Chapter 15 — Shadeblade's Perspective: The Noble in Silver Eyes
The market smelled of smoke, sweat, and stale bread, a heady mix that might have overwhelmed anyone else. Shadeblade moved through it as though it were nothing more than a chessboard, each passerby a piece to be noted, assessed, and ignored unless relevant. He felt the rhythm of the city pulse through him: the clatter of carts over cobblestones, the murmurs of merchants, the scuffle of children darting across stalls. Everything mattered, but not everything required reaction.
He had been hired for a simple job: protect a merchant caravan while moving it through Portscab's congested streets. Simple, but simplicity was a luxury most would misuse. Shadeblade preferred observation first, subtle influence second, and action only when unavoidable. That was why he had worn the mask—to let the city reveal itself to him, without the distraction of recognition, without unnecessary interference.
Yet today, something—or rather someone—caught his attention.
The nobleman walking ahead moved differently than the rest. Not because of his posture or the precision of his steps alone—but because of the presence he carried. Shadeblade noted the long, lean form, the careful elegance of movement, the dark ash-brown hair styled to perfection, the polished leather boots that absorbed sound. He cataloged the hands—gloved, controlled, fingers flexing subtly as though ready for combat or command at a moment's notice.
And then there were the eyes.
Silver, metallic, and sharp. Predatory, almost unnatural in the way they caught the light. Shadeblade froze for a heartbeat, observing more than reacting. These were Veyrin eyes, he realized instinctively. Not human in perception alone, but in the aura they carried—the awareness, the subtle influence, the hint of bloodline advantage. The noble was not only capable; he was aware. And that awareness was dangerous if underestimated.
Shadeblade allowed himself a brief internal smirk. Prideful, elegant, fully armored in noble arrogance—but perceptive. He could see it in the slight shift of shoulders when the market crowd pressed closer, the micro-adjustments in stance, the way his gaze cataloged every potential threat. The nobleman moved with confidence, but confidence was not enough to survive in these streets—Shadeblade had seen arrogance like this fall before.
He followed, unseen but alert, noting each action. Two petty thieves moved toward a distracted merchant, expecting an easy target. Shadeblade's hand shifted slightly toward the hidden dagger at his hip—not in aggression, but in preparation. A tilt of his body, a slight shift of weight, and the thieves faltered. Subtle pressure, silent influence. They fled, hearts hammering. Success. No one but Shadeblade noticed the minor victory, and he allowed himself the quiet satisfaction.
The nobleman's eyes flicked toward the incident—not in fear, but in assessment. Shadeblade noted it. He cataloged the glance, the micro-expression of surprise mixed with curiosity, the unspoken acknowledgment of skill. This man—Vaelric Dorn, as he would later come to know him—was both arrogant and aware, the dangerous combination that required careful attention.
Shadeblade's mind worked rapidly, noting opportunities and risks. The noble carried his advantages openly: sword at his hip, elegant gloves, posture, and silver eyes that could unsettle the unwary. Yet there were gaps: the confidence born of privilege, the subtle overreliance on perception and bloodline, and the arrogance that made him underestimate shadows. That was where Shadeblade thrived. Shadows were his allies; patience, his weapon; observation, his domain.
He allowed himself a thought that made him almost grin behind the mask: A noble who can see. A half-breed who can read the room. Interesting.
As the caravan reached a narrower street, Shadeblade noted Vaelric closing the distance, voice carrying authority, polished, formal. "You there. Step aside. I have business to attend to." The words were sharp, deliberate, prideful, and commanding—the voice of someone accustomed to obedience, not negotiation.
Shadeblade did not respond with words. He did not need to. A shift of posture, a tiny step aside, and the flow of the noble was redirected. Observation first. Influence second. Patience maintained. He did not act hastily; there was no need.
In the brief silence of shared space, Shadeblade allowed himself internal reflection. The noble's Veyrin eyes hinted at instincts and perception sharpened beyond human norms. His movements suggested training and intelligence. Yet there was something missing: subtle caution, the kind that only experience outside gilded walls could teach. That missing element was Shadeblade's advantage—he could influence, redirect, and guide outcomes without ever revealing himself.
For the rest of the journey, Shadeblade maintained quiet control. Minor threats were neutralized, the caravan moved efficiently, and the noble followed without overt interference. Observation revealed more than action: the subtle adjustments Vaelric made, the way he positioned himself, the careful calibration of attention and presence. Every detail would be remembered, cataloged, and used later—both as opportunity and potential challenge.
By the time the caravan reached safety, Shadeblade had already made his mental assessment. Vaelric Dorn was not to be underestimated. Pride and bloodline alone did not define him—half-breed instincts, perception, and subtle intelligence created a dangerous combination. Shadeblade's curiosity was piqued. He would watch, learn, and measure this noble, not for immediate confrontation, but for eventual understanding.
In the quiet after the movement, as the mask hid his features and the city resumed its chaotic rhythm, Shadeblade allowed himself the faintest acknowledgment of amusement. This noble—proud, sharp, aware—would either become a formidable ally or a challenging rival. Both outcomes intrigued him.
And beneath the mask, behind the calculated calm, Shadeblade already planned for the future: observation, patience, subtle lessons, and the slow shaping of interactions that would reveal the truth about Vaelric Dorn's capabilities, strengths, and weaknesses.
The silver of those eyes—the unnatural gleam, the predatory awareness—would not be forgotten. And neither would the lessons learned today.