Corrupted blood lord

For the first time in years, Teclos found himself living comfortably.

Not safely.

He had long since stopped confusing the two.

The men from the Lantern House proved easier to deal with than expected. Neither was a vampire, nor were they thralls bound directly to Luther. They were ordinary men carrying orders from one of House Vael’thorr’s lesser branches, paid to follow Teclos’s trail and confirm whether he had entered Tessania.

The Black Thread watched them for three days.

Every tavern they visited was reported. Every stable boy they questioned remembered their faces. A washerwoman found coded letters sewn into the lining of one cloak, while Neri learned which courier they intended to use without going anywhere near them himself.

Once Teclos had enough information, the two men disappeared.

Their bodies were never found.

Harven asked what should be written in the ledger.

Teclos looked up from the letters taken from their room.

"Write that they left the city."

"Through which gate?"

"Whichever one causes the least trouble."

Harven considered that before marking down the eastern gate.

The report soon passed through the alleys, reached the stable hands, and eventually found its way into the official gate records through a clerk who owed Maela money.

By the following morning, the city agreed that both men had ridden east.

No one questioned why their horses were still in the stable.

After that, no sign of House Vael’thorr appeared for the rest of the month.

The Black Thread continued looking.

Teclos made certain of that.

Every traveler arriving from Alvar was watched until someone established who they were and why they had come. Priests received special attention. So did pale nobles, merchants who traveled only at night, and servants who purchased more raw meat than their households could reasonably eat.

Most proved harmless.

One supposed vampire turned out to be an elderly woman with a skin condition and an intense dislike of sunlight. Another was a merchant who bought animal blood for alchemical dyes and nearly fled the city when three beggars followed him home.

Harven placed both reports aside.

"Do you want these people watched further?"

Teclos glanced over the first page.

"Does the old woman have fangs?"

"No."

"Has she killed anyone?"

"Not unless complaining counts."

"Then leave her alone."

Harven picked up the merchant’s report.

"And this one?"

"Does he know he was followed?"

"He noticed Brann’s people on the third day."

"Pay the merchant for the inconvenience."

Harven stared at him.

"You want me to admit we followed him?"

"No. Buy his dyes."

"We don’t need dyes."

"Then sell them."

Harven sighed and added another note to the ledger.

The mistakes became less common after that.

People learned what details mattered. The reports grew shorter and more useful. A maid no longer sent three pages because a guest appeared unfriendly. She recorded when he arrived, who visited him, and whether he carried weapons.

Stable boys learned brands and saddle types.

Pickpockets stopped risking themselves for purses worth a few copper pieces when Teclos paid silver for a name overheard at the right time.

The Black Thread spread beyond the southern district.

It absorbed the eastern thieves first.

Their leader tried to negotiate, then demanded half of Zerrik’s old territory in exchange for cooperation. Teclos listened until the man finished, asked Harven whether any of his people were useful, and killed him when the answer was yes.

His second-in-command accepted Teclos’s terms before the body struck the floor.

The western smugglers joined without a fight.

A gang near the river refused.

They robbed one of Maela’s laundries and broke the arm of a woman who had been passing reports through bundles of clothing.

Teclos visited their warehouse that evening.

By midnight, the building belonged to Silek.

The bodies went into the river.

After that, expansion became easier.

Whenever an alley gang caused trouble, someone from the Black Thread explained the arrangement. They could keep most of their earnings, continue running their streets, and receive protection against rivals. In exchange, they passed along anything unusual and paid a small portion into the shared accounts.

Most agreed.

Those who did not became examples.

Within three weeks, nearly every thief, beggar, smuggler, tavern worker, and street child in Veyron’s city knew the name Black Thread.

Count Veyron did not.

At least, he gave no indication that he did.

Teclos suspected the count knew something had changed. Street robberies declined. Merchants complained less about losing goods near the southern gate. Information reached Veyron’s guards faster than before, often without anyone knowing where it had originated.

But the city prospered, and Veyron had little reason to look too closely at the alleys while taxes continued arriving.

Teclos did his part to keep him satisfied.

