The adrenaline that had sustained the square for hours began to evaporate, leaving behind a heavy, metallic stagnation. The silence was finally broken by the rhythmic thud of heavy boots as John, Savier, and Hemlock emerged from the shadows of the main thoroughfare.
The three vanguards came to a halt, their eyes scanning the carnage. They saw the headless remains of Patrick, Armal, and Quel, and the visceral evidence of Jay's "interrogation" of Pyrax. Without a word, John eased the mangled, unconscious body of Gunther off his shoulder, laying him gently on the stained cobbles. The three men knelt before Raphael, their heads bowed in a silent report of a hunt completed.
Raphael looked down at his men, then shifted his gaze to the pale, blood-masked face of Ezekiel Graves. The boy looked like a broken doll tossed aside by a bored child.
"He's still breathing," Savier reported, gesturing to Gunther. "As ordered."
Raphael's expression didn't soften. He looked at Gunther—the man who had played both sides and lost everything—and felt a flicker of boredom. "The boy is spent. There is no point in keeping a ghost alive." He turned his back. "Finish it."
Savier didn't hesitate. He stood, materialized a sleek blade of blood magic, and drove it through Gunther's chest in one clean, clinical motion. The last "King of Wilson" died without a sound, his body jerking once before falling still.
"Dispose of them," Raphael commanded, waving a hand toward the piles of corpses. "Toss the generals back across the border. Let Wilson bury its own failures."
As the soldiers of the Abyssal Gang began the grim work of hauling the bodies toward the outskirts, Darion stepped up beside Raphael. The warrior's eyes were already fixed on the horizon, toward the darkened, masterless streets of Wilson.
"When do we move?" Darion asked, his voice low and hungry. "The throne is empty. Wilson is ours for the taking."
Raphael paused, his gaze fixed on the flickering torches of his own town. He remained silent for a long time, the gears of a ruler's mind turning behind his crimson eyes.
"We don't," Raphael finally said.
Darion blinked, his brow furrowing. "But—"
"Think, Darion," Raphael interrupted, his voice sharp. "The West is a pit of vipers. Every gang in every neighboring town is watching us. If we expand now, we spread our forces thin. We are strong enough to hold Fluxton with an iron fist, but if we try to man two towns, we become pickings for the first ambitious fool with a hundred soldiers."
He sighed, the weight of leadership showing in the slight tension of his shoulders. He thought of the forty soldiers he had slaughtered earlier. He regretted the loss of the numbers—in Nefaria, bodies were the only true currency—but he didn't regret the kills. This wasn't like his rise against the Dark Kings; he couldn't risk a volatile, marked army of traitors at his back while he tried to conquer a new territory.
"In this kingdom," Raphael continued, "you are either a king of a fortress or a corpse in an empire. I will not lose what I have built because of greed. Wilson stays empty. Let the other gangs fight over the bones. We will remain whole."
He looked at Darion and the still-shaking Jay. "I need both of you by my side. If I sent you to Wilson, I would be vulnerable here. If I stayed here and sent you, you might find a reason to forget who wears the rings."
The logic was cold, human, and final. Raphael pointed to the unconscious Ezekiel. "Pick him up. We're going home."
Darion nodded, hoisting the boy's limp form over his shoulder. Jay followed at a distance, his mind a chaotic whirl of guilt and dread.
When the group reached the Abyssal Gang's base, the gates swung open to the cheers of the remaining soldiers. They bowed low as Raphael passed, their faces lit with the glow of a victory they hadn't even had to bleed for. Darion carried Ezekiel inside, placing him on a stone bench off to the side like a piece of salvaged equipment.
Raphael stopped at the threshold of his private estate. He didn't turn around, but the temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees. He gave Jay a single, sideways glance—a look of such icy promise that Jay visibly flinched.
"Jay," Raphael whispered. "Inside. Now."
Jay's face went ash-gray. He looked at the heavy oak doors of the estate, knowing that whatever awaited him behind them would make the battlefield look like a mercy. He swallowed hard and followed his brother into the dark.
...
The transition from the void of unconsciousness to the waking world was not a gentle one. When Ezekiel's eyes finally flickered open, he wasn't met by the open sky of the battlefield or the ruins of Wilson. Instead, he was back within the familiar, oppressive confines of the Abyssal Gang's outer compound.
He lay there for a moment, the memories of the border-side massacre rushing back in jagged fragments. He remembered the yellow light, the bleaching of his hair, and the terrifying sensation of his body threatening to tear itself apart under the strain of his own power. He clenched his fists, expecting a sharp agony, but found only a dull, persistent ache.
I'm still alive, he thought. His power had evidently spent the last few hours stitching him back together, but it was an incomplete job. He felt hollowed out, as if the marrow had been sucked from his bones.
I am glad my power restores itself, he projected toward the Voice, though his mental tone was devoid of gratitude. It was flat, dull, and dripping with a new, concentrated spite. He didn't want a "miraculous" recovery; he wanted the strength to not have collapsed in the first place.
