The Crimson Dawn part 2

The fight was chaos.

Shadows moved like living things, coiling around our feet. Meryth’s voice echoed from everywhere at once. Martin was flung across the hall by invisible force, crashing into a column. Cael swung his silver mace, and a wraith burst apart in a shower of black smoke.

I caught a glimpse of Meryth on the stairs — his form flickering, as though half-dream. My blade met his, and sparks of crimson light flew. His strength was inhuman, his movements effortless.

“You cannot kill what does not die,” he hissed.

“Then I’ll settle for making you wish you could.”

He smiled again — and vanished into mist.

The hall went silent. The chandeliers flickered. I could hear him whisper from the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

“Come, hunter. When you tire of your borrowed faith, you’ll find me in the chapel below.”

Then all went still.

We found the hidden stairs beneath the dining hall. They led deep into the catacombs — where coffins lined the walls and the air was thick with the smell of old blood.

The final chamber was a cathedral of bone. The Count waited at its center, kneeling before a bloodstained altar, his fingers dipped in crimson.

“Welcome,” he said softly. “To my confession.”

He turned, eyes blazing. “Do you know what the light does to us? It burns, yes — but not the flesh. It burns memory. The warmth of the sun is the warmth we lost. You call it holy; I call it cruel.”

His words made something twist inside me — pity, maybe. Or recognition.

But I raised my blade anyway. “Then I’ll burn away what’s left.”

The fight was longer this time — not a struggle of steel, but of will. He tried to drown my mind in his whispers, showing me faces — people I’d lost, choices I’d made. I held the torch high, and when its light struck him, the illusion broke.

I drove the blade through his chest. His eyes widened, then softened.

“You carry the dawn well,” he murmured. “Pray it never carries you.”

Then he turned to ash.

We buried Martin outside the manor — he hadn’t survived the wounds. Cael said a prayer under his breath. I said nothing.

When we returned to Solaria, Garran stood waiting at the gate.

“Count Meryth?” he asked.

“Gone,” I replied. “But not forgotten.”

He nodded. “Good. Then you’ve passed your second trial — not by killing, but by understanding what you kill.”

I looked down at the medallion of the Dawn around my neck. For a moment, it felt heavier than before.

As the sun rose over the citadel, the red in the sky faded to gold. But somehow, it still looked like blood.

And I knew this hunt — my hunt — was far from over.

The Silver Requiem
Aurenthil gleamed like a chalice of light under the evening sun — white marble domes catching the last gold before dusk, merchant banners rippling like the tongues of liars. I could smell the wealth here. Perfumed, polished, and just faintly rotten.

The Inquisition called it “a silent purge.” That usually meant no witnesses.

Agent Liraine awaited me near the Fountain of Twelve, disguised as a perfume seller. Her eyes caught mine through the shimmer of incense smoke. Cold. Calculating. Beautiful in a way that suggested she’d already written your eulogy.

“You’re late,” she said, rearranging glass vials. “They’re already gathering at the guildhall. The coven wears human faces — even the guards are bribed. We can’t risk a spectacle. Use this.”

She pressed a small pouch into my palm. The smell hit first: copper and frankincense. Bloodsense Incense. When lit, it reveals those who’ve fed on blood — veins glow faintly beneath the skin, a crimson shimmer only seen by moonlight.

“Expose them,” she whispered, “then finish it. Quietly.”

The guildhall was loud with the laughter of coin. Nobles and merchants drank together under banners of silk and deceit. I found a corner near the hearth, lit the incense, and pretended to warm my hands.

One by one, the laughter began to curdle. Beneath the candlelight, I saw it — faint threads of red pulsing beneath pale skin, like veins remembering the blood they stole. Guildmasters, clerks, even a scribe — six of them. The seventh, a girl pouring wine with trembling hands, caught my eye. She saw the recognition in my stare and mouthed: please.

The hunt began.

I moved through the guildhall’s side chambers like smoke — silent, methodical, merciless. One vampire tried to summon mist; my silver dagger caught her throat before the word left her lips. Another lunged for the window — sunlight through stained glass burned him halfway before he hit the cobbles below.

Each death echoed faintly through the Bloodsense haze, their bodies fading to pale dust as their curses unraveled.

When the last fell, I turned back to the wine girl. She knelt behind the bar, shaking. Her voice cracked.