The count sent him wherever ordinary soldiers proved too expensive or too slow.

A group of ogres had occupied a stone quarry north of the river. Teclos killed them before noon and returned with their ears tied together by a piece of rope.

A corrupted boar tore through two farms and killed six hunters. Teclos found it asleep in a muddy hollow, woke it with a kick to the skull, and absorbed its mana before the farmers finished gathering to watch.

When a rogue earth mage seized an abandoned watchtower and demanded payment from passing caravans, Veyron offered Teclos a squad of soldiers.

Teclos declined.

He returned alone the next morning carrying the mage’s storage ring.

Veyron turned it over in his hand.

"And the tower?"

"Empty."

"The mage had nineteen men with him."

"He has fewer now."

Veyron looked at the dried blood on Teclos’s sleeve.

"Should I ask how many?"

"You can."

The count waited.

Teclos said nothing.

Veyron laughed and tossed the storage ring back to him.

Life became simple.

Veyron supplied names, maps, and payments. The Black Thread supplied everything else.

Teclos moved from a cramped tavern room into a private suite at one of the better inns near the fortress. The owner had initially objected to weapons being carried through the common room until Maela quietly explained who wanted the room.

After that, Teclos received hot meals whenever he asked, fresh clothing twice a week, and a private bath prepared before he returned from longer contracts.

The innkeeper never charged him for damaged furniture.

He had heard what happened to the last man who argued over money.

Teclos did pay, however.

Usually more than required.

Fear kept people from bothering him, but coin ensured his meals arrived warm.

He ate meat seasoned with spices he had never tasted in Kolma. He drank expensive wine when he felt like it, though he preferred ale. A tailor measured him for a dark coat reinforced with thin leather plates and asked no questions about the bloodstains on the old one.

For a while, Teclos allowed himself to enjoy it.

He slept in a soft bed.

He woke without chains around his wrists.

No vampire’s command pulled at the back of his mind. No priest waited outside his door with a blessed blade. No count believed he owned him.

His time belonged to him.

That alone felt like wealth.

Still, comfort did not make him forget why he had come to Tessania.

Several nights each week, Teclos left the city after dark.

He rarely told anyone where he was going.

Harven learned not to ask. Neri sometimes tried to guess based on the mud, blood, or pieces of fur Teclos brought back, but even he stopped after Teclos placed the severed horn of a stone bull on the cellar table.

The wilderness around Veyron’s territory remained crowded with creatures.

Teclos hunted them one by one.

He followed claw marks into the hills and found a pair of cave lions feeding beside a ravine. Darkness sealed both exits before they sensed him.

He found a swamp serpent long enough to coil around a house. It dragged him beneath the water, only for its own shadow to wrap around its throat in the depths.

A pack of ember hounds chased him for nearly a mile, believing him wounded after one tore open his shoulder.

He led them into a narrow gorge.

None escaped.

Each kill added something.

Most beasts provided little individually, but Teclos no longer needed to wait for rare opportunities. He hunted whenever he wanted, absorbed whatever he killed, and allowed the steady accumulation to strengthen him.

His circles grew denser.

His control improved.

Dark Sense reached farther each week, spreading through streets, forests, and stone with less effort than before. His tendrils answered faster. Shadow Steps carried him across greater distances, and the darkness surrounding his body became difficult for even trained mages to pierce.

The change was not dramatic enough for strangers to see.

Those who knew him noticed.

One evening, Neri entered the cellar while Teclos stood over a map.

The boy stopped several steps away.

Teclos looked up.

"What?"

Neri frowned.

"Nothing."

"Then stop staring."

"You feel different."

Harven glanced between them.

"Different how?"

Neri searched for the words.

"Like when a storm is coming, but the sky still looks clear."

Teclos returned his attention to the map.

Harven watched him for another moment before moving his chair slightly farther away.

A month passed in this fashion.

The city grew richer.

The Black Thread grew larger.

Teclos grew stronger.

Nothing followed him from Alvar.

