The city of Stonecross hadn't seen a spectacle like this in decades. Its cobbled streets, usually a grim gray under a constant layer of dust from beastfolk caravans, had been completely transformed. Banners of white and gold draped from every archway, each emblazoned with the Church's crest—a burning sun held in the hands of angels. Bells pealed from the cathedral spires, a relentless, deafening clamor that made the very stones of the city tremble.
And the people came. Humans from the border farms, beastfolk merchants too cowed to resist the Church's decree, even a few wandering mercenaries—all pressed shoulder to shoulder, a dense, breathless mass hoping to glimpse the parade.
A herald, his voice raw but full of a desperate fervor, bellowed over the din: "The Heroes of Light! Chosen of the gods, saviors of mankind!"
The great city gates creaked open, groaning on their ancient hinges, and the procession began.
First came the paladins, their polished plate armor flashing like a hundred mirrors in the sun. Holy runes shimmered across their shields, and their synchronized steps struck the ground in a rhythm as precise as a clock. Priests followed, swinging heavy censers that bled incense into the air, a cloying, sweet perfume meant to mask the stench of the unwashed masses.
Then, at last, came the heroes themselves. The classmates.
They walked in pairs, each of them seeming to glow as if blessed twice over. Elias Thorne led the charge, tall and golden-haired, his white plate traced with veins of gold. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as he raised his sword, its edge wreathed in a fire that danced but didn't consume. "The Flame of Dawn," the priests called him, and children screamed his name as if he were a saint come to life.
Beside him walked Selene D'Arvis, robed in shimmering silver and blue. Ribbons of water coiled around her hands, trailing like living serpents. "The Ocean's Grace," they whispered, recognizing the healer and mage. Beastfolk mothers clutched their sick children, pushing them forward in a silent plea for her to glance their way. She didn't.
Further back was Marcus Veyl, his black armor etched with glowing runes. A warhammer was slung casually over one shoulder. "The Shield of Faith," he was called, though his smirk was more wolf than guardian. At his side, Isolde Rynn, her hair a cascade of spun silver, her whitewood bow held loosely across her back. She ignored the crowd entirely, her sharp, aloof gaze fixed on something only she could see. She was the "Moon's Arrow," who never missed.
More followed, each given a grand title, each blessed with a powerful artifact, each bathing in the adoration of the crowd.
And above the cheers and the worship, a single name was whispered—not with praise, but with a hiss.
Blaze Carter.
The failure. The useless one. The boy rejected by gods and abandoned by fate.
"The Crimson Shadow," some spat.
"The Nameless Vampire Lord."
"Once our classmate," a woman whispered to another, her voice laced with fear and disgust. "Now a monster."
The irony was sharp enough to cut.
Amidst the holy parade, laughter and casual arrogance simmered just beneath the polished, righteous veneer. Marcus leaned close to Elias, his voice carrying easily over the roar of the crowd. "All this for us? Makes me wonder why we even bothered with school back home."
Elias smirked, the flames on his sword licking harmlessly as he waved to the cheering masses. "The gods always intended us for greater things. That… other one was the mistake."
"Blaze," Isolde said flatly, the name like ash on her tongue. "Don't even pretend to forget it. He's the whole reason we're here."
Selene's smile never wavered, though her eyes flickered toward the silent beastfolk in the crowd instead of her peers. "It hardly matters. If the reports are true, he's already half a corpse. Some desperate creature clinging to scraps of power."
"Then why's the Church making such a fuss?" Marcus muttered, his tone more eager than doubtful. "If he bleeds, I'll find out myself."
Just behind them, a younger classmate, one of the quieter ones named Hana Iori, hesitated as she caught the whispers from the crowd. Not of praise, but of fear. Stories of drained bodies and children vanishing in the night. Her fingers clenched around her staff. She glanced at Elias. "Don't you think… we should know why he turned? Maybe the Church—"
Elias cut her off with a look sharp enough to still her tongue. "The Church speaks for the gods. And the gods have judged him unworthy. Do not question divine will."
The others nodded, some with solemn reverence, some with detached indifference. Hana lowered her gaze, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line.
The parade wound its way through the main square, where a massive platform had been built. A bishop stood waiting, a figure of pure light that seemed to bend around him. His voice carried like a clap of thunder: "People of Stonecross! Behold the chosen! Behold the heroes sent to guard you against the night!"
The crowd roared, a wave of human sound. But some of the beastfolk murmured in silence, their ears flat against their heads, tails tucked tight. To them, "heroes" meant only more chains, more taxes, more blood spilled for human gods.
Elias mounted the platform with practiced, effortless grace. He raised his flaming blade high, his voice ringing out to the far corners of the square. "The shadows will not endure. The vampire who dares crawl from darkness will be struck down by my hand. The gods have decreed it. His reign ends before it begins."
