Birmingham, Autumn 1921
The streets of Small Heath were soaked in mist and silence. Night had fallen, but it brought no rest. It never did anymore—not since Thaddeus Vale stepped into James Shelby's world, not since Chester Campbell returned from Ireland with vengeance in his breath and holy fire in his pocket.
Birmingham was changing. And so was James.
Campbell hadn't struck first with guns or soldiers. He'd used symbols, whispers, dark faith dressed in scripture. And when James's people offered kindness, Campbell offered slaughter. An elder had died for that mistake. Her name was Vanya—a woman of ash-colored hair and eyes like dying stars. She had sung to the wind, read fire, and once told James that his soul carried weight in both worlds. Now she was gone, burned in her caravan on the side of the road by Campbell's dogs.
No one had wept but the wind.
And so tonight, James did not walk with the Peaky Blinders. He walked alone.
The old warehouse on Garrison Lane was hollow, soaked in rust and shadows. James had claimed it in silence—boarded the doors, warded the corners with salt and chalk, burned herbs passed down through his mother's bloodline. Not for ritual. For clarity.
Three officers knelt before him—filthy, bruised, and bloodied.
Sergeant Ewan Turner, Constable Briggs, and Corporal Daly—the same three who had stood at the edge of the fire, laughing while the caravan screamed.
Turner spat at James's boots. "You think this makes you righteous, you half-breed freak?"
James didn't flinch. He crouched, his face expressionless, a quiet fury just under the skin.
"You're not scared of me yet," he said. "But you will be."
He didn't torture them. He didn't need to. James marked the floor beneath them with sigils that hadn't been spoken aloud in over two centuries. Each line drawn in chalk mixed with Vanya's ashes. Each curve a memory. Each dot a scar.
When the officers awoke, they would remember the fire. They would hear it in their dreams. They would see James's face behind every shadow, until fear chewed them hollow.
But this wasn't vengeance. Not yet.
James wanted the head, not the hands.
Later that night, he walked through the ruins of what used to be his people's camp. Now it was just scorched earth and forgotten echoes. Rain mixed with ash in the mud. A few broken beams remained from the caravan's frame, blackened and bowed. In the center, he knelt in silence, drawing a circle of ash, salt, and iron shavings around himself.
He removed his coat.
Removed his gloves.
Let the cold bite him.
Then he closed his eyes.
And he called.
Not with voice—but with blood.
He called out across the veil.
To those who came before.
The world shifted.
There was no thunderclap, no burning light. Just silence—total and devouring—and when James opened his eyes, he stood once more in the spirit realm.
It was not a dream. Not for him.
Here, time bent. The ground cracked like old bone beneath his feet. Above him, stars moved like eyes. The sky pulsed in slow waves of red and gold. Behind him: a trail of smoke. Before him: a circle of standing stones, each carved with symbols no human tongue could speak.
And around them stood the Watchers—his ancestors.
They came in cloaks and armor, feathers and flame. Some had no faces. Others had too many. None looked surprised to see him.
One stepped forward.
Tall, gaunt, barefoot, with black eyes that flickered like candlelight. A long coat of animal hide and bones trailed behind him.
Zoran. The first in James's line to walk the veil. The one who saw through death.
"You've returned," Zoran said. His voice wasn't sound—it was memory.
"I need to learn," James replied. "I need the strength to destroy Thaddeus Vale."
"Power is not learned," Zoran said. "It is remembered. It's already in you. You only need to let go of the part that still wants to be human."
James swallowed. "I want justice."
"No," Zoran whispered. "You want blood."
The sky burned brighter. Behind Zoran, the other Watchers began to chant—not with mouths, but with light, with soundless vibration. The stones around the circle hummed. The realm accepted James. It pulled at him.
Zoran raised a hand—and suddenly, James fell to his knees.
The Trial had begun.
He wasn't told what to do. There was no instruction. Just pain.
Visions flooded his mind:
—Campbell walking into the flames of Vanya's caravan, unblinking.
—Vale standing over the altar, surrounded by spirits chained in light.
—James himself, standing on a battlefield of corpses—half in armor, half in shadows.
He screamed. And the scream echoed twice—once in the spirit realm, once in the real.
He saw the pattern now: Thaddeus Vale drew power not from God, but from stolen souls. Souls like Vanya's.
And those souls were still crying out.
James gritted his teeth. Stood.
Zoran lowered his hand. "Good," the old spirit said. "You're not broken."
James blinked—tears of fire rolling down his cheeks.
"Will you help me?" he asked.
Zoran shook his head. "We already are."
A blade appeared in James's hand—not steel, but shadow. It was not a weapon, but a focus. A tether to the spirit realm, one he could wield in both worlds—if he had the strength.
"This will not kill him," Zoran said. "But it will show you where he bleeds."
James stared at the blade. "Then I'll bleed him dry."
The Watchers vanished.
The realm shivered.
James fell backward—and woke, gasping, in the circle of ash and salt in the ruins of his tribe's home. Lightning cracked overhead. His hands were trembling. The blade was gone… but a mark remained burned into his palm. A spiral of fire and smoke.
A key.
A weapon.
A promise.
He stood slowly, rain running down his face. Tommy would call this madness. Polly might call it prophecy. But to James, it was just truth.
Campbell had started this.
Vale would sharpen it.
But James Shelby would end it.
And this time, he wouldn't just burn their empire to the ground.
He'd haunt it.