The champion's knees buckled, his light sputtering, his prayers dying.
When Blaze finally released him, Ser Avelar collapsed, his once-radiant armor dulled, his eyes glassy with broken faith.
Blaze wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand.
"Dawn breaks," he whispered, "only to be swallowed by night."
He crushed the man's spirit with a final gaze, leaving him a husk—alive, but shattered. A warning.
The remaining knights faltered. Their formation broke entirely. Some tried to flee; Seren's knives cut them down before they could escape. Asha and Kael—already staggering back to their feet—dragged wounded paladins into alleys, their screams muffled. Garrick, laughing through the pain, pinned one beneath his boot and drank until there was nothing left.
Within minutes, the second wave was broken. Greywick belonged once again to the night.
Silence fell.
The citizens of Greywick peeked from their windows. They saw paladin corpses burning on the cobblestones. They saw wolves dragging armored men into shadows. And above it all, they saw him—Blaze Carter, standing tall, blood staining his lips, his shadow stretching like a crown.
Their whispers began anew.
"The Vampire Lord…"
"The Nameless Shadow…"
"The Crimson King…"
Blaze turned, crimson eyes scanning his court. Kael bled but lived. Garrick wheezed, grinning through the burns. Asha licked blood from her claws, her wolves limping but not gone. Seren stood untouched, his gaze sharp as always.
A bloody, hard-won victory. But a victory nonetheless.
Blaze raised his hand, and the shadows curled around his throne of darkness.
"Greywick stands. Let the Church come again. Let them bleed themselves dry at my gates."
His voice rolled through the night like a decree.
"This city is mine. And the Light will drown in my shadow."
The night answered him with silence. And for the first time, Greywick felt truly claimed.