No vampire appeared in the alleys. No Dawn paladins crossed the border demanding his arrest. Luther’s lesser agents had vanished, and no replacement had yet arrived.

For once, everything worked.

That should have warned him it would not last.

—

The trouble began in a tavern called the Broken Crown.

Teclos visited because Silek used the back room for meetings with caravan guards and smugglers from the western roads. The tavern sat close to the merchant district, where the drinks cost too much and most fights ended before anyone damaged the furniture.

Teclos had taken a corner table with a clear view of the room.

A plate of roasted lamb sat before him, accompanied by a cup of dark Tessanian ale. Harven had left minutes earlier after delivering the week’s accounts.

The Black Thread was earning more than it spent.

Teclos had been quietly considering how to extend it into the villages when shouting broke out near the bar.

A mercenary had been arguing with another man over a card game.

The mercenary was broad, bearded, and drunk enough to believe his hand rested casually near his sword. Five men wearing the same green badge occupied the table behind him.

Across from him stood a stranger in a faded brown coat.

The stranger appeared unremarkable.

He was neither especially large nor richly dressed. He carried no visible weapon, and gray had begun to show in his short hair.

"I saw you take the card," the mercenary said.

The stranger looked at the table.

"You lost."

"You cheated."

"Those are not the same thing."

The mercenary’s men laughed.

Their captain did not.

"You calling me a liar?"

The stranger picked up his cup.

"I’m saying you’re bad at cards."

The tavern quieted.

Teclos took another bite of lamb.

The mercenary struck first.

His fist crossed the table toward the stranger’s face.

The stranger leaned aside.

The punch missed.

Before the mercenary could recover, the stranger caught his wrist and drove his forehead into the man’s nose.

Blood burst across the cards.

The other five mercenaries rose.

The stranger sighed.

"This is why I prefer drinking alone."

They rushed him together.

The fight ended almost as soon as it began.

The first man drew a knife.

The stranger trapped his arm, turned beneath it, and sent him crashing through the card table.

A second swung a chair.

The stranger kicked through one of its legs, stepped inside the broken frame, and struck the man once beneath the ribs.

He folded to the floor without breathing.

Two attacked from opposite sides.

The stranger caught one by the collar and used him to block the other’s punch. Their heads struck together.

Both dropped.

The last mercenary stopped before reaching him.

His courage lasted until the stranger looked in his direction.

Then he backed away.

Their captain tried to stand.

The stranger placed one boot against his shoulder and pushed him down.

"You lost the game," he said. "Now you’ve lost the table. Let it go."

He collected the coins scattered across the floor and returned to the bar.

No one tried to stop him.

Teclos watched with growing interest.

The stranger possessed mana, but it sat strangely inside him. Quiet. Compressed. Difficult to judge.

Much stronger than he looked.

The defeated mercenaries began dragging themselves upright once the man turned away. Their captain wiped blood from his nose and searched the tavern.

His gaze eventually found Teclos.

Recognition crossed his face.

The mercenary had likely seen him at Veyron’s fortress or heard enough descriptions.

He staggered toward the corner table.

Teclos continued eating.

The man stopped beside him.

"You’re Teclos."

"That depends on what you want."

The mercenary glanced back at his men sprawled among the broken furniture.

"We need your help."

Teclos looked at the stranger drinking at the bar.

"With him?"

The captain nodded.

"He attacked us."

"You threw the first punch."

The man hesitated.

"You saw that?"

"Everyone saw it."

The mercenary lowered his voice.

"He cheated us. Took nearly everything we earned from the last contract."

"That sounds like your problem."

"Please."

Teclos finally looked at him.

The captain’s pride had disappeared. Blood ran across his mouth, and fear had begun replacing the anger in his eyes.

"He’s not normal," the man whispered. "I couldn’t even sense him before he moved."

Teclos looked back toward the bar.

The stranger raised his cup, watching him in the reflection of the bottles behind the counter.

He had heard every word.

A faint smile crossed his face.

Teclos pushed his plate aside and stood.

The mercenary released a relieved breath.

"You’ll help?"

Teclos walked past him.

"I was getting bored."