Solari asked me to recount our time recruiting members for the Shadow Hand—a directive I'd anticipated. Well—he asked Kaelen first, but Kaelen dismissed it—more important duties, no time for scribbling "for pleasure." His tone was flat, edged with impatience. As if ink itself were beneath his station.
It's Laboritus again—tasked with the record. My quill moves methodically across parchment in the hideout's flickering torchlight, a duty I accept without sentiment. Mostly.
We headed out that morning—boots striking in unison—following Kaelen's lead, his cloak drawn tight against the dawn's bite. My sister Varra, Mavik, and I had been tasked with recruiting new members—Solari's orders clear, his intent precise. Sparing me from their mission in Thoringard was a kindness I won't soon forget. Logical, given Varra's presence and my utility here. But still—kindness.
"Hey Kaelen, buddy, where are we headed to find new recruits?" Mavik asked—curiosity piqued, voice carrying that casual lilt he never sheds—his broad frame lumbering beside me, hands restless with idle energy. He always had that tone—even with people of high rank—a habit Kaelen once corrected with sharp rebukes. Eventually, he resigned to Mavik's informality, a concession to practicality over protocol.
I glanced sideways. A small flare of amusement slipped through me. He never stops.
"We're going to Veyrith," Kaelen replied—gaze fixed ahead—his Diminari stature cutting a lean shadow through the thinning mist. "I've got leads—a handful of promising candidates."
"A city run by a crime syndicate? That's a gold mine for recruits," I mused—rubbing my chin—Veyrith's lawless sprawl a breeding ground for the skilled and desperate, ideal for the Hand's needs.
Veyrith hides where Volstruum Valley kisses the Adrestia Forest—a city of crooked spires and fog-wreathed streets, cloaked in the whispering veil of its river. Ruled by the Veiled Chain—a syndicate of cutthroats, corrupted mages, and masked informants—it thrives on secrecy. Power is currency. Order is a myth. Vanishings are routine.
We arrived under cover of dusk—mist clinging to rooftops, draping alleys in silence. The air was a haze of smoke, rot, and spice—an assault as constant as the city's pulse. Wet stone, incense from hidden altars, stale wine, and blood. Everything here whispered. Nothing breathed easy.
Kaelen moved ahead—cloak drawn close—his Diminari frame slipping through the crowd with practiced ease. Kaelen's calm never faltered. He speaks with the certainty of someone who's seen what happens when hesitation costs lives—and decided he would never pay it again.
Varra stalked behind—golden eyes sharp, sword unsheathed, greatshield up. Varra didn't scan the crowd—she dissected it. Looking for trajectories, not people.
I kept my arms crossed—my own seven-foot bulk parting the throng. Thuumar didn't need to speak to command a path.
Mavik brought up the rear—unreadable behind his burn-scarred face—his weathered armor dulled beneath a tattered cloak. Even he was quiet. Veyrith had that effect.
Kaelen stopped near a fog-choked square—crooked stalls leaning under flickering lanterns—where shadowy figures darted between wares. He glanced back.
"Our first lead's here. They call him Hollow Step. Or Silent Death."
"And the catch?" I asked, voice low, brow lifting. Always a variable.
Kaelen's mouth twitched. "He's a mystery. All we know is he leaves bodies. Efficient. Quiet."
I felt it then—curiosity, buried and swift. The unknown always mattered.
We moved like ghosts—searching the square's edges. But we didn't find him.
He found us.
A figure emerged from the fog like a wraith summoned by will—pale as moonlight, silver veins glowing faint beneath taut skin. Polished steel eyes. A frayed cloak, hem weighted for blade concealment. No menace shouted from him. It whispered—death in stillness.
Mist parted around him, sleet on the air. His cloak bore a faint frost sheen, like he'd passed through winter to get here.
A Nightblood—soul reclaimed by Tenumbra, the Silent Keeper. Few return from her grip. Fewer still remain whole. Fewer still speak in voices colder than memory.
"I heard the Shadow Hand was gone," he said—voice like frost scraping stone.
"It's rebuilding," I answered—even. Calm.
He studied me—head tilting faintly. Steel eyes catching the lantern light like polished ruin. For a breath, I wondered what kind of death it took to make a creature like that. Then he nodded—acceptance, not warmth.
"The Veiled Chain is becoming... an annoyance."
