Chapter 20 — The First Contract
(Kaelen / "Shadeblade" POV)
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The fog clung to the narrow streets of Portscab, curling around the wagon wheels and muffling footsteps. Damp cobblestones gleamed in the weak sunlight, each creak and grind echoing into the silence. I adjusted my mask, feeling the smooth bone against my face. The crack from my left eye to cheek split the pale surface like a scar carved by fate itself. Shadeblade. A name meant to conceal me, intimidate, and mark my survival.
Selia crouched on a low rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, a smirk curling her lips. "Try not to embarrass yourself, Shadeblade. I'd hate to see you faceplant in front of a Tier‑3."
Bran's laughter followed, deep and booming, as he cracked his massive iron-clad knuckles. "Charm won't save you when someone actually decides to hit you. Keep up or I'll do it for them."
I gritted my teeth beneath the mask. Humor and mockery were shields against the tight coil of nerves in my chest. I had only my sword, my body, and the lessons Volrag had hammered into me: stance, grip, balance, footwork, angles, patience. Nothing flashy. No named techniques. Just raw fundamentals and raw will.
Mira rode alongside the merchants' wagon, amber eyes scanning every shadow and every movement, ledger in hand. Her aura pressed lightly but insistently against my perception. Tier‑3. I was Tier‑1, fragile and untested, but I had to survive.
A sudden clang overhead made me flinch. Arrows whistled past, one grazing my shoulder. Pain flared, a sharp reminder that mistakes weren't forgiven.
Selia dropped like smoke, appearing behind two attackers, her movements a blur. Daggers flashed, and they crumpled silently. Bran barreled through the fray, fists smashing enemies into walls with devastating force, while Mira's voice cut through the chaos with precise, calculating commands.
I swung, stumbled, adjusted, struck again. The first strike missed completely. The second grazed a bandit's arm. The third staggered him but left him standing. Selia's voice sliced from above: "Move, Shadeblade! Not like a corpse, like someone who might actually survive this!"
My chest tightened. Ribs ached. Muscles burned. Panic and fear surged, then receded under the slow burn of focus. Humor flickered briefly — I might have laughed if my lungs weren't full of tension and sweat.
Another attacker lunged. I pivoted, guided the blade along the correct angle, and felt it connect with satisfying impact. Relief surged, fleeting and intense. Bran's roar followed behind me. "Finally! You move like a man!"
Selia rolled her eyes. "Don't get cocky. You'll pay if you do."
Blood ran from a nick on my lip. My ribs and shoulders screamed. My mask hid the grimace, but I could feel the strain in every fiber of my body. Mira's gaze was steady. "Observe, adapt, survive. Remember this."
The remaining attackers fled, leaving the caravan battered but intact. I leaned on my sword, every muscle trembling, chest heaving. The mask hid sweat, blood, and exhaustion, but the weight of survival pressed heavily on my shoulders. Humor, panic, fear, pride, relief, and humiliation all mingled beneath it, a cocktail that left me dizzy and alive.
Selia dropped from the rooftop lightly, brushing dust from her cloak. "Points for surviving."
Bran clapped me on the shoulder, almost doubling me over. "Barely. But progress counts."
Mira's amber eyes met mine, cold and calculating. "This was only a taste. Pay attention. Adapt. Survive."
I let out a shaky breath, tasting copper on my tongue, feeling the tension finally ease just enough to notice it. Pain, fear, panic, thrill, humor — all of it sharpened me. I had survived. Not perfectly. Not heroically. But alive.
Shadeblade had walked through his first trial in Portscab. Whispers would follow. And I would be ready to endure whatever came next.