Chapter 29 — Shadows and Missteps
(Shadeblade POV)
The hooded man's whisper had lingered long after he vanished: "Next time, fall harder."
I felt it even now, pressed into my spine like the city itself was leaning in, watching. Portscab had a way of teaching lessons quietly. Not by blade, not by fire. By observation. By expectation. By the kind of silence that made every step feel like walking a tightrope over teeth.
I adjusted the boney mask, its familiar crack running from my left eye to cheek. Step lightly, Kaelen… Shadeblade, I reminded myself. Don't draw attention. Don't stumble. Don't humiliate yourself in front of Selia and Bran… though, knowing them, it was probably inevitable.
The alley narrowed as we advanced, forcing us into a tighter formation. Mira's hand gestures were subtle, surgical, orchestrating the group like a symphony of survival. Selia had taken to a rooftop, her gaze scanning the periphery, every shadow a threat, every flicker a potential enemy. Bran was upfront, silent for once, his bulk like a moving barricade. Korran stayed at the rear, cold, calculating, his presence a constant reminder of the stakes. Lysara lingered one step behind, observing, silent as ever, her quiet vigilance a subtle shield against unseen danger.
Then they appeared — the three mercenaries, half-hidden beneath leather hoods. They didn't attack, not yet. They just waited, measured, calculating. And somewhere nearby, the hooded man reappeared, unseen by everyone except me. His gaze was tethered to mine, a silent challenge.
I exhaled slowly. Tier-2. Disciplined. Fundamentals first. Observations second. Humor… optional.
The first mercenary lunged, blade slicing the dim air. I pivoted instinctively, bringing my sword up. The clash rang down the alley, sparks dancing along stone walls. My footing shifted—a loose cobblestone betrayed me. I stumbