The city had awakened fully, its streets humming with life and tension. Word had spread of unusual disturbances—guards missing from patrols, supply wagons mysteriously misaligned, shadows behaving unnaturally. The city's heroes had gathered in the central plaza, weapons readied, spells prepared, eyes scanning every alleyway. They were aware now, but they still had no idea where I was.
From a ruined tower near the eastern gate, I watched them carefully. The swordsman, shield polished and heavy, moved like a metronome; the archer's gaze was a hawk's, calculating angles and trajectories; the mage conjured subtle wards, faintly glowing in the dim morning light. Together, they were a threat far beyond anything I had faced in villages or militias.
Voraciel pulsed faintly on my back, alive and responsive. The whisper brushed against my mind: "…kill."
Not yet. Observation first. Patience still matters.
I studied their movements, noting the rhythm of their patrols and the minute shifts in coordination. Each hero had a weakness, a predictable flaw masked by skill. The swordsman's stance faltered ever so slightly when moving around obstacles. The mage overcompensated in defensive spells, leaving small windows in timing. The archer anticipated motion, but overcorrected in crowded areas. Minor, but exploitable.
Night fell, and I moved silently through the shadows. The city streets became my terrain, alleys and rooftops my corridors. A single misstep could alert the heroes. Every sound was cataloged. Every movement tracked. Observation was survival.
I tested the first strike carefully. Crimson Tide flowed silently, shadows twisting to disrupt the archer's footing. He stumbled, narrowly avoiding his own arrows. Raven's Fang erupted from the alley, tendrils of darkness pushing the swordsman off balance. The mage's wards flared, illuminating the shadows—but Voraciel bent around the light, striking precisely where his defenses were weakest.
The heroes reacted quickly. This was no village skirmish; this was combat with highly trained individuals. The archer fired again, the mage unleashed a defensive spell, and the swordsman lunged forward, shield raised. Every attack was precise, fast, and coordinated. But so was I. Crimson Tide and Raven's Fang flowed together, shadows wrapping around strikes, manipulating both sight and terrain.
By midnight, a small section of the city had become a battlefield of light and darkness. Streets were emptying as citizens fled. Lanterns flickered in the alleys, throwing distorted shadows. I had the heroes where I wanted them: forced into narrow streets and alleyways where Raven's Fang could amplify confusion and Crimson Tide could strike with lethal precision.
The mage conjured a barrier, attempting to separate me from the swordsman and archer. I moved in tandem, shadows shifting unnaturally, feeding off calculated bloodlust. One strike from Crimson Tide knocked the swordsman's guard aside; Raven's Fang erupted, tendrils wrapping around the archer's footing. The mage's barrier flared, but I had already calculated the slight delay in its activation—another strike found its mark.
Even in their coordination, mistakes surfaced. Fear of the unseen prey twisted their confidence into hesitation. One by one, the cracks grew. Voraciel pulsed in resonance with my intent, alive, patient, anticipating.
Suddenly, the mage's wards intensified, shimmering across the alley. The swordsman's shield glowed with protective enchantments. The archer unleashed a flurry of arrows with inhuman speed. The city itself seemed to awaken against me. I felt a pull of bloodlust stronger than before, pressing at the edges of control. Voraciel hummed with heightened resonance.
I spoke aloud, words sharp, deliberate:
"Bloodlust—Raven's Fang."
The shadows erupted in response. Streets twisted with dark tendrils, forcing heroes to stumble and miscalculate. Crimson Tide struck with surgical precision. The archer fell off a rooftop, narrowly catching himself, the swordsman's shield shattered under coordinated strikes, and the mage's wards flickered as Raven's Fang's darkness twisted around them.
For the first time, the city's defenders realized that the threat was not just stealth—it was domination of terrain, timing, and fear.
By dawn, the heroes had been pushed back. Not defeated, not yet—but tested. Exhaustion crept into their movements, subtle cracks forming in coordination and confidence. Supply lines disrupted, streets reshaped by shadows, citizens too frightened to notice patterns forming—they were on the edge.
I retreated to a vantage point atop the ruined tower. Voraciel hummed faintly, warm and alive. The whisper brushed faintly: "…watch." Observation had succeeded. Adaptation had succeeded. The city had resisted, but I had forced it to bleed its own weaknesses.
Tomorrow, they would come again, smarter, stronger, more coordinated. And I would be ready. This was the first true battle with heroes. Real challenge. Real skill. Real danger. And for the first time, I felt the hunger rising within me—not just to kill, but to conquer.
The city was alive. And so was the predator within it.