Kaelen stepped forward. "We're recruiting. Interested?"
The barest smile—lips not even curving, just... considering.
"A shipment of weapons arrives tonight. Take it out—quietly. Secure the crates. Then I'll consider your offer."
And like mist, he was gone.
We waited until nightfall in the outskirts of the quarter—keeping to a low rooftop overlooking the Veiled River. Mist pooled thick around the pilings, lanterns along the dock barely cutting the gray.
Mavik cleaned his explosives with slow, precise movements—quiet for once, his fingers tracing runes like old prayers. Varra stood watch, unmoving—statue still, shield strapped and ready. Kaelen sat cross-legged, eyes closed, not meditating—measuring.
I kept scanning the river. Not for the ship. For Dareth.
It hadn't escaped me—how cleanly he vanished. How certain he was. No questions. No hesitation.
Most people bluff when they say "prove yourself." Dareth issued it like a recipe.
I reviewed the plan again. Not because I'd forgotten—but because the silence before a strike demands something to hold. Something to shape the moment. Thought becomes precision. Precision becomes action.
When the ship's silhouette finally emerged—cutting through the fog like a blade—my pulse didn't rise.
Varra and Mavik took position behind the stalls—shadows in warped canvas. I scaled a rooftop—seven feet of Thuumar bulk balanced above sagging shingles. Bow drawn. Arrow nocked. Kaelen crouched behind crates—cloak pooled dark, daggers winking like teeth.
I drew a whispersting arrow—what Kaelen jokingly called "Needle's Mercy." It wasn't a joke to the people who felt it.
The ship arrived—its hull slicing the river fog like a blade. The dock groaned beneath it. Five masked figures. Crates moving. Orders low.
The first arrow took the lookout in the throat—bloodless, breathless. Crumpled in silence.
One.
Kaelen moved—a flicker of shadow—his blade slit a throat, then plunged into a second target. Two more down.
Second arrow—leader, through the neck. Slumped silent.
Last one turned—too slow.
Kaelen was already there.
Then a creak—the captain's cabin. One more. I had already loosed the third arrow before his boot touched the plank.
He folded mid-step.
Five shots. Five kills. No sound. No trace.
My pulse held steady—but I blinked. Just once. Not at the dead. At the silence. At how easy it had become.
We offloaded the crates—twenty in total. Wood rough under my grip. No alarms raised.
Kaelen traced a glyph. "Umbra via. Aperi."
Red light flared. The crates vanished into ether.
"Did... did we just steal them into a different plane? That's illegal, right?"
—Mavik blinked, tossing the explosive once, then twice.
"No. It's strategic storage. Illegal would've been letting you carry them."
Kaelen didn't even glance up.
The figure reappeared—silver-veined, pale, steel-eyed.
"I'll admit," he said, frost in his voice. "Didn't think you'd pull it off."
Kaelen shrugged. "Efficient and silent is the Hand's creed."
The Nightblood nodded. "I'm tired of trying to survive in this pit. Veyrith betrayed me long ago. I'm ready to do something with my second chance."
I watched him. Too calm. Too prepared. No questions. No doubts.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Dareth."
Then to Kaelen—"The Viper."
To Varra—"The Walking Fortress."
To Mavik—"Destruction's Caller."
He looked at me last.
"You—Laboritus. The one whose arrows never miss."
I froze.
A flicker behind my sternum. Like something pulling taut.
Then he added—low, certain:
"Five shots. Five kills. No sound. No trace. Just like you said it would be."
I went still.
I never said that aloud.
Not once.
Not even in the report.
It wasn't a mantra. It was just how I moved. How I thought. A rhythm I kept only in motion.
And he knew it anyway.
He turned, already fading—mist curling around his limbs, cloak fraying like torn paper at the edges. The silver-veined skin caught one last gleam of lantern light before the fog swallowed him whole.
No footsteps. No sound.
Just absence.
"I know the drill," he said, voice nearly gone. "I know the path to your doorstep."
Then nothing.
That was the night I earned the name they whispered in Veyrith's alleys.
Unseen Death.
Not because I asked for it.
Not because I wanted it.
But because the silence remembered.
And so did he.
He vanished.
And for the first time in years, I felt it—doubt. Cold and quiet.
Not because he knew too much.
Because he was already prepared.