Blood and Shadows: The Price of Vengeance

Chapter 6: Web of Secrets

The night seemed darker than usual as Victor made his way back through the winding streets of Blackwater, the weight of Jonas's words bearing down on him like a crushing burden. Every step felt heavier, the revelation replaying in his mind over and over again: Hawthorne is your father. The words echoed in the cold, empty silence of the town, wrapping around his thoughts like a vice.

It didn't make sense—not at first. His entire life had been shaped by the understanding that his father, Michael Crowley, was a good man. A man who had fought against corruption, who had died for standing up to the very man who, now, Victor had to accept as his true blood.

How could this be? Victor had loved his father. He had grown up believing in his cause, in the righteousness of his struggle against Hawthorne. And yet, now he learned that the man who had raised him wasn't his father at all, and the one he had sworn to destroy—the corrupt mayor who bled Blackwater dry—was the one who had given him life. The bitter irony twisted in his gut like a knife.

He clenched his fists as he walked, his eyes narrowing in the dim light of the lanterns that flickered weakly along the deserted streets. The town seemed to mock him, its silent alleys and crumbling buildings standing as a reminder of everything that had been taken from him.

A lie. His entire life had been built on a lie.

But now, the truth was out, and with it came a clarity Victor had never felt before. He had always wanted revenge—vengeance for his father's murder, for the destruction of his family. But now, his quest for justice was something far more personal. The very blood that ran through his veins was tainted by the man who had caused him so much pain. The man who had ordered the death of the only father he had ever known.

As he neared the outskirts of Blackwater, where the shadows grew longer and the streets became narrower, Victor stopped at a small, abandoned building. It was the place he had come to think of as his own—a hidden corner of the town where no one bothered him, where he could think without interruption. He pushed open the door, the hinges groaning in protest, and stepped inside.

The air was damp and cold, and the faint smell of mildew clung to the walls. Victor lit a candle, its weak flame flickering as it cast long shadows across the room. He moved to the small wooden table that stood in the center of the room and sat down, resting his head in his hands.

What now? The question gnawed at him like a relentless beast. He had always believed that he knew his path—that vengeance would be the answer, that killing Hawthorne would be the justice his father deserved. But now, knowing the truth about his bloodline, everything had shifted.

His half-brother—the man who had sat at Hawthorne's table, the one who looked so much like him—was part of the web of lies. What did that man know? Did he know of their shared blood? Was he aware that he was working alongside his own flesh and blood?

Victor slammed his fist onto the table, the sharp sound reverberating through the small room. The anger inside him flared hot, a fire that burned brighter with every thought. He couldn't let this go. He couldn't let the truth paralyze him. The revelation had changed everything, but one thing remained constant: Hawthorne had to die.

And now, so did the man who had taken his place.

Victor rose from the table, his movements sharp and decisive. His mind was already racing ahead, formulating a plan, piecing together what little information he had. He couldn't face Hawthorne directly—not yet. The mayor's reach was too long, his power too deeply rooted in Blackwater. But there was another way.

His half-brother—whoever he was—was the key. If Victor could confront him, if he could learn what he knew, then perhaps he could unravel the web of secrets that surrounded his family. There was still so much he didn't understand, but he knew one thing for certain: this man, this stranger who shared his blood, was involved in whatever plans Hawthorne had for Blackwater.

He couldn't afford to wait any longer.

Victor grabbed his knife from the table, the cold metal comforting in his hand. He slipped it into the sheath at his waist and pulled his cloak tightly around him. The streets of Blackwater were treacherous, especially at night, but Victor knew them well. He had grown up in this town, and he had learned how to move through its dark alleys without being seen.

As he made his way back toward the heart of the town, his mind raced with possibilities. He would find his half-brother. He would confront him, demand answers. And if it came to it, he would kill him—just as he planned to kill Hawthorne.

The streets grew quieter as he approached the mansion once more, the towering walls looming ahead like a fortress. The guards were still patrolling the perimeter, their torches casting long shadows across the cobblestones. But Victor knew how to move in the darkness. He slipped through the alleys, keeping to the shadows as he made his way closer to the mansion's rear entrance.

The servant's door—the same one he had used the night before—was still hidden behind the thick ivy. Victor crouched low, his heart pounding in his chest as he reached for the door's handle. His grip tightened on the cold metal, and with a soft creak, the door opened.

The narrow passageway inside was just as he had left it—dark, damp, and suffocatingly quiet. Victor moved swiftly, his footsteps barely making a sound as he followed the winding corridor toward the heart of the mansion. His knife was ready, his senses heightened as he approached the staircase that led up to the servants' quarters.

He paused at the base of the stairs, listening intently for any sound. The faint murmur of voices reached his ears, muffled by the thick stone walls. He couldn't make out the words, but he knew what they were talking about. The plans for Blackwater, the meeting Hawthorne had mentioned—it was all connected to the man who looked like him.

Victor climbed the stairs cautiously, his knife drawn as he reached the top. The voices grew louder now, clearer. He pressed himself against the wall as he approached the door at the end of the hall.

And then he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his half-brother.

"I've handled everything, just as we planned," the voice said, calm and authoritative. "Victor Crowley won't be a problem for much longer. He's lost, searching for answers in all the wrong places. He doesn't even know the truth."

Victor's blood ran cold. They knew. They had been watching him, manipulating him, leading him down a path of their choosing. And now, they were confident that he was too far gone to be a threat.

But they were wrong.

Victor's grip tightened on the hilt of his knife. He wasn't lost. He knew exactly what he had to do.

He would kill them both.

With a swift, silent movement, Victor pushed open the door and stepped into the room, his eyes locked on the man who had taken everything from him.

His half-brother.

Their eyes met, and in that moment, Victor knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

The time for secrets was over.

Now, it was time for blood.

4o