Small Heath – Shelby Family Yard
The night sky above Birmingham was cold and black, streaked with clouds like bruises. A bitter wind moved through the old streets of Small Heath, where the air felt heavier than usual—thick with grief, memory, and something older.
A Romani fire was about to be lit.
In the center of the Shelby yard stood a wooden wagon, painted in the traditional deep greens and reds of the old ways.
Intricate patterns had been carved into its sides—symbols for protection, safe passage, and ancestral peace. John Shelby's body, dressed in his finest dark suit and laid to rest atop crimson linen, was placed within the wagon with coins on his eyes and a black flat cap over his heart.
The family gathered in silence, surrounding the wagon under the cold starlight.
James stood with his coat unbuttoned, no hat, sleeves rolled up. His face was unreadable, but the fire in his eyes said more than words ever could.
Tatiana stood a step behind him, veiled and silent, her hand resting over the swell of her pregnancy. Elena, too young to understand, had been kept away.
Arthur, shoulders trembling with rage, clutched a silver flask but hadn't taken a drink.
Polly, wrapped in black lace, whispered Romani prayers under her breath, eyes locked on John like she was trying to pull him back with pure will.
And Tommy, unmoved in his stance but broken behind the eyes, kept staring at his brother's body as though it weren't real.
The only sound was the wind, until the clinking of a torch being lit broke the silence.
James stepped forward.
He held the flame in his hand like it was part of him, the orange glow dancing across his face.
He spoke low, but his voice cut through the cold like steel through silk.
"In the old way, when one of our blood leaves this world, we give them to the fire. So their soul can fly free. So they don't walk alone in the dark."
He turned to the family.
"John wasn't just a Shelby. He was blood. A warrior. A brother. And I swear, by this fire, every soul that had a hand in his death will burn with it."
He turned back to the wagon.
"Rest well, brother. You won't be forgotten. We send you to the next world in flame—so the ancestors know your spirit is strong."
And with that, he touched the torch to the base of the wagon.
The flames caught quickly—first licking along the wooden wheels, then surging up the sides with a hungry roar.
The fire blazed orange, then red, then white-hot.
The heat pushed the mourners back slightly, but James didn't move. He stood tall, staring into the fire, the reflection of it glowing in his eyes like twin stars.
As the wagon burned, Polly began to sing—an old Romani lament, haunting and beautiful. Her voice cracked with grief, but carried over the sound of the fire like smoke over still water.
Arthur lowered his head.
Tommy clenched his jaw, watching his brother disappear into ash.
Tatiana, tears in her eyes, whispered softly in Russian, a prayer for the dead.
James removed the ring from his finger—the one blessed by his ancestors—and tossed it into the flame.
The ring hissed in the fire, flared bright, and vanished into the inferno.
Later That Night – Inside the House
The fire had burned down to embers. Smoke still coiled into the sky outside.
The family gathered in silence inside the house, the weight of loss pressing down on every breath. James stood near the hearth, staring into the dying fire like it was a doorway he couldn't step through.
Tatiana approached him quietly.
"I shouldn't have brought Elena here," she said softly.
"You did right," he replied. "She needs to know where she comes from."
Tatiana touched his arm. "You're different."
James nodded. "Something inside me opened again. Something I thought I buried with Thaddeus, with my past."
She looked at him carefully. "And what's coming?"
He turned toward her slowly. "Blood. Fire. And vengeance."
The Next Morning – The Garrison Back Room
James, Tommy, and Arthur stood over a table strewn with maps, photographs, and ledgers.
Tommy lit a cigarette and pointed at the name circled in red.
Luca Changretta.
"He's not coming to negotiate," Tommy said. "He's coming to annihilate."
James stared down at the name like it was already bleeding.
"Then we don't play defense," he said. "We find his men. We make the first move. We make a message out of every one of them."
Arthur cracked his knuckles. "I want the one who pulled the trigger."
James looked up. "You'll get him. But I'm taking Luca."
Polly entered the room, her face lined with grief and fury.
"If you're taking him, James," she said, "don't just kill him. Curse him. Burn every piece of him until not even hell wants what's left."
James nodded once.
"I will."
Final Scene – James Alone
That night, James knelt in the ashes where the wagon had burned.
He pressed his palm into the cold earth and whispered an old Romani phrase under his breath. The wind stirred around him.
In the stillness, a whisper from the spirit realm echoed:
"The fire you carry is older than your name. Burn wisely, James Shelby."
James stood slowly, his hand now smeared with ash and power.
The war had begun.
And this time, he wasn't just a soldier.
He was the flame.