CHAPTER 17— "Whispers Don't Ask for Permission"
(Kaelen POV)
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Portscab never slept.
It only pretended to.
Even past midnight, the city breathed — damp stone exhaling rot, salt, and secrets. Lanterns flickered like nervous eyes, and every alley felt like it was leaning in to listen. I moved through it quietly, mask sealed against my face, cloak drawn low.
Shadeblade didn't rush.
Kaelen wanted to.
That difference almost got me killed.
I hadn't sensed her at all.
Not the shift in air. Not the pressure of killing intent. Not even the scrape of boots on stone.
The first warning was pain.
A sharp, burning line across my ribs — not deep enough to cripple, but precise enough to remind me how fragile I still was. I staggered forward, breath tearing out of my lungs, and barely managed to roll as a dagger embedded itself where my spine had been a heartbeat earlier.
"Too slow," a voice murmured.
Female. Calm. Amused.
I twisted, blade up, aura flaring on instinct — and froze.
She was already behind me.
That alone told me everything I needed to know.
Tier-3. Mid at least. Possibly late.
She leaned casually against a stack of crates, one knee bent, arms folded. Moonlight slid over her like it knew her personally.
Selia "Whisper" Nore.
I didn't know her name yet.
But Portscab already did.
She wasn't tall, but she carried herself like height was optional. Lean, flexible build — not the kind sculpted by brute force, but by repetition. Movement over muscle. Precision over power.
Her hair was ash-silver, cut unevenly, tied back with a strip of dark cloth that had seen more blood than dye. A few loose strands framed a sharp face marked by a thin scar across the bridge of her nose — old, healed badly, worn like a badge.
Her eyes, though…
Steel-grey. Focused. Alive.
Not predator eyes.
Hunter eyes.
"You're the one calling himself Shadeblade?" she asked, head tilting. "I expected someone… louder."
I didn't answer.
I couldn't afford to.
Every instinct screamed that if I moved wrong, I'd bleed again — or worse.
She noticed my silence and smiled faintly. "Smart. Talking gets people killed."
Then she was gone.
Not vanished.
Relocated.
A hand seized my collar from behind and slammed me face-first into the wall. Stone bit into my cheek. Something warm trickled down.
"Lesson one," she whispered near my ear. "Don't assume rooftops are empty."
I tried to elbow back.
She twisted my arm, applied pressure to a nerve cluster I didn't even know existed, and I dropped to one knee with a choked grunt.
Tier-1 strength meant nothing here.
Tier-2 technique was laughable.
She released me abruptly and stepped back, letting me fall.
I stayed down.
Not because I couldn't rise.
Because rising without a plan was suicide.
"Well?" she said. "You going to stab me, run, or think?"
I forced myself to breathe evenly. Slow. Controlled. Like Korran once drilled into me.
Think.
"I didn't come looking for a fight," I said.
"No one ever does," she replied. "They just stumble into one."
She crouched in front of me, inspecting the shallow cut on my ribs with professional interest. "You're bleeding wrong. Tension's off. Hurts more than it should."
"I'll survive."
"Oh, I'm sure." She stood. "Question is — should you?"
I looked up at her.
The mask hid my expression.
But not my resolve.
"I'm forming a crew."
That finally earned a real reaction.
She laughed.
Not mocking.
Genuinely amused.
"A crew?" she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "You can barely keep yourself alive."
"That's why I need people better than me."
Silence.
Heavy. Measuring.
She circled me slowly now, eyes dissecting every movement, every breath. "You're not Tier-3," she said. "Not even close."
"I know."
"You don't command aura properly."
"I know."
"You hesitate."
"I know."
She stopped in front of me.
"Then why should I listen to you?"
I thought of the blade in my ribs.
The wall against my face.
The ease with which she dismantled me.
And I answered honestly.
"Because I watch. I learn. And I don't waste people."
Something shifted.
Not trust.
Interest.
She flicked a dagger at my feet. I didn't flinch this time.
"Pick it up," she said.
I did.
"Come at me."
I hesitated.
She sighed. "Wrong answer."
She moved — and I barely managed to raise the dagger before she knocked it aside, hooked my ankle, and slammed me onto my back. Pain exploded through my shoulder.
I groaned.
She crouched again. "Lesson two," she said lightly. "Suffering teaches faster than pride."
Then, cruelly, she offered a hand.
I took it.
She pulled me up easily, like I weighed nothing.
"You're stupid," she said. "But not useless."
I exhaled sharply. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me tonight."
She snorted. "You'll fit in."
"Does that mean—"
"Yes," she cut in. "I'll work with you."
I blinked. "Just like that?"
"Oh no," she smiled. "I'm not loyal yet. I'm curious."
She leaned close, whispering like a secret meant only for me.
"Break under pressure," she said softly, "and I'll be the one who ends you."
Then she straightened, stretching casually.
"Oh — and Shadeblade?"
"Yes?"
"You owe me a drink."
I frowned. "Why?"
She grinned. "Because watching you get beaten unconscious by Bran later is going to be thirsty work."
For the first time that night…
I laughed.
Quiet. Tired. Real.
Portscab listened.
And somewhere in its shadows, the first true whisper of Shadeblade began to breathe.