The crowd thundered its approval. Children threw flowers. Women wept with relief.
And somewhere, far from the cheering and the light, in the suffocating depth of shadows where no sun could reach, Blaze Carter's name spread like a curse.
The march of the heroes had begun.
The great bells of Stonecross had barely ceased their deafening clang when the heroes were ushered through the towering doors of the cathedral. Inside, the air shifted, the world outside with its roaring crowd and sunlit pageantry gone in an instant. Here, the light came not from the sun but from a thousand candles and rune-etched braziers that burned with a pale, smokeless flame. The heavy doors boomed shut, and the cheers outside became only a muffled, distant murmur.
Frescoes of angels trampling shadowy beasts under gilded feet loomed on the walls. The saints' eyes, cold and judging, seemed to follow the newcomers, measuring their worth in the sudden quiet.
At the far end of the vast nave stood a figure draped in layered vestments of crimson and white. His head was shaven smooth, his face lined with age but sharp as a hawk's. This was Bishop Marrow, the Church's voice in the borderlands. His presence wasn't a holy warmth but something sterner, harder—the authority of a man who spoke, and armies obeyed.
"Heroes of the Light," he intoned. His voice resonated across the stone chamber, commanding and absolute. "The gods smile on your arrival. You come not a moment too soon."
The classmates knelt, or at least most of them did. Elias lowered his flame-wreathed blade and sank to his knees with easy reverence. Selene followed, graceful as ever. Marcus sank half-heartedly, more of a crouch than a bow. Isolde did not kneel but bowed her head just enough to be respectful. Hana hesitated for a moment, then mirrored Elias, sinking to her knees with a quiet rustle of her robes.
Marrow's sharp eyes flickered over them, weighing and calculating. He gestured, and a handful of priests scurried forward with scrolls and reports, laying them on the great altar.
"You have seen the adoration of the people," Marrow said. "But behind their cheers lies fear. Fear of the shadow that festers in Greywick."
At the name, the air in the cathedral seemed to grow colder.
"Reports of drained corpses," Marrow continued, his voice dropping slightly. "Entire alleys emptied of life. Criminals whispering of a lord in crimson shadows. We know this corruption's name." His lips curled with a mix of disdain and contempt. "Blaze Carter."
Elias rose, fire licking along his sword, his voice ringing with pure conviction. "The gods rejected him at the summoning. That alone proves his guilt. If he has clawed back power, it is by unholy means. We will burn it out."
"Spoken like the Flame you are," Marrow said with a hint of approval. "And yet do not underestimate him. He wears the relic of the Vampire King. The ring was thought sealed forever. Its return is an omen the Church cannot ignore."
Selene's brow furrowed slightly, though her voice remained calm. "A ring does not make a king. If he clings to cursed power, then he will fall all the swifter."
Marrow's gaze lingered on her, then drifted across them all. "Complacency is a greater foe than any vampire. The Nameless Lord has already slain paladins, assassins, even priests. Do not think yourselves immune. His hunger is endless. His will is poison."
He snapped his fingers. A priest unrolled a scroll, revealing a series of rough sketches and reports on what was called Blaze's Court: Kael's wolfish form, Garrick's scarred frame, and the whispers of a girl named Asha leading packs of feral spawn.
Hana's eyes widened. "He… he has followers? Spawns?"
"An army," Marrow confirmed, his voice hard. "And growing by the night. That is why we name you not merely students, not even warriors, but Heroes of the Light. Each of you bears a mantle, a gift. Together, you are the gods' chosen blade."
He moved down the line, addressing each of them in turn.
"To Elias, Flame of Dawn—you are the sword's edge, the burning judgment."
"To Selene, Ocean's Grace—you are the balm that restores, the tide that cleanses."
"To Marcus, Shield of Faith—you are the wall that will not yield."
"To Isolde, Moon's Arrow—you are the eye of the gods, the strike that never falters."
Finally, he stopped before Hana. "And you, Whisper of Spring, are the breath of renewal. Do not doubt your gift."
Hana flinched at the title, her grip on her staff tightening. Marcus snorted under his breath. "Whisper of Spring? Sounds like a garden, not a warrior."
Elias shot him a quick look, but Marrow ignored the remark completely.
"The Church gives you charge," Marrow said, his voice rising and echoing against the stone walls. "You will march into beastfolk lands. You will cut the corruption at its root. You will bring us the vampire's head."
The classmates straightened, a familiar mix of pride and arrogance gleaming in their eyes. Some with zeal, others with a confident indifference. But none of them showed hesitation—except for Hana, whose unease lingered like a faint chill.