The Voice remained silent, offering neither comfort nor critique. Ezekiel didn't care. He sat up slowly, his mind already drifting toward the future—not out of hope, but out of a desperate, gnawing need to find another life to reap. He needed more power. He needed to be the one holding the blade, not the one bleeding into the dirt.
Around him, the compound was alive with the mundane cruelty of the Abyssal Gang. Soldiers sparred with bone-breaking force, traded insults that carried the weight of threats, and laughed with the boisterousness of men who had just survived a war.
Eventually, the signal for the evening feast rang out.
Unlike the last time, Ezekiel hadn't been beaten into a pulp by the vanguards. He had the strength to stand, which meant he had the right to eat. It was then that a startling realization hit him: he hadn't consumed a single scrap of food or a drop of blood since he had officially joined the gang. His stolen powers had been sustaining him, fueled by the deaths of others, but now the tank was empty. His stomach let out a low, predatory growl.
He followed the swarm of vampires toward the main estate. As they passed through the opulent, gold-leafed halls—funded by the stolen sweat of people like his mother—Ezekiel's hunger grew. He imagined a table groaning under the weight of Raphael's wealth.
He was not disappointed.
In the grand dining hall, five female vampires in culinary whites were making the final touches to a sprawling banquet. Assorted meats, roasted to a glistening finish, and gallons of bioluminescent blood in silver decanters lined the winding table.
The peace lasted for a heartbeat before the gang descended like locusts.
Vampires began grabbing handfuls of meat, some not even bothering to sit before tearing into the feast. The food was disappearing at a terrifying pace. Saliva pooled in Ezekiel's mouth, his hunger now a physical pain. He spotted a large, roasted bird-like creature and rushed forward, dodging the broader shoulders of the other soldiers.
His hand was inches from the plate when a massive, scarred hand swiped it away.
Ezekiel looked up, his eyes wide with outrage, only to see Jarul. The man who had nearly broken his ribs on his first day didn't even acknowledge him. Jarul gripped the leg of the bird, his fangs elongating as he tore a massive hunk of meat from the bone. He devoured it in seconds, juice and grease staining his chin. Only when the plate was empty did he look down, offering Ezekiel a cold, jagged smile as he licked his fingers.
"Too slow, brat," Jarul rumbled. "Around here, you have to be better than a corpse if you want to eat like a king."
Ezekiel felt a white-hot spark of rage. He wanted to scream, to lash out with that yellow light and melt the smile off Jarul's face. But he bit his tongue, the metallic taste of his own blood grounding him. He knew what happened to "miracle boys" who picked fights they couldn't finish.
He turned away, hoping for a stray scrap, but the table was already a graveyard. Scattered bones and half-empty cups were all that remained. The gang was already filtering out, patting their bellies and laughing.
Desperate, Ezekiel grabbed a silverware cup filled with the blue, glowing bioluminescent blood. He raised it to his lips, expecting the sweet, revitalizing nectar he had known as a child.
As the liquid hit his throat, the world turned inside out.
It didn't taste like life. It tasted like sharpened glass. The blood felt like a thousand needles prickling his throat and stomach. Ezekiel hunched over, a violent, choking sound tearing from his chest as he clutched his throat.
The chefs remained at their stations. Two of them looked at him with a flicker of pity and moved to step forward, but the other three blocked their path with sharp, warning glares.
"Don't," one whispered. "It's not our place to interfere with the gang's business."
Ezekiel didn't see them. He was too busy vomiting every drop of the blue liquid onto the floor. He collapsed onto his back, his face a ghostly, sickly white. The prickling sensation subsided, but a deep, throbbing ache remained in his gut. He looked at his hands—they were translucent, paler than he had ever been, even in his most sickly days.
What... What happened? he asked the Voice. I've lived on that blood my whole life.
Your biology is no longer theirs, the Voice replied. Your gift has rewritten the rules. What sustains a common vampire now acts as poison to the vessel you are becoming.
Ezekiel let out a silent, bitter curse. He used his knees to push himself up, his stance wobbly and his back hunched like an old man's. He dragged his feet across the floor, the sound of his scuffing boots the only noise in the room.
Just as his hand reached the heavy oak doors, a high-pitched, mocking laugh echoed behind him.
Ezekiel turned his head, the movement sending a jolt of pain down his neck. One of the female chefs was covering her mouth, her eyes crinkled in obvious derision.
"Worthless excuse for a vampire," she sneered, her voice carrying across the empty hall. "Look at the freak. Can't even stomach a drop of good blood. Raphael really is collecting garbage these days."
Ezekiel stared at her for a long second. He didn't have the energy to retort, and he didn't have the power to kill her—not yet. He simply turned back to the door, pulled it open, and stepped out into the cold, indifferent night of the compound, the sound of the closing door cutting off her laughter.