The Rite of Thorns operated out of one primary base and two satellite outposts. The latter were managed by low-level members and mostly served as buffers—handling communications and negotiations with local gangs and organizations across East London.
But something had shifted.
In recent days, every group with ties to the Rite had sensed a rapid and unnatural change. The once-active upstart cult had suddenly withdrawn all its external operatives. Business fronts were liquidated, assets sold off for cash. It was as if the group had materialized overnight and now intended to vanish the same way—like a tide pulling back before a storm.
Those who didn't know the truth behind the Rite—those oblivious to vampires—had simply been dismissed. Only a few were retained to manage what remained of their territory.
Everyone else—every full member—had been recalled to the central base.
The headquarters was an old theater at the edge of a crumbling industrial district, chosen specifically for its isolation and space. It had stood empty for decades, a relic of Victorian grandeur now long forgotten.
When Ivins had come knocking, the theater's owner—desperate to offload the decaying venue—had practically begged him to take it, offering steep discounts. But the Rite, being newly founded, hadn't had the resources to buy it outright. Instead, they signed a steep rental agreement, paying regular fees to maintain the illusion of legitimacy.
This theater had seen it all.
Built during the industrial boom, it had stood through war, plague, and revolution. It had witnessed Britain rise to an empire, seen airships cross the English Channel, and watched steam replace muscle and bone. Its walls had echoed with everything from Shakespeare to sedition. It had endured censors, crackdowns, and taboos. And now, it would witness a different kind of performance—a battle between rival cults, each whispering in the dark.
On the top floor, Lorien stood alone, high-collared coat fluttering in the windless room. From here, he could see the empty streets stretching outward like veins, swallowed whole by the night.
"Are they in position?" he asked.
"Marilyn and Banson are holding the flanks," said Arnold, emerging from the shadows behind him. "Ivins is at the front with the Jacob's Sons, fully armed. The regulars are stationed at fallback points. Michelle and Greene are watching from above—ready to reinforce."
Arnold, ever calm, was the most powerful vampire Lorien had turned—his body a perfect vessel for the blood-born power of their dark god.
"Good." Lorien snapped his fingers, and the shadows stirred, weaving themselves into a throne of writhing black behind him.
He sat, and without a word, Constantine—former agent of Scotland Yard, now something altogether different—rushed over, handing him a military-grade monocular.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Uh, standard issue," Constantine replied with a cough. "Scotland Yard gave it to me... never really got a chance to use it."
Constantine had adjusted remarkably well. Whatever doubts he'd had about defecting were now buried beneath a growing ambition. This cult wasn't just another back-alley conspiracy. Its god walked among them. And with vampires being created en masse, Constantine knew: get in now, or get left behind.
Lorien adjusted the focus and peered through the monocular. A cluster of silhouettes was emerging from the far end of the street, walking calmly through the fog.
"Bold of them," he muttered, and tossed the device back to Constantine. "You'll blend in with the rear units tonight. Stay out of sight. We don't want Scotland Yard catching on just yet."
"Understood!" Constantine saluted and scurried off, grabbing a short-barreled pistol and melting into the ranks of the armed followers below.
"You think they'll show?" Arnold asked quietly, his gaze sweeping the rooftops.
"They will," Lorien said, voice cold. "And not just them."
He closed his eyes for a moment and issued a silent command through the blood bond.
The regenerative ability—Fleshweaver's Gift—passed into all vampires and bloodmarked followers. Stronger blood meant stronger powers, and Arnold, at the top of that chain, could use the gift to devastating effect.
"They'll be watching," Lorien continued. "Scotland Yard has moles inside the Wolf's Tongue Church, just as they did with us. The moment this cult mobilized, I'm sure the Yard started listening."
"And they know about Jack the Ripper now," he added with a twisted smile. "That he isn't just a lone killer—but a front for us."
Arnold didn't speak. He didn't have to. Lorien's presence was command enough.
"They'll be watching closely. But that's fine. Let them. After tonight, we won't need this place anymore."
—
The monks of the Wolf's Tongue Church came in silence.
They approached the abandoned theater without fanfare, wrapped head to toe in white bandages covered in scripture—inky red words soaked into cloth like living wounds.
They were known as the Silent Monks—disciples of the god known only as the Howling Pain.
Their mouths had been stitched shut. Their lips were long gone—cut as tribute. Pain was the currency of their faith, silence its ultimate expression.
As they neared the theater, the two lead monks exchanged glances. Then they split—one group circling behind, the other preparing a frontal breach.
The monks drew knives with no handles—thin blades gripped only by blood-soaked cloth, wrapped around their palms.
One of them leaned forward and launched himself through a glass window, shattering the silence.
The others followed, glass crunching beneath their boots.
And then they saw them.
Thirteen figures standing in a semicircle, black coats gleaming with weaponry. Their eyes burned crimson. Their teeth were sharp. Their hearts were still.
The Sons of Jacob stood ready.
And the curtain was about to rise.