Portscab was alive with noise, movement, and the faint stench of commerce gone wrong. Merchants shouted over each other, carts rattled over cobblestones, and the occasional clatter of hooves added percussion to the urban chaos. Yet, Vaelric Dorn walked through it as though it were a quiet, private corridor—a stage built for him alone. Tall, lean, and honed by both noble training and Veyrin heritage, he moved with precision, each step deliberate, each gesture calculated.
His face was a portrait of sharp angles and predatory elegance. High cheekbones, pale skin with a subtle sheen, and dark ash-brown hair styled perfectly made him impossible to miss. But it was his silver eyes, metallic and slightly elongated, that truly defined him. Born of his Veyrin bloodline, they caught light in unusual ways, glinting with the faintest metallic sheen that could unnerve those who met his gaze. People instinctively felt he saw more than he let on—and often, he did.
He had always known he was different. Half Dorn, half Veyrin—a fact whispered about in noble circles, admired in some, feared in others. He did not hide it; he wore it like armor. His silver eyes, heightened perception, and subtle charisma were gifts of that lineage, advantages he wielded carefully. Pride came naturally. Being half-breed was not a curse; it was preparation. A constant reminder that he must observe, calculate, and prove himself in every circumstance.
As Vaelric strode past the chaotic stalls, his eyes cataloged every detail: a merchant adjusting a crooked sign, a guard yawning as he leaned against a post, an urchin darting across rooftops. Nothing escaped him. And then he noticed something different—a presence that did not belong.
A masked figure, moving with fluid precision through the crowd. The pale mask, cracked faintly along the cheek, hid the man's identity entirely. Yet the aura of control, skill, and silent authority radiated clearly. Vaelric's first reaction was prideful dismissal. A common mercenary, masking himself to seem important.
But instinct pricked sharply at the edge of his awareness. The masked figure's movements were deliberate, almost predatory. The way people instinctively avoided him, the flow of the crowd subtly influenced without words or gestures, spoke of skill beyond mere chance or training. Vaelric's pride flared, but curiosity, rare and unwelcome, stirred alongside it.
He followed at a careful distance, observing every motion. Two petty thieves moved toward a merchant, confident and greedy. The masked figure shifted—just a tilt of the shoulders, a subtle repositioning—and the threat dissolved. No blade was drawn, no shout was made, yet the would-be attackers fled. Vaelric's jaw tightened. Unbelievable. But… effective.
He reflected on himself, on his bloodline, and the edge it gave him. His Veyrin heritage offered heightened perception, instinctive intuition, and subtle influence over those around him. And yet, even with these advantages, this masked man unsettled him. He cataloged each motion, each glance, each pause. This is no ordinary opponent. This is skill refined, disciplined, and deliberate.
Determined to assert himself, Vaelric closed the distance, voice formal and commanding: "You there. Step aside. I have business to attend to." Pride, polish, and authority colored every word.
The masked figure paused, a subtle shift indicating awareness. Vaelric felt the presence of someone fully aware, fully capable, and for the first time in a long while, his silver eyes registered hesitation. The man's voice finally cut through the market noise, calm and controlled:
"You are walking where shadows move faster than words. Keep pace, or step aside. Portscab does not wait for pride."
Vaelric bristled. Half-breed or not, I am a Dorn, he reminded himself, yet instinct whispered caution. He cataloged the figure's movements—the flow of the crowd, the subtle positioning, the anticipatory timing. This masked mercenary—already forming a name in Vaelric's mind: Shadeblade—was a rival, a challenge, and a mirror of the skills Vaelric himself had honed since childhood.
By the time Shadeblade disappeared into the crowd, Vaelric's thoughts churned. Pride clashed with curiosity; arrogance tangled with admiration. The city felt different, quieter, almost diminished by the shadow the masked man had left behind. Vaelric adjusted his coat, lifted his chin, and let his Veyrin eyes roam the streets, gleaming with both pride and the faintest hint of humility.
He was a half-breed noble, fully aware of the advantages and the prejudices that came with it. And he understood, for the first time today, that bloodline was not the only measure of power. Observation, perception, and skill could rival heritage itself. Shadeblade would not be forgotten, and Vaelric Dorn would be ready for the next encounter—proud, calculating, and fully aware of the challenge that now awaited him.