“I never wanted this. They turned me to keep me quiet. I haven’t fed in months. I swear it.”

Her eyes were bloodshot, not glowing. The curse still lingered, but dim — like a dying ember.

I could end her with one motion. The blade was ready. Or I could choose mercy.

I lowered the knife. She bowed her head.

“I’ll repay your kindness. I’ll never hunt people. I haven’t hunted people before.”

And she meant it.

When dawn broke, Aurenthil’s streets were clean again.

The city guards yawned near the gates. “Guild’s been acting strange lately,” one muttered. “Not that we care if nobles bleed each other.”

Later that day, after the purge was done, I overheard the same man again. “Funny,” he said, “the guild’s all quiet now. Must’ve sorted itself out.”

Liraine met me in the catacombs beneath the chapel. She didn’t smile, but her voice carried the faintest trace of approval.

“You did well. The city sleeps, unaware of the rot beneath its cobbles. That’s how it should be.”

She handed me a sigil — silver inlaid with crimson glass. “The Order of the Crimson Dawn welcomes you further into the fold.”

I turned the sigil in my hand, watching the red stone catch the torchlight. A requiem for monsters, played in silence.

And I was learning the melody.

The Shattered Chalice
The summons came at dawn — sealed with the wax crest of the Crimson Dawn. A message burned onto parchment: “Come to Citadel Solaria. The Trial’s hour begins anew.”

The courier didn’t wait for a reply. They never do.

Citadel Solaria towered like a blade of light cutting through the valley fog. Its white spires were gilded with gold that glimmered even through the morning haze — almost mocking, as if holiness itself demanded an audience. Before the quest, I’d passed by this place once. The guards only offered polite nods then, hollow greetings, no entry allowed.

Now, as I approached, they stood straighter. “The Inquisitor is expecting you,” one said. “Don’t keep her waiting.”

Inside, the air smelled of incense and metal. Rows of candles lined the marble halls, their flames wavering beneath painted saints with bleeding halos. Every step echoed — a sound that seemed far too loud for a living man.

At the end of the corridor stood High Inquisitor Caelwyn, her silver armor gleaming like frozen dawnlight. The sigil of the Crimson Dawn burned faintly at her breast.

“You’ve done well,” she said, eyes sharp as the edge of her sword. “Aurenthil’s infection has been purged. But rot spreads from deeper wells — and one such lies beneath our own sanctum.”

Her tone hardened. “An Inquisitor — Brother Myrren — has fallen. He broke the Chalice of Binding during a forbidden ritual, spilling sanctified blood into the crypts. The relic’s power now festers, feeding something that should not live.”

The Chalice — a relic said to bind demonic influence within sacred grounds. Broken, it could twist holiness into hunger.

“You’ll go below,” Caelwyn ordered. “Find what remains of Myrren. Restore the Chalice — or destroy what’s left.”

The descent beneath Solaria was like sinking into the lungs of a dying god. The marble gave way to wet stone, the air heavy with the metallic scent of blood and candle wax. The sound of dripping water echoed like a heartbeat.

The crypt’s wards flickered weakly — sigils drawn in light now smudged by shadow. I lit a torch and saw them: streaks of crimson crawling across the floor like veins. They pulsed faintly, drawing toward the reliquary chamber.

When I reached it, I found him. Brother Myrren — or what was left of him.

His skin was grey, eyes blackened and sunken. The Chalice lay shattered beside him, its fragments still glowing faintly with divine light. He looked up when I entered, his voice trembling between prayer and madness.

“I sought to cleanse it… but the blood called me.” He smiled then, a ghastly expression. “Now I am its vessel.”

He moved faster than I expected, his blade dragging streaks of crimson flame through the air. The fight was short, desperate — his strikes heavy with corrupted grace. Each clash rang like the tolling of a funeral bell.

When he fell, he whispered, “Break… the Chalice… before it drinks again…”

I gathered the shards and placed them in the sanctified brazier. The relic screamed — not in sound, but in pressure, like the air itself was begging for release. When it finally shattered to ash, the light returned to the crypt. The red veins withdrew, fading back into the stone.

The silence afterward was deafening.

When I emerged, the sun had climbed high — golden, merciless. Caelwyn stood waiting at the gate.

“You’ve done what few could,” she said, though her expression betrayed little warmth. “Myrren’s fall is a wound to us all… but your resolve shows promise. You walk the line between purity and ruin — may you not cross it.”

She handed me a new token — a shard of silver etched with faint script. “Keep it. A fragment of the Chalice. Let it remind you what happens when zeal falters.”

As I left Solaria’s courtyard, the city bells tolled for the noon prayer. Their echoes rolled across the rooftops — steady, solemn, unbroken.

Somewhere beneath them, ashes still smoked where the Chalice had burned. And I wondered, not for the first time, whether we hunted vampires… or simply learned to become better ones.

The Pale Masquerade
They dressed me in lies.

Silk gloves, a gilded mask, perfume to drown the scent of silver and ash. The Inquisition provided everything — even a forged noble’s sigil and a fabricated lineage that would pass under scrutiny. “Every serpent needs new skin,” said Agent Liraine as she fastened my collar. “Tonight, yours must glimmer.”

The invitation had come wrapped in black ribbon, bearing the seal of Baroness Cassandra Mirelle — a name whispered only by the dying and the damned. She was ancient, a vampire matriarch who ruled her court through indulgence and silence. Her masquerade ball, held once every decade, was both celebration and sacrifice.

No one who bled too freely left the estate.

The manor loomed over the lakeshore, silver light spilling through fog like spilled wine. Coaches lined the marble causeway, their passengers glittering under lanterns — nobles, merchants, thieves of different kinds. All masked, all smiling. When I approached the gates, a footman dipped his head.

“Welcome to Baroness Miraelle’s Masquerade,” he said, voice as smooth as old blood. “Enjoy the night… it may be your last.”

Even the servants were in on the game.

Inside, the ballroom was a cathedral of decadence. Chandeliers hung like cages of light. Music swelled — a waltz played by blindfolded musicians whose wrists bore faint scars. The scent of roses, wine, and faint copper filled the air.

I blended into the crowd, feigning indifference. Every noble here was a mask within a mask. I lit the Bloodsense Incense from my satchel, hidden in the hollow of a ring. The world dimmed. And then the truth bled through.

Dozens of guests shimmered faintly red — some subtly, some blazing. Predators dancing among prey.

I began collecting whispers, circling the room like a shark through still water. A merchant spoke of rare wines aged in “vital essence.” A lady in white gloves laughed too sharply at the mention of sunlight. And then there was her.

Baroness Cassandra, draped in crimson lace, her mask shaped like a wolf’s skull. She moved through the crowd with unholy grace, her laughter soft and cold as snowfall. Everyone turned toward her when she spoke — as though gravity itself bent to her will.

My orders were clear: expose her, kill her, and vanish before dawn.

The dance began. I took her hand when she offered it. Her fingers were colder than the marble floor.

“So,” she purred, her voice brushing the air like silk, “the Inquisition sends another shadow in silk. You hide it well… but not well enough.”

Her eyes flashed behind the mask — pupils narrowing like a cat’s.

I moved first. The dagger was small, disguised as a pin, and blessed under Solaria’s flame. It slid beneath her ribs before she could finish her taunt. The holy silver hissed as it struck.

She gasped — a sound of both rage and revelation — before her body erupted into mist. The chandelier above shuddered, its candles snuffing out in a sudden gust.

The room froze.

Then chaos.

Guards shouted. Guests scattered. I moved through the smoke, cutting down the thralls that blocked the exit. One tried to grab my shoulder — I threw him into the candelabra. Fire caught the drapes, spreading fast.

By the time I reached the garden doors, the ballroom was an inferno of screaming and music and firelight.

The night air outside was cold and wet, the fog rolling off the lake like breath from a dying god. I didn’t look back until the manor’s windows began to burst.

The masquerade was over.

When I returned to Solaria, the guards at the gate looked away as I passed. One murmured, almost absently, “Even the rich wear masks to hide their hunger…”

High Inquisitor Caelwyn met me in silence. She eyed the torn silk at my sleeve, the faint ash clinging to the hem of my cloak.

“When you return,” she said softly, “remember to burn the garments. Corruption clings to silk.”

I did.

That night, as I watched the flames devour the mask, the fabric curled and blackened, releasing faint embers like dying stars. I thought I heard music again — faint, echoing — the waltz from the masquerade, drifting through the smoke.

Perhaps it was memory. Or perhaps some dances never truly end.