Birmingham, 1924 – Early Spring
Rain fell over Small Heath like a baptism—cleansing, relentless. The city never truly slept, but for once, it felt muted, as if holding its breath.
James Shelby watched it all from the roof of the betting office, coat soaked through, cigarette hissing under the drizzle. Below him, Birmingham pulsed with secrets. Deals. Blood. Empire.
And in his chest, the fire stirred.
Since the Derby, the voice of Velakar had become less of a whisper and more of a rhythm—like a drumbeat he couldn't unhear. The ancient force inside him had grown stronger, smarter. It no longer shouted.
It waited.
"James."
He turned. Tommy stood behind him, collar up, hands in his coat pockets, eyes sharp and tired.
"You haven't been sleeping," Tommy said.
"No," James replied.
Tommy stood beside him in silence for a long while. "You've been different since Campbell."
James flinched internally. He'd burned that name in the back of his mind like a grave marker.
"He touched something in me," James admitted. "Something I'm still trying to bury."
Tommy nodded slowly. "We've all got ghosts. Just don't let yours run the business."
"I won't."
But they both knew that was a promise he couldn't keep.
The Russian Intrusion
The first telegram arrived midweek. Gold-inked letters. A name scratched at the bottom: Tatiana Petrovna.
The Russians were here.
White Russian exiles—descendants of czars and killers—had arrived in London like ghosts wrapped in fur and perfume. Their wealth was vast. Their motives were venomous.
The Duchess wanted to move weapons. Through Peaky Blinder hands. In return, she offered a share of stolen Romanov jewels hidden beneath the Thames.
Tommy, drawn by the glitter and leverage, agreed—but he did not trust them.
James trusted them even less.
Their energy was wrong. The Duchess's gaze lingered on James too long, her accent curling around his name like a serpent. She knew something. She could feel Velakar.
"You wear your curse like a crown," she told him during one dinner, in perfect Romani. "And one day, you'll burn this world brighter than any revolution."
James didn't respond. But that night, he woke from a dream with his bedsheets smoldering.
The Heist Beneath the Thames
It was a job straight from myth—descend into forgotten tunnels beneath the city, find the Romanov cache, and take what was owed.
The team: James, Arthur, Michael, and four trusted men from the Blinders' ranks. Maps in hand, dynamite ready, nerves steel-bound.
The tunnel stank of mold and old war. The kind of place where echoes didn't bounce back—they lingered.
James led the way, torch in hand. He'd trained for this—in the waking world and the spirit realm. Every step was precise. Every breath measured.
And yet, something watched.
Halfway through the tunnel, Velakar's voice returned, not as a whisper—but as a presence beside him.
"I can guide you through the dark," the spirit murmured. "I am the fire. Let me light your path."
James clenched his jaw. "You're not a guide. You're a leash."
But the flame came anyway.
The vault doors were forged with an old Russian crest. Inside—glitter. Gold. Rubies the size of fists. Enough to bankroll wars.
But there were traps too.
One of the men, Carter, triggered a pressure plate. A spiked grate fell. Screams echoed. Blood pooled.
James reacted without thinking. With one hand raised, he caught the iron gate before it could kill Michael. His arm glowed. The metal hissed against his palm.
Arthur stared. "How the fuck—?"
James turned away. "We need to move."
Rising Tensions
Back in Birmingham, the jewels were hidden. The Russians grew bolder. Tatiana played her games—flirting with Tommy, baiting Polly, smiling too widely at James.
But there was something worse growing.
The Economic League.
An unseen force. All suits and silence. They watched from glass towers. They had dossiers on each of them. Files on James's mother. On Velakar. They knew things they shouldn't.
Tommy was kidnapped briefly. Interrogated. Threatened. But returned, colder than before.
James confronted him.
"You should've told me."
Tommy shook his head. "And what would you have done? Lit them on fire?"
James didn't answer. Because yes—that's exactly what he would've done.
Kidnapping of Charlie
The retaliation came swiftly. Tommy's son, Charlie, taken from his cradle.
Tommy collapsed. Arthur raged. Polly trembled.
James burned.
He took to the streets in silence, hunting the shadows. Following whispers. Bribing, beating, burning if he had to.
When he found the man who held Charlie—a courier from the League—James didn't kill him.
He extracted his soul.
In the spirit realm, he bent the man's will, burned away the lies, and found the truth:
Father John Hughes.
Confrontation and Catharsis
The plan was set. Michael would face Hughes. James would keep the fire ready.
Michael did what had to be done.
When it was over, Hughes was a crumpled heap, and Michael wept over the body of his abuser and tormentor.
James sat beside him, silent.
"You're not a monster," James said.
Michael wiped his face. "Then why do I feel like one?"
James looked up at the stars.
"Because we've had to become what we were never meant to be. But that doesn't mean we stay that way."
End of the Chapter: Choosing the Crown
As the family gathered again—wounded but together—James sat alone at the edge of the Garrison's upper floor.
Tommy found him.
"Was it worth it?" Tommy asked.
"No," James answered. "But it was necessary."
"Will it always be?"
James didn't answer.
The fire within him was quiet—for now. But in the deep corners of his soul, Velakar smiled.
"You're not losing control," Tommy said finally. "Not yet."
"I need something to anchor me," James replied.
Tommy gave him a sideways look. "Then come with us. We've got a mission in Camden. Just a quick job. Simple. No Russians. No gods. No fire."
James allowed himself a dry smile. "Just Blinders?"
Tommy grinned. "Just Blinders."
And for the first time in months, James felt the ember of something else inside him:
Hope.