Chapter 27 — Whispers Don't Laugh
(Shadeblade POV)
Portscab woke up meaner than usual.
That was my first thought as we left the noble's district behind — laughter still echoing in my ears, bruises blooming beneath my coat, and the faint suspicion that the city itself had decided today was not a comedy.
The streets narrowed as we descended. Less light. Less noise. Less tolerance for mistakes.
I adjusted my grip on the sword.
Not the mask. Never the mask.
The bone-white surface felt heavier today, the crack along its left side catching shadows in a way that made reflections look… wrong. Not threatening. Just unfinished. Like me.
Selia noticed.
She always did.
"Wow," she said from somewhere above and behind, voice softer than usual. "Skeleton's quiet. That's new."
"I'm conserving dignity," I muttered. "I've lost enough for one day."
Bran snorted. "Can dignity be conserved? Thought yours was a renewable resource."
Korran didn't react. He walked ahead of us, steady, measured, his presence pulling the group into rhythm without effort. No wasted steps. No unnecessary movement.
I watched him carefully.
This is what Tier-3 Ascendant looks like when it's not trying to impress anyone.
Mira fell into step beside me, lowering her voice. "Word's already spreading. About… earlier."
I groaned. "Please tell me they're focusing on effectiveness."
She smiled thinly. "They're focusing on you."
Of course they were.
Portscab didn't care how you survived — only that you did so loudly enough for others to notice.
We were heading to the Lower Hook — a market district where information changed hands faster than coin. Selia had picked up something odd during the last job. Too many eyes. Too much interest.
Not hostile.
Not friendly.
Curious.
Curiosity in Portscab was dangerous.
As we entered the district, conversations dipped. Not stopped — just lowered. I felt it then, that prickling sensation along my spine.
Volrag, my mind supplied automatically.
> "When eyes follow you but blades don't, boy, someone's measuring your worth."
I hated that he was right so often.
We split naturally without discussion. Selia vanished upward. Bran lingered to the left, making himself obvious. Mira drifted toward a merchant stall, already negotiating for information disguised as spices.
I… walked.
Carefully.
Very carefully.
The ground here was uneven, patched with old stone and newer wood, warped by moisture and neglect. My instincts screamed trip hazard.
I lifted my feet higher than necessary.
Did not trip.
Small victory.
Then someone laughed.
Not Bran's booming kind. Not Selia's sharp tease.
This laugh was quiet. Amused. Close.
A figure leaned against a post ahead, clapping slowly. Well-dressed. Too well for this district. Young. Smug.
Ah.
So that's how today is going.
"Shadeblade," the man said, voice dripping with practiced arrogance. "Portscab's newest performance artist."
I stopped.
Didn't turn.
Korran slowed — just slightly.
The man continued, "Word is, you fight like a drunk cartwheel and somehow survive. Fascinating. Tell me, is it talent… or dumb luck?"
Bran growled softly.
Selia didn't move.
I exhaled.
Don't rise to it, Volrag's voice warned.
Steel answers better than ego.
I turned slowly.
The noble's son — because of course he was — looked barely older than me, posture loud with inherited confidence. No scars. No calluses. Tier-1 at best.
"Luck," I said simply. "It trips people when they get too close."
There was a ripple of quiet laughter from nearby listeners.
The noble sneered. "Careful. Jesters don't last long here."
I took a step forward.
My foot caught on a raised stone.
For a split second, I felt the familiar drop — the loss of balance, the impending humiliation—
—and then I adjusted.
Knee bent. Core tightened. Sword hand shifted.
I didn't fall.
Instead, my stumble redirected me.
I slid past him, blade flashing just enough to slice the decorative cord at his waist. His coin pouch dropped, scattering metal across the stones in a humiliating clatter.
Silence.
Then laughter.
Not kind.
Not cruel.
Honest.
The noble froze, staring at his spilled wealth.
I leaned in, voice low. "Careful," I said. "The ground here punishes arrogance."
Behind me, Bran lost it completely.
Selia clapped once from above. "Ten points! Minus zero dignity this time!"
Korran spoke, calm and cutting. "Lesson delivered. Move."
The noble flushed, scrambling for his coins, pride bleeding faster than his purse.
We walked on.
My heart was hammering.
Not from fear.
From control.
I hadn't tripped.
I hadn't lashed out.
I'd used the mistake — my mistake — as leverage.
That… felt new.
Mira caught up, eyes sharp. "That was clean."
I shrugged. "Still almost fell."
"Yes," she agreed. "But you didn't."
Selia dropped beside me a moment later, grinning. "You're evolving. Soon you'll be tripping on purpose."
"Let's not rush perfection," I muttered.
We reached the Hook's edge as dusk settled. That's when Selia stiffened.
"Problem," she whispered.
Figures detached from the crowd ahead. Five. Quiet. Watching. Not gang thugs.
Mercenaries.
Their stances were wrong — too balanced, too aware.
Tier-3, my instincts whispered. Mid. Maybe late.
Bran cracked his neck. "Finally. Serious company."
Korran stepped forward, hand resting lightly on his blade. "Formation," he said.
No panic.
No shouting.
Just movement.
I took my place without thinking.
And for the first time, I realized something terrifying.
I know where I belong.
The mercenaries advanced.
And this time—
I didn't trip.