Morning After the Ambush – Small Heath
The sky over Birmingham bled gray, heavy with rain that never quite fell. In the aftermath of the mill massacre, Small Heath stood on edge. Doors were locked earlier, voices dropped lower. Word had spread—James Shelby had declared war in blood and fire.
At the Garrison, silence reigned.
James stood by the window, shirtless, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers.
Fresh bruises colored his ribs. A scar above his eye split wider with each twitch of his jaw.
But his gaze wasn't on the street.
It was on the reflection.
In the glass, behind him, the faint outline of something ancient—shadow-shaped and flame-lit—drifted like smoke from his skin.
He didn't blink.
"Daddy?"
He turned. Elena stood in the doorway, barefoot, holding her stuffed lion by the leg.
James dropped the cigarette. "You should be with your mother."
"I had a bad dream," she said, walking toward him.
James crouched to her level. "What happened?"
"There was a wolf," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It stood by my bed. It didn't growl. Just stared."
James's blood chilled.
"Did it say anything?"
She nodded. "It said your name."
Meanwhile – The Changretta Estate, London
Luca sat at his dining table, untouched wine glistening in crystal. His eyes—cold, calculating—stared at the black-and-white photo of Enzo's corpse. Folded next to it: a torn scrap of map from the trap, blood still soaking the edge.
Across from him sat a new figure—graying, lean, with a priest's collar and a killer's eyes.
"James Shelby's changed," Luca said, voice like silk hiding blades. "We sent monsters. He sent them back in boxes."
The priest—Father Rinaldi—smiled faintly. "Then we stop sending men. We send sin. We rot him from the inside."
Luca tapped the photo. "He believes in something now. That makes him dangerous."
"And breakable," Rinaldi replied. "Tell me about the child."
Small Heath – That Afternoon
Tommy slammed the door to the Garrison shut.
"They hit the arms drop at the canal," he spat. "Two lads dead. One of ours missing. You feel it, James? He's getting closer."
James wiped blood from his hands with a rag. "Let him. I want him in my sight."
Tommy grabbed his brother's shoulder. "This isn't just about vengeance anymore. He's changed tactics. He's watching your family."
James's eyes went dead. "Then I change too."
Later – Romani Grounds
James returned to the willow.
This time, he came armed—not with guns, but with memory.
The ring glowed red-hot as he placed it against his chest.
The spirit world opened like a wound.
He passed the first door—Captain's honor.
The second—Shadow's will.
And then he stood before the third.
The Romani flame.
The door flared open, and a woman stepped out—eyes burning, hair like coals in wind. Tattoos carved across her arms in ash and gold.
"I am Flamekeeper," she said. "And you are not yet whole."
James dropped to one knee. "Then finish me."
She walked around him slowly. "You carry fire, but not purpose. You fight to end a war, but what comes after? What burns when the war is gone?"
He hesitated. "Peace."
She stopped. "Then you're still lying to yourself."
She pressed her palm to his chest.
A scream tore from James's lips—not of pain, but of remembrance.
He saw his mother's caravan burning. His father walking into darkness. A curse whispered in Romani, long ago. A line unbroken. A promise never fulfilled.
"You are not just a man of war," the Flamekeeper whispered. "You are the end of one curse, and the start of another."
James opened his eyes.
He was on the ground again.
But the fire didn't fade this time.
It stayed in his hands, coiled in his veins, a soft ember under his skin.
He stood, and the storm followed him.
That Night – Outside the Shelby Home
A figure in priest's black stepped from a car across the street.
He stared at the window where a child's silhouette played in flickering light.
Father Rinaldi smiled, reaching into his coat.
He removed a single black candle and placed it on the cobblestone, whispering a prayer in Latin.
And far above, in the shadows of the alley, something watched.
Something older than vendetta.
Older than Shelby.
And hungry.