The Shattered Crowns

Rain pattered against the uneven cobblestones, pooling in cracks and running in thin rivulets down the narrow, claustrophobic streets of Franzish. The Lunar Storm's mist crawled along the ground in dense, curling tendrils, clinging to the walls like a living thing. It was the kind of night that pressed heavily on the soul, where shadows stretched and warped under the dim orange glow of the street lamps. The lamps sputtered, their weak flames barely holding back the storm's ever-encroaching gloom.

Only the desperate or the foolish dared to walk the streets of Franzish at night.

The city itself seemed alive, its crooked buildings leaning together as if conspiring. The skyline was dominated by a single unnatural tree that rose high above the rooftops. Its bark was black and scaly, resembling the hardened flesh of some slumbering beast. Its crimson leaves glistened wetly in the rain, dripping a red sap known to the locals as "Dragon Tears." They said the Tears could cure any ailment, from fevers to broken bones, and the physicians of Franzish peddled them to the desperate in equal measure.

But no miracle would come for the unlucky tonight.

The sound of scraping nails echoed through the narrow alleyways, shrill and relentless. The noise grew louder as it bounced off the tight walls, building to a sharp crescendo that set teeth on edge.

A group of hunters crouched in the mist, their silhouettes barely visible against the gloom. One of them held a flickering lantern aloft, its light casting long, distorted shadows on the cobblestones.

"Is this its nest, Sylvan?" asked the man with the lantern, his voice low and uncertain.

"Maybe," Sylvan replied, his words muffled by the thick leather scarf covering his mouth and nose. "The mist makes it hard to see."

"I thought you were supposed to be a veteran," muttered another hunter, the youngest of the group. His voice carried a bitter edge, the kind born of fear.

Sylvan turned, his gray overcoat slick with rain, and fixed the man with a sharp glare. "Best to expect the unexpected. It could be a Venadicta. Or worse—a Tainted-Blood. Pray it's not the latter."

The older hunters shifted uneasily, muttering quiet prayers to whatever gods still cared for Franzish. The younger one paled, gripping his blade tightly.

"We'll find out soon enough," another grizzled hunter grunted, hefting a silver chain over his shoulder.

The group moved cautiously, their boots squelching in the rain-soaked grime. Their overcoats bore the insignia of the Silver-Blood Hunters, a fractured crescent moon dripping with resin. Each hunter's gear varied slightly, but they all wore the same folded hats and leather neck gaiters. An old wives' tale warned against breathing in the Lunar Storm mist—it was said to drive men mad. Most dismissed it as superstition, but no one was willing to test it.

Sylvan stood apart, his weathered face half-hidden beneath his wide-brimmed hat. Dozens of vials were strapped to his chest in neat rows, each filled with volatile liquids that swirled with ominous colors. He hooked his fingers into his mouth and let out a sharp whistle that pierced the fog.

The scraping stopped.

Then came a voice, cold and serpentine, slithering out of the darkness. "Oh, precious little hunters… Come to hunt, have you? How grand you must think yourselves. But the night is ours. It has always been ours."

Sylvan's lips curled into a grim smile. "Amusing words for something about to die."

The voice hissed, low and venomous. "I love when my prey walks willingly into the nest."

A sickening sound filled the air—the cracking of bones, the wet squelch of flesh tearing and reforming. Something moved in the mist, its shape shifting and writhing unnaturally. A moment later, a pale figure leapt from the shadows, landing in the midst of the hunters with an ear-splitting screech.

The lantern light revealed its monstrous form: pale, glistening skin stretched too tightly over elongated limbs. Its teeth, jagged and grotesquely long, gnashed hungrily. The creature moved with horrifying speed, lashing out at the nearest hunter and tearing him apart in a single motion. Blood splattered across the cobblestones as the man's dying scream was swallowed by the mist.

"Disgusting," one of the hunters spat, his voice trembling. "Why is it always skin and bones?"

The creature roared, its voice reverberating like a blade dragged across stone. "Come, little hunters! See what a true predator of the night is. I have been blessed, elevated to the next stage of humanity!"

"Shit," growled one of the senior hunters. "It's a Tainted-Blood."

Sylvan nodded grimly, his hands already reaching for the vials on his chest. "Be careful. They're unpredictable. Watch for abnormalities—it'll have tricks."

The creature lunged again, this time ripping into two hunters with a single swipe of its clawed hands. Its movements were a blur, impossibly fast, and it seemed to revel in the carnage.

The remaining hunters threw silver chains, the links glinting in the dim light as they wrapped around the creature's limbs. The Tainted-Blood screeched in pain as the silver burned its skin, but it lashed out violently, shredding the chains and sending the hunters staggering.

Sylvan uncorked a vial and poured resin flakes into it, his fingers steady despite the chaos. "Hold it off. I need time," he barked, snapping his fingers to mix the reaction.

The creature roared, its voice filled with mocking laughter. "You call yourselves hunters? Pathetic! You slaughter us for sport, yet you are the true monsters!"

Sylvan ignored the taunts, his focus on the vial in his hand. The liquid inside began to glow faintly, a telltale sign of its potency.

The Tainted-Blood turned its gaze on Sylvan, its elongated claws slicing through another hunter as it charged. Sylvan barely dodged the attack, rolling across the blood-soaked cobblestones. The creature loomed over him, its canines bared in a twisted grin.

"We hunger, just as you do," it snarled. "We live, we feel! But you deny us our existence, call us abominations. Who is the real monster here?"

Sylvan met its gaze, unflinching. "I am," he said simply.

With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the vial at the creature's chest. The glass shattered on impact, and the chemical reaction ignited in a burst of fire and light. Flames roared to life, engulfing the Tainted-Blood in an instant.

The creature screamed, a high-pitched, agonized wail that echoed through the narrow streets. Its flesh blackened and cracked as the fire consumed it.

"My Blood House will have its revenge!" it shrieked with its final breath, before collapsing in a smoldering heap.

Sylvan pushed himself to his feet, brushing ash from his coat. He surveyed the carnage around him: the bodies of his fellow hunters lay scattered, their blood pooling in the cracks of the cobblestones. The stench of charred flesh hung heavy in the air.

"Another nest cleared," Sylvan muttered, his voice weary. He bent down and picked up the triangular, feathered hat of one of the fallen hunters. Mooneye silk, still intact. It would be given to the next poor soul sent into the storm.

The life of a hunter was a grim one. The plague of the Snake's Blood was spreading faster than ever, twisting men into grotesque, hardened monstrosities. And then there were the Tainted-Bloods—parasites hiding in human skin, monsters that grew stronger with every life they consumed.

Sylvan glanced at the charred remains of the creature, its pale, misshapen body still faintly steaming. It was only a lower rank within its Blood House, but it had killed six hunters with ease.

Franzish was rotting from the inside, its streets choked with death and despair. But Sylvan had a job to do. He tucked the fallen hat under his arm and disappeared into the mist, the rain washing the blood from his boots.

Just another night in the haunted city.