Marrow gestured to the scrolls again. "Know this—Blaze Carter is no longer the useless boy you remember. He is cunning. He strikes with terror, not brute strength. But in the end, he is a shadow."
He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, his voice sharp as a blade.
"And shadows always die before the light."
The heroes left the cathedral with their heads held high, armored in pride as much as steel. Outside, the cheers still echoed, but inside, the bishop's words clung to them like a vow. Blaze was marked. The hunt had truly begun.
The city of Stonecross became a receding memory behind them, its bells and banners swallowed by the horizon. Now the road stretched on like a scar across the countryside—cobbled at first, then fading into rough, cracked dirt. Fields gave way to sparse woodland, and beyond that, wild hills rose like jagged teeth. The beastfolk borderlands weren't tame or softened by empire law. Every mile farther from Stonecross felt like stepping into a throat that would close behind them.
Elias rode at the front, his crimson cape streaming in the wind, his blade strapped across his back. He was the very image of a hero—the sun striking off his polished armor, his posture perfect. Farmers who glimpsed the group on the road whispered blessings, kneeling as they passed.
"Look at them," Marcus chuckled, riding slightly behind him. "Bowing like we're gods already."
"Do not mock their faith," Selene said coolly, her hands folded primly in her lap as she sat her horse. "If the people lose belief, we lose strength. Their prayers flow to us."
Marcus rolled his eyes. "Their prayers don't stop a spear in the gut. Only steel does that."
"Steel without faith breaks," Selene replied without even looking at him.
The two locked eyes for a heartbeat before Elias cleared his throat. "Enough. The bishop gave us purpose. We march with one will—to end the vampire before his rot spreads farther."
Isolde, riding at the rear with her bow slung across her back, gave a soft laugh. "You sound like you're reciting scripture. You sure you're not aiming to be a bishop yourself, Elias?"
"I aim only to do what must be done," Elias said, but the pride was clear in the set of his jaw.
Hana, the smallest among them, rode quietly in the middle, her staff strapped to her pack. She watched the fields pass by—farmers working with heads bowed, children peeking from behind fences, and old women clutching rosaries of bone and wood. Their faces were not joyful like the cheering crowd of Stonecross. These faces were weary, hollow. Fear lived in their eyes.
She whispered before she even realized she had spoken aloud. "They look… drained."
Selene turned toward her, a practiced, serene smile on her face. "They live under the shadow of Greywick. Once we purge it, they will smile again."
"Or they'll bow to the next lord that takes its place," Isolde murmured, almost too softly to hear.
Marcus barked a laugh. "Spoken like a cynic. What's next? You think Blaze isn't even the real problem?"
Isolde shrugged, her eyes scanning the treeline. "Problems breed problems. Cut off one head, two more grow back. You should know that, Marcus."
The conversation dwindled after that, the rhythm of hoofbeats carrying them into the wild hills.
At dusk, they made camp. The air here was colder, the wind slicing through the valley. Elias drove his sword into the ground, its faint flame warding off the gathering dark. Selene set wards with soft prayers, shimmering domes of pale blue light encircling their camp.
Marcus dozed against a tree, his shield at his side. Isolde crouched by the fire, sharpening her arrows with deliberate, rhythmic strokes. Hana sat apart, staring at the hungry flames.
She kept thinking of the bishop's words: Shadows always die before the light. It should have comforted her. Instead, she kept remembering Blaze—the quiet boy in the academy who had walked three steps behind everyone else, who had never spoken unless spoken to, who had endured their mocking with silence.
He had not been cruel. He had not been arrogant. Only… overlooked.
And now the Church painted him as a monster, the Nameless Lord. She wanted to believe them, to accept the easy truth. But some stubborn ember of doubt flickered in her gut.
"Lost in thought again?" Isolde's voice cut through the quiet. The archer sat cross-legged, her whitewood bow across her knees. "You frown too much, Hana. Makes you look older."
"I'm not—" Hana shook her head. "I was just… remembering."
Isolde's sharp eyes studied her. Then she leaned in, lowering her voice. "Tell me. Did Blaze ever strike you as dangerous?"
Hana's lips parted, but no sound came. At last she said softly, "No. Only sad."
Isolde's mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite. "Sad men can become dangerous, given reason."
Before Hana could reply, Elias stood. His presence filled the camp, commanding. "Rest. Tomorrow we cross into beastfolk lands. There, we face more than whispers. We face claws, fangs, and worse. Keep your weapons close."
The fire crackled. The wind howled through the valley like a voice in mourning. And in the distance, far past the hills, shadows stirred in Greywick—as if the land itself had heard the heroes' march.
By dawn, the group rode on, the border drawing near. Beastfolk territory awaited—and with it, the first threads of Blaze's web.
The hunt had truly begun, and neither light nor shadow would turn back now.