The carpentry shop was a blurring memory of sawdust and cedar, replaced now by the metallic tang of terror and the rhythmic, desperate slap of boots on hard-packed dirt. They didn't stop at their home. They didn't grab supplies. In this world, to stop was to let the shadow of the Abyssal Gang swallow you whole.
Kennedy didn't look back. His lungs burned, each breath a jagged blade in his chest, but his pace never faltered. He had let go of Ezeikel's hand—not out of neglect, but because they both needed their arms to pump, to drive their desperate flight toward the town's edge.
"We'll hit the border!" Kennedy barked, the words mangled by his gasping breath. "We'll cross into Wilston if we have to!"
"Dad, stop!" Ezeikel managed, his voice cracking. "The gangs there—they'll gut us for trespassing! We're jumping from the pan into the fire!"
"Who told you that?" Kennedy snapped, though his eyes darted nervously. "Those people... they want workers. They want talent. You have hands that can build, Ezeikel. They'd take us in."
They'd take us in as slaves, Ezeikel thought, but the protest died in his throat. He looked at his father's back—the slumped shoulders of a man trying to outrun his own insignificance.
"Wilston is the last resort," Kennedy added, his voice dropping as if trying to soothe a spooked horse. "As long as the Rumbling stays in the district, we're safe. Just a little further."
They scrambled past the skeletal remains of run-down enclosures, their legs aching with a dull, throbbing heat. Finally, the buildings thinned. The open wasteland of the outskirts laid bare before them. Kennedy skidded to a halt, raising a trembling, sweat-slicked hand.
They weren't alone.
A sea of pale, gaunt faces greeted them. At least a hundred vampires had the same idea—huddled like cattle at a slaughterhouse gate, staring back at the town they were too terrified to truly leave.
"See?" Kennedy wheezed, leaning his hands on his knees. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though it didn't reach his hollow eyes. "We're safe. We made it."
Ezeikel didn't smile. He watched the horizon, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Safe? Dad, we're cornered."
"We wait," Kennedy whispered. "We wait and pray that devil finds enough blood in the center of town to satisfy him."
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the collective, ragged breathing of a hundred refugees. Then, the reality of the morning finally pierced Ezeikel's shock. His eyes blurred.
"The Abyssal Gang... they're really doing it? They're just... erasing people?"
Kennedy sighed, a sound full of old, tired bones. "This is the world, Ezeikel. We live by the grace of monsters. The 'Rumbling' isn't a war; it's a harvest." He turned, his gaze hardening. "Yesterday, you were a lion. You talked about the Royals, about dying on your feet, about vengeance. Where is that boy now?"
Ezeikel flinched, looking down at his boots.
"I see it in your knees, son. They're shaking," Kennedy said, his voice a mix of pity and pragmatism. "You don't want to die. You want to live. Remember that the next time you dream of being a hero. Heroes are just the first ones to get buried."
The fire of Ezeikel's hatred hadn't gone out—it had just gone underground, smoldering beneath a thick layer of cold terror.
Suddenly, the shifting murmurs of the crowd died. A man nearby, his hairline receding and face slick with sweat, pointed a trembling finger toward the town.
A dot. Small, dark, and moving with impossible, predatory speed.
Kennedy's breath hitched. Supreme Sovereign... please.
"There they are," a voice drifted over the wind, smooth as silk and sharp as a razor.
Darion didn't run into the crowd; he arrived. One moment the space was empty, the next, a shroud of crimson light dissipated to reveal him. He began a casual stroll through the parting sea of vampires, his boots clicking rhythmically on the stone.
He stopped, his gaze drifting over the "malnourished youngster" in the dirt.
Don't look up. Don't look up, Ezeikel chanted internally, staring so hard at a pebble that his vision began to swim. He hated Darion. He hated the way the man smelled of expensive wine and old blood. He hated that he was currently paralyzed by the very air Darion breathed.
Darion tilted his head back, looking at the grey, sunless sky.
"It was so simple," Darion mused, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment. "I told you all: never lay a finger on her. I even gave you a demonstration. You fear the Abyssal Gang. You pay your coins. You bow your heads. You do everything right to see tomorrow."
He shifted his weight, his eyes suddenly flashing with a predatory light.
"But then, you got brave. You laid your filthy hands on her. And then... you murdered her."
One Year Earlier...
The air in Fluxton always smelled of rot and desperate ambition. Darion walked the streets in fitted leather, the insignia of the Abyssal Gang catching the dim light. It was collection day—the day the town held its breath.
He stopped at a small clothing stall. An old man sat there, weaving a colorful garment and whistling a tune that felt too cheerful for a place like this.
"Darion," the old man said, scrambling to his feet and bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the wood.
"The tribute," Darion said, his voice flat.
The old man didn't move. He stayed bowed, but his shoulders began to shake. Slowly, he sank to his knees, his hands clasped in a prayer.
"Please... the new stalls... they took the business. I have half. Just half! Next month, I'll double it, I swear on my soul—"
CRACK.
Darion's movement was a blur. The old man didn't even have time to scream before he was airborne, his body slamming into the back wall of the stall with a sickening thud. He slumped over, a spray of crimson painting the fabrics he had spent all morning weaving.
