The hall stank faintly of iron and smoke, a constant reminder of the battle that had remade Greywick. Torches flickered in their sconces, their flames painting jagged, dancing shadows against the rough stone walls. At the far end of the chamber, Blaze sat on his throne, one elbow on the armrest, his fingers idly tracing the cursed ring that pulsed faintly against his skin. His court stood before him, each one summoned by his will to report and receive orders.
On the table at their center lay a spread of maps—hand-drawn charts of trade routes, merchant paths, and the hastily sketched lines of the church's encampment. Pins and markers littered the parchment like festering wounds upon flesh.
Garrick, broad-shouldered and wolfish even before the blood curse had sharpened him into something more, leaned forward, his claws tapping restlessly against the wood. "The church feeds its heroes like fattened calves," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "Caravans every few days, priests blessing the wagons, paladins guarding them. If we strike now, we can tear out their supply lines in one sweep."
Ledo snorted. The gang boss's thin frame and nervous eyes were a sharp contrast to Garrick's brute force, but he had survived in Greywick's gutters for years. Fear had made him cunning. "One sweep, and every paladin between here and the empire will come swarming like hornets. Better to bleed them slowly, eh? Hit one wagon here, another there. Let them choke on their own fear."
Asha stood opposite him, her arms crossed. Her wolf-blood heritage made her presence sharp and predatory, even before Blaze had turned her. The flick of her tail betrayed her impatience. "You argue like thieves bickering over scraps. Blaze isn't asking whether to strike. He is asking how."
Her golden eyes slid to Blaze, waiting.
Blaze sat silently for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the maps. He could hear them—the faint thrum of fear in the city beyond his hall, the whispers that carried his name into taverns and alleys. Already, Greywick bent beneath his shadow. But the church, the empire, and his former classmates… they still breathed too easily.
He lifted his head, his crimson eyes gleaming like embers. "Not one sweep. Not one loud strike. That is what they expect from monsters—screaming, gnashing, a single violent rush." His lips curved in something between amusement and disdain. "We are not beasts. We are hunters."
The word hung in the hall like a drawn blade.
He rose, walking slowly toward the map. The others shifted instinctively aside as he approached, though none dared step too far. Blaze's hand hovered over the pins, then descended on a line marking a road that wound from the empire to the encampment.
"Here," he murmured. "And here. And here." His finger tapped three points along the route. "We strike them in pieces. A caravan vanishes on one road. A wagon limps home on another, its driver babbling of shadows that whispered his name. We leave survivors when it suits us—not out of mercy, but so they spread the tale."
Ledo's grin widened, his yellow teeth glinting in the torchlight. "A story spreads quicker than blood in water. I can see it now—the soldiers too afraid to march at night, the merchants demanding triple coin just to travel. Fear fattens faster than bellies."
"Fear breaks before steel does," Blaze said simply, his gaze shifting to Asha. "You will lead the first strike. Take two spawn and bleed the caravan near the Whispering Pines. Leave one survivor—preferably a priest."
Asha's tail swished, her smile sharp and feral. "It will be done."
Blaze turned to Garrick. "You and your pack take the western path. Cripple their wagons, but do not kill all. Drag it out. I want paladins crawling back to their camp with broken shields and shattered faith."
Garrick bared his teeth in approval. "They will crawl. I'll make sure of it."
"And Ledo," Blaze said last, his tone dropping like a knife, "you will remain in Greywick. Your networks are the veins of this city. Spread the whispers. Make sure every drunk, every whore, every beggar knows the Devil of Greywick feeds when he wishes. Let the story grow faster than the blade."
Ledo swallowed, bowing quickly. "Aye, aye, my lord. No one runs gossip better than me."
Blaze studied them, his crimson gaze burning into each one. "Do not mistake me. This is not chaos. This is design. Every scream, every body left in the mud, every whisper of my name—it is all a weapon. The church thinks to wield light against me? Let them try to burn shadows. Shadows multiply when light falters."
Silence fell. Even the torch flames seemed to hesitate, their light dimming in deference.
At last, Asha bowed low, her voice a near-growl. "We will bring back their fear, my lord."
Blaze returned to his throne, sinking into it with a calm that chilled more than any roar could. He let his hand fall against the armrest, the cursed ring pulsing once.
Already, he could imagine the ripples—the wagons overturned, the survivors babbling, the priests trembling as they whispered his name. A war fought in shadows and whispers, one that the church could never win with swords alone.
For a long moment, Blaze simply listened to the silence of his court, savoring it.
Then, softly, he spoke the command that would set the hunt in motion: "Begin."
The first caravan never arrived.
At dawn, the watchmen at the hero camp had scanned the horizon for the dust plumes of wagons, their faces placid with the certainty of a well-supplied army. By noon, that placidity had soured. Priests began pacing, murmuring that the convoy was blessed and should have been safe. By dusk, only silence answered.
The second caravan limped back three days later—horses foaming at the mouth, wheels splintered, half the wagons burned to ash. The driver stumbled into camp, his clothes shredded and sticky with blood, his eyes glassy with terror.
"They whispered," he muttered again and again as priests tried to rouse him. His fingers dug into his scalp until they bled. "The shadows… they whispered my name. Said my sins aloud. Said Blaze Carter would drink me dry." When they finally pulled him away, his sobs echoed through the camp like a dirge.
The effects spread quickly.
Merchants who once boasted of fat purses now refused to leave town without triple their pay, if they dared leave at all. Blacksmiths turned away orders for replacement swords and armor, saying the roads were cursed. Rumors trickled into the camp—peasants muttering of wagons overturned, priests vanishing, and crimson eyes watching from the treeline.
By the fifth night, the whispers had reached even the lowest foot soldiers. At the firesides, men muttered about leaving before their throats were torn out. Mercenaries demanded coin in advance, their hands shaking as they recounted stories of comrades drained and discarded.
Even the paladins grew taut with unease. One was found at dawn, kneeling in the mud, repeating a prayer until his lips bled. He had been among the survivors of the second caravan. His words were broken, but the message was clear:
"The Devil hunts us. The Devil knows us."
In the center pavilion, the classmates gathered again, their faces tight with fatigue and frayed nerves.
"They're stories," Marcus said, though his voice lacked conviction. He had to be right. Blaze couldn't be everywhere at once. "He can't be. It's tricks, lies."
"Tricks that work," Aiden snapped. He slammed a dagger into the map on the table, straight through one of the caravan lines. "Half our supply lines are cut. The other half are strangled by fear. Do you call that nothing?"
Mira sat apart, silent. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed red from sleepless nights. She had spoken less since the bishop's proclamation, her thoughts a storm she did not voice, a secret she couldn't bear to reveal.
Another classmate, Talia—the one blessed with water magic—spoke softly, almost to herself. "They say he leaves survivors on purpose. That he wants us to hear the stories. That… he wants us afraid."
"He's succeeding," Aiden muttered, running a hand through his hair.
The high priest slammed his staff against the floor, silencing the tent. His robes gleamed white in the lantern-light, though his eyes looked sunken, rimmed with dark circles. "You speak as though fear is greater than faith. The gods arm us with light, and light scatters shadow. Do not falter."
Marcus seized the words like a lifeline. "Exactly. We march straight into Greywick, burn it out, and cut off this madness at the root. Enough waiting."
"No," Aiden barked. He jabbed a finger at the map, his face a mask of fury. "That's exactly what he wants. He's pulling us there, bleeding us on the way, waiting for us to stumble. He doesn't need to fight us all at once if he can starve us."
The priest's staff struck the ground again. "Silence. Your bickering is his victory."
But even as he spoke, a commotion erupted outside.
The flap of the pavilion burst open. A scout staggered in, clutching his side where blood dripped between his fingers. His voice was hoarse, ragged.
"They came… they came from the dark." He collapsed onto the ground, gasping, "Elias. It was Elias."
The room froze.
The priest's face blanched. "Speak sense, boy. Elias is gone."
The scout lifted his head, his eyes wide and wet. "He was there. In the trees. His eyes—red, like fire in the dark. He led them. He tore through us like—like—" His words dissolved into a sob.
Mira shot to her feet, trembling. "No…"
The scout's voice cracked as he forced the final words out. "He killed them. Then he looked at me. Said my name. Told me to run back and tell you."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Every breath in the tent seemed to stop.
Marcus was the first to speak, his voice hoarse but sharp. "Then it's true. Blaze turned him."
No one argued.
Mira collapsed back into her chair, her hands covering her face. The sound of her quiet sobbing filled the tent.
That night, the camp felt different. The priests preached louder, their voices strained, their sermons frantic. Soldiers gathered in tighter knots around fires, their hands never far from their blades. Every whisper of wind made men reach for their weapons.
Rumors grew more wild with every retelling. Some said Blaze could walk unseen through any shadow, striking from within a man's own tent. Others whispered he was immortal, that even holy fire could not kill him. A few, pale and trembling, swore they heard him call their names while they slept.
The church's authority faltered.
And above it all, Blaze's legend grew—not by his hand, but by theirs.
The air in the cold stone chamber beneath Greywick was thick with the scent of iron and the low hum of power. A map of the region stretched across a heavy table, marked with knives and crimson streaks where bustling trade routes once ran. At its center stood Blaze, his hand resting lightly on the cursed ring that thrummed with a steady pulse against his skin. Every crimson mark was a victory. Every knife, a slain caravan.
"Three caravans shattered," Ledo announced, leaning on the table with a nervous, awe-filled grin. He smelled faintly of sweat and cheap wine, a lingering hint of his days in the gutters. "Supplies are choking. The roads are locked down. The whole damned countryside is whispering about you."
Blaze's gaze slid toward him, sharp as broken glass. "Whispering what?"
Ledo's grin wavered, though he held it in place. "That you're everywhere. That you walk through shadows, that you can't be killed." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "That you're the Devil of Greywick."
A silence fell, deep and heavy.
Blaze let the words linger in the air like smoke. Devil of Greywick. He hadn't chosen the name himself, but perhaps that made it all the sweeter. He had planted the seeds of terror, and now, the mortals were tending them for him.
Asha, the wolf-blooded vampire, crossed her arms. Her amber eyes glowed faintly in the low candlelight, a predatory gleam in their depths. "A name is a weapon, my lord. They are forging one for you. Even their fear works in your favor."
Garrick, ever the soldier, grunted. His scarred face was unreadable, but his voice was a low current of iron. "It cuts both ways. The more they fear, the harder the church will strike. They won't let whispers become legends. They'll send their best."
Blaze's lips curled into a faint, cruel smile. "Good. Let them come."
Elias stood against the far wall, silent, his crimson eyes half-shielded beneath his dark hair. His presence was like a blade still dripping from a kill. The air around him seemed taut, dangerous.
Blaze's gaze lingered on him for a moment before turning back to the map. "You carried the message?"
Elias inclined his head. His voice was a low, steady rumble. "I let one live. He will not soon forget what he saw. Neither will those who hear him."
"Good." Blaze tapped a claw lightly against the map. "Stories travel faster than soldiers. Fear marches ahead of them, hollowing them out before they even raise their swords."
Ledo chuckled nervously. "I've heard the merchants in the taverns. They're terrified. They think you can read their sins. Some say your eyes burn through prayers. Even the priests flinch when your name is spoken."
Blaze leaned back from the table, his shadow stretching long behind him, a dark mirror of his growing power. "Then the hunt has begun properly. Not with battles, but with despair. I want them to question every shadow. To doubt every prayer. To break before they even face me."
The cursed ring pulsed against his skin, warm and coaxing. It whispered without words, feeding his hunger with visions—kingdoms kneeling, churches in flames, rivers of blood running beneath his throne. He did not reject it. Not tonight.
Instead, he turned his focus back to his lieutenants.
"Greywick must remain our fortress," he said. "The heart of the nest. But our reach must extend further. The church will rally, the heroes will march, and when they do, I want their path filled with corpses and silence."
Garrick stepped forward, his voice a steady stone. "What of the civilians? Too much pressure, and they may rise against us—or flee, leaving us without a base to bleed."
Blaze's eyes glimmered in the candlelight. "That is why the blood tax was measured. Enough to keep the thirst sated, not enough to empty them. They live because I allow it. And fear will keep them still."
Asha bared her fangs in a sharp grin. "Let me expand the hunts into the beastfolk border villages. Their fear of humans will make them pliable. If they whisper your name there, it will spread like wildfire."
Blaze nodded once. "Do it. Quietly. Do not burn the fields unless I command it. We sow dread, not chaos. Not yet."
For a long moment, silence hung in the chamber, broken only by the drip of water from some unseen crack in the stone. His lieutenants waited, watching him, caught between reverence and fear.
Blaze finally straightened, his shadow looming tall against the wall. His voice was quiet, but it carried like steel across the chamber.
"The church calls me Devil. The peasants whisper that I walk in their dreams. Let them. Fear is a blade sharper than any holy sword. And with it, I will carve a throne from their faith itself."
Elias's eyes flickered with something unreadable—pain, loyalty, perhaps both. But he bowed his head in silence. Ledo swallowed hard, sweat glistening at his brow. Even he, a man who served out of fear, seemed caught by the weight of Blaze's words. Asha bared her fangs in approval, her wolf-blood humming with pride.
And Garrick, ever the pragmatist, bowed his head slightly. "Then it begins."
Above them, the night spread across Greywick. In the taverns, whispers of the Devil of Greywick grew louder. Mothers hushed children with tales of crimson eyes in the dark. Priests doubled their prayers, their voices quivering. Merchants spoke of leaving, of abandoning the roads entirely.
But none of them left. Fear chained them more tightly than any coin ever could.
And in that silence, in that stillness, Blaze Carter's legend grew.
Not just as a vampire.
Not just as a shadow.
But as the Devil they themselves had named him.