Blood and Shadows: The Price of Vengeance

Chapter 1: A Silent Grave

The rain fell in thick sheets, each drop slicing through the heavy air like a whispered accusation. Victor stood alone by the grave, his fingers gripping the edge of the spade as he scooped the last bit of earth onto the mound before him. His father's tombstone stood out starkly against the rolling mist, the name etched into its surface barely visible under the rain's relentless assault.

Michael Crowley: A Man of Honor, A Man of Truth.
It was a lie. Not the part about his father, but the part about truth. There was no truth in this town anymore. Not for years. Not since the mayor had taken power.

Victor stared at the tombstone, a bitter taste curling in the back of his throat. The truth had died the day his father had, taken from him in the dead of night, murdered by a faceless hand. But everyone knew whose hand it truly was. William Hawthorne had been behind it. The mayor's men were everywhere, his influence like a poisonous fog that seeped into every crack, every corner. And no one dared to defy him.

No one except his father.

Victor had spent his whole life learning from his father. The blacksmith's shop had been their sanctuary, a place of hard work and even harder principles. His father had taught him what it meant to stand up for what was right, to fight against injustice no matter the cost. It was those very principles that had gotten him killed.

It was no secret that Michael Crowley had been one of the few who dared to challenge the mayor's corrupt practices. Whether it was refusing to pay the extortionate "taxes" Hawthorne demanded or speaking out against the increasing number of disappearances in the town, Michael had never been one to stay silent. And Victor had admired him for it. Now, that admiration had curdled into something darker, something more desperate.

It had been three weeks since his father had been found, his body dumped outside the town limits like so much refuse. Three weeks of restless nights, replaying the last words they had spoken, the unfinished conversations, the unfulfilled promises. Three weeks of watching his mother descend into a grief-stricken stupor, barely able to lift her head, let alone keep the blacksmith's shop running.

Victor's hands clenched into fists at his sides. The mayor would pay for this. He would see to it.

But vengeance wasn't something one could rush into. He had learned that much already. The town was crawling with Hawthorne's men, and they watched everything. They reported back to their master like lapdogs eager for scraps, eager for the small bit of power he dangled before them. Victor knew he couldn't just walk up to the mayor's mansion and demand justice. No, he would have to be smart about it. Patient.

"Victor."

The voice behind him made him stiffen. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. He had felt the presence before he heard the voice, a quiet warmth that was out of place in the cold, wet air.

It was Maria, his childhood friend. They had grown up together, playing in the alleys behind the shop when they were too young to understand the weight the town carried. Now, she was one of the few people who still visited him, despite the whispers, despite the danger that came with being associated with the Crowleys.

He turned slowly, his eyes meeting hers. She stood a few feet away, her dark hair plastered to her forehead from the rain, her clothes soaked through. But she didn't seem to care. Her eyes were fixed on him, filled with something that might have been sympathy. Or pity. He wasn't sure which he hated more.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice rough. "It's not safe."

She took a step forward, her gaze unwavering. "Neither is standing out here in the rain, digging graves."

Victor's jaw tightened, and he turned back to the mound of earth. "It has to be done."

For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the steady rhythm of the rain. Then, she spoke again, softer this time. "You're going after him, aren't you?"

Victor's breath caught in his throat. He didn't answer, but the tension in his body spoke volumes.

Maria stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. "Victor, you can't—"

"I have to," he cut her off, his voice sharp. He turned to face her fully now, his eyes blazing with a fury he could no longer contain. "He killed my father. He's taken everything from us. Someone has to stop him."

Maria's expression softened, but there was fear in her eyes. "I know. But if you go after him now, like this, you'll only get yourself killed. You're not ready."

Victor turned away from her, his hands trembling with rage and grief. "I don't care."

"You should." Her voice was firm now, cutting through the storm of his emotions. "Because your father wouldn't want this. He wouldn't want you throwing your life away just to satisfy your anger."

Victor's shoulders slumped, the weight of her words pressing down on him like a leaden shroud. She was right. He knew she was right. But it didn't make the rage go away. It didn't make the need for justice any less powerful.

"I have to do something," he whispered, more to himself than to her.

Maria stepped closer, her hand resting on his shoulder now. "Then do it the right way. Be smart about it. Make sure when you go after him, you're ready. Because if you fail, there won't be anyone left to stand up to him."

Victor closed his eyes, the rain washing over him, mingling with the tears he hadn't realized were there. He didn't know what to say.