The dawn broke over Portscab like molten gold spilling over jagged rooftops, casting elongated shadows across the uneven cobblestones. The city was waking with a rhythm all its own: merchants shouting prices, laborers dragging crates, and the faint clang of smiths shaping metal for the day. For an outsider, Portscab could appear chaotic, but for those who observed closely, every movement had a pattern, every sound carried meaning, and every shadow could conceal a threat—or an opportunity.
He adjusted the strap of his mask, feeling the smooth bone-white surface against his skin. The thin crack etched along its cheek was a subtle imperfection, yet it made the mask more than a mere tool of concealment—it was a statement. Here, in Portscab, no one needed to know the man behind the mask. Only the deeds mattered, only the legend of Shadeblade would speak.
His first contract was deceptively simple: escort a group of merchants through the outer districts. The pay was modest, but enough to establish credibility, enough to begin the shadowed trail of whispers that would one day carry the name Shadeblade across the city.
The courtyard where they were to meet the merchants held a figure whose presence immediately commanded attention. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with the relaxed precision of someone who had walked through more danger than most could imagine, the man scanned the surroundings with a gaze that seemed to catch every detail without effort. His eyes, a muted steel-gray, held the calm weight of experience, noting every flicker of movement in the alleyways, every shadow that might conceal a threat. A faint scar traced his left cheek, silent testimony to battles fought and survived, but not flaunted—a mark of skill, not of vanity.
His hair was dark brown, streaked with silver at the temples and along the nape, tied loosely to avoid interference with movement. His armor was practical: worn leather layered under a muted long coat, with pouches, tools, and weapons carefully distributed across his person. At his hips hung twin short blades, sheathed and ready, while a light crossbow rested unobtrusively on his back. His hands were slightly calloused, his movements precise, deliberate, every gesture exuding efficiency and control. This was Korran Veyle, veteran mercenary, tactician, and subtle mentor—a figure whose presence alone spoke of authority, skill, and unshakable confidence.
"You're the new one, I assume," Korran's voice cut through the morning clamor, calm yet firm. "Mask hides your face, but not your posture. Stick close, observe, and don't overextend. The merchants we're escorting are wealthy enough to attract attention, and the streets… they're full of eyes and knives."
There was no warmth in his tone, yet no malice. It was not a greeting—it was an assessment, a subtle test. Shadeblade's eyes met Korran's, noting the quiet control, the measured authority that demanded attention without raising voice. This was the style of a mercenary who survived countless contracts: calm observation, calculated moves, and patient precision.
The merchants arrived shortly afterward, a small group escorted by a few nervous retainers. Korran moved forward, speaking in low, measured tones that conveyed both assurance and discretion. Shadeblade followed, carefully mirroring the veteran's posture and pace. Every step was deliberate; every glance, every shift of weight, was a calculated message of competence.
As they walked, Shadeblade noticed the subtle lessons Korran imparted without words. The veteran positioned himself between potential threats and his charges, maintained awareness of escape routes and choke points, and even used silence as a tool to influence both allies and adversaries. Shadeblade recognized that Korran's style was about control and influence, not raw strength—a lesson that would shape the way he approached every contract, every encounter, and eventually, every friend and enemy.
A minor encounter soon presented itself. Two loitering figures, likely opportunistic bandits, stepped from a side alley, intending a quick mugging. Shadeblade's instinct was to react immediately, but Korran shifted slightly, a hand moving subtly to the hilt of one blade. That small motion, almost invisible, was enough. The would-be attackers froze, reading a threat that had not been announced but clearly communicated. Korran did not speak; he did not strike. Yet the danger dissipated as efficiently as if he had.
Shadeblade understood the lesson: true skill did not always manifest in action. Sometimes, it was the perception of mastery and timing of restraint that dictated the outcome. He allowed himself a mental note—this would be his first principle to carry through Portscab: influence can be as lethal as any weapon.
Once the merchants reached their destination, Korran finally spoke directly to Shadeblade, his steel-gray eyes holding a faint glint of approval. "You have skill, I can see that. But skill without patience is a blade that cuts the hand that wields it. Watch, listen, and learn. The city rewards those who see more than what's in front of them. You're in Portscab now, and in this city, shadows speak louder than voices."
Shadeblade felt a rare sense of respect for the man. Korran Veyle was neither flashy nor boastful, but every movement, every word, every glance carried weight. He taught through observation, through subtle cues, through demonstrating patience, precision, and calm authority. In that quiet, he had become the first true mentor Shadeblade had encountered since entering the mercenary world.
The sun rose higher, illuminating the city fully, casting every shadow into sharp relief. Shadeblade realized that this was only the beginning. The mask he wore, the codename he would carry, and the lessons he would learn from veterans like Korran would shape him into something far greater than a simple mercenary. He would become a shadow, a name whispered before deeds were even done. Shadeblade would not just act; he would command perception.
And as they moved back through the streets, weaving between merchants, laborers, and guards, Korran's parting words echoed in his mind:
> "In Portscab, trust is earned in blood and silence, not in coin. Remember that, Shadeblade, and you may yet survive this city."