A woman emerged from the back—his wife, her face a map of wrinkles and sudden, piercing grief. She didn't run to him. She knew better. She dropped to her knees right where she stood, her forehead hitting the dirt as the first sob broke from her throat.
Darion! Please!"
The woman's voice was a jagged glass shard, cutting through the humid air of the market. "Spare him! We'll find the coin, I swear it. Take the shop—take everything! We'll sleep in the gutters, just let him breathe!"
A few feet away, a merchant continued weighing grain. A group of children played a game with stones in the shadow of an alley. No one looked up. In Fluxton, a plea for mercy was merely background noise, like the buzzing of flies over offal. To interfere was to volunteer for the next grave.
Darion didn't speak. He watched her with a look of mild, clinical boredom. Then, his lips curled. It wasn't a smile; it was the baring of teeth.
With a casual flick of his wrist, a crescent of crimson light hissed through the air.
There was no struggle. Just a wet, heavy thud as the woman's head struck the floorboards, her eyes still wide with a plea that no longer had a throat to carry it. The fine silks and linens of the stall were instantly ruined, soaked in a dark, spreading bloom of red.
The curtain at the back of the shop rustled. A young girl stepped out, her boots clicking softly before she froze. She took in the scene in a series of horrific snapshots: her father, slumped against the wall with his jaw shattered into a red ruin; her mother, now a headless mannequin draped over her own merchandise.
The girl didn't scream. She inhaled—a long, shuddering draw of air that rattled in her chest. Her eyes locked onto Darion. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking at her as if she were a curious piece of art he was considering buying.
"You..." she whispered. Her gaze darted, settling on a pincushion bristling with long, steel tailoring needles.
She didn't hesitate. She lunged over the counter, a wild, desperate snarl tearing from her throat. She swung the needles with enough force to kill a man—but Darion wasn't a man.
He caught her wrist in mid-air. His grip was like a vice of cold iron. He didn't even flinch.
"A feisty one," he murmured, his eyes scanning her face, her form, the fire in her pupils. "You have spirit. Most of the cattle here just wait for the bolt."
"Monster! Bastard!" She thrashed, her boots kicking uselessly against his shins.
He shoved her back into the stall. She hit the wall hard, the breath leaving her in a pathetic wheeze. As she scrambled to find her footing, Darion stepped into the shop, his presence darkening the small space.
"I like you," he said, and for the first time, his voice carried a genuine, terrifying warmth. "You're exactly what I've been looking for. You belong to me now."
The girl looked up, a manic laugh bubbling out of her. "Yours? I'd rather rot. I'd rather the Sovereign take my soul than spend a second in your shadow!"
She snatched up a fallen needle, aiming it straight for her own throat. She was fast, but Darion was a shadow. He caught her hand inches from her skin.
"I didn't give you permission to die," he said, his grin widening.
She spat directly into his eye.
Darion didn't flinch. He didn't strike her. He wiped the saliva away with his free hand, his expression shifting from sadistic glee to something unnervingly soft. He let go of her, stepping back to give her air.
"I apologize," he said quietly. "For hurting you."
The girl stared at him, her sanity fraying at the edges. She looked at her father, who was still wheezing, his chest fluttering with the weak pulse of the living.
"Heal him," she rasped. "Get him a doctor. Now."
Darion tilted his head. "On one condition."
The girl's nails dug into her palms until she drew blood. She knew the answer before he spoke it. The world felt like it was tilting, the floorboards turning to water beneath her feet.
"Become my wife," Darion said. "And I will make sure he never wants for anything again."
The girl looked at her mother's body, then at her father's broken face. The fire in her eyes didn't go out; it simply turned to ash. She fell to her knees in her mother's blood, her arms reaching out as if to catch a memory that was already gone.
"... I am yours," she whispered, the words hollow and dead.
"And your name, beautiful?"
"Rachel," she croaked. "Rachel Welson."
Present Day
The memory broke over Darion like a fever. He stood before the shivering crowd at the edge of town, his body trembling with a grief that had fermented into madness.
A high, thin laugh broke from his lips. The vampires huddled on the ground pressed their faces into the dirt, their tears mixing with the dust.
"The rules say I should only kill a hundred," Darion said, drawing a crimson rapier from the air itself. The blade hummed with a sick, rhythmic light. "But Raphael doesn't understand. He didn't lose her. You people... you took her."
He stepped forward, the light of his blade reflecting in the wide, terrified eyes of his victims.
"Killing you won't bring her back," he whispered, his face twisting into a mask of pure agony. "But it will make the silence a little quieter."
He moved.
He wasn't a warrior; he was a whirlwind. The rapier moved with surgical, heartless precision. The first man didn't even realize he was dead until his head rolled past his own knees. Darion glided through the crowd, a dancer in a ballroom of meat and bone.
Ezeikel watched from the dirt. He tried to move, but his muscles had turned to lead. He watched a woman he recognized from the market get opened from shoulder to hip. He watched the light leave the eyes of a dozen people in seconds.
His hatred, once so loud, was now a tiny, whimpering thing.
"Rachel..." Darion muttered, his clothes now heavy and wet with the spray of his kin. "May your soul find peace in their screams."