Chapter 19 — Secrets and Locks
(Kaelen/"Shadeblade" POV)
---
Portscab's alleyways smelled of salt, smoke, and iron — the sort of scent that never left you, no matter how far you ran. The early morning haze wrapped around stone walls like a cloak. Lanterns flickered feebly, struggling against the dim sun.
I followed Selia "Whisper" Nore through the twisting paths, her footsteps silent, effortless. She led the way without looking back, as if she already knew I'd follow. Behind my mask, my jaw tightened. I felt every whisper of the city, every vibration along the cobblestone, every shadow that flickered in the corner of my vision. Aura tingled along my fingers and arms, reinforced subtly through muscle and bone — the only magic I allowed myself in this mercenary arc.
The warehouse courtyard opened before us. Crates stacked unevenly, dust and straw scattered across the ground, and in the center, a figure leaned casually against a column. Long fingers drummed across a ledger like a musician teasing a melody.
Mira "Locks" Tenvel.
Tier-3 Path-Bearer. Mid-level. Observed through the eyes of a predator. Her aura wasn't aggressive. It didn't press against your body. It pressed against your mind. Standing near her felt heavier than carrying a dozen steel swords. Every small decision suddenly carried weight.
She tilted her head at me, amber eyes gleaming. "Shadeblade," she said, speaking my mercenary name, the mask concealing my true face, my heritage, my hybrid bloodline. "The half-breed who thinks a sword and stubbornness are enough to form a crew."
I didn't flinch. My hand rested lightly on my sword. "Kaelen," I corrected softly, voice muffled beneath the mask.
Her smile was brief. "I know your name. I also know your limits."
Selia snorted beside me. "Morning, Locks. You're cruel as usual."
Mira's gaze flicked toward her, then returned to me. "Limits are fascinating," she said. "Not for punishment, but for discovery. The question is whether you recognize yours before they're used against you."
I gripped the hilt tighter. My aura, uneven and untrained, reinforced my muscles, steadied my grip, sharpened my perception. Volrag's words echoed faintly: A style you forge will die with you. I had no style yet. Only fundamentals. Only the sword. Only survival.
Mira stepped forward, calm, deliberate. Each motion precise. Nothing wasted. Yet every gesture carried unspoken meaning, subtle pressure, like a predator testing a new prey. She stopped just short of my reach and produced a small brass padlock, tossing it to me casually.
"Open it," she said.
I frowned. "With my sword?"
"Do what you must. This is your test." Her eyes glimmered with curiosity. Tier-3 intellect pressing against Tier-1 determination, soon to climb toward Tier-2 Tempered.
I knelt, examining the lock. My blade was fine steel, perfectly balanced for combat — not delicate manipulations. My aura flowed along the steel tip, trying to feel the inner mechanisms, but my fundamentals weren't enough for finesse.
Click — nothing.
Another attempt — nothing.
Mira watched, expression calm, unwavering. I could feel her thoughts brushing the edges of my mind: amusement, curiosity, judgment. Every failed attempt echoed in her presence like the toll of a bell.
"Try again," she finally said. "Think less like a swordsman, more like someone who survives without one."
I swallowed. My ribs still ached from Bran's brutal teaching yesterday. My shoulder burned. My aura was frayed, uneven, but I concentrated, extending it subtly along the blade, letting it guide my hands instead of force them. Visualizing tumblers as threads of aura, I adjusted the tip, breathing slowly, focusing entirely.
Click.
The padlock sprang open.
Selia whistled. "Wow. That was… something."
Mira's smile was almost imperceptible. "Not luck. Observation. Adaptation. Even the Touched can begin to temper themselves."
I exhaled, muscles trembling. Tier-1 Touched barely scratching the surface of Tier-2 Tempered, facing a Path-Bearer who could manipulate outcomes without moving a finger.
"Lesson one," she said, handing me a scroll. "Limits are lessons. Weakness is opportunity. Understand it, or your crew suffers."
I accepted the map. The first contract. I felt the weight of responsibility pressing into my shoulders. My sword, bare and imperfect, hung at my side. My mask concealed my face, but my aura betrayed nothing of doubt.
Portscab had introduced me to allies I would have to survive alongside — Selia, the stealthy Shadow; Bran, the unyielding Ironhand; and now Mira, the mind-breaking Path-Bearer.
The mercenary arc had begun.
And Shadeblade — whispered, masked, untested — would have to bleed, learn, and forge a path of his own before the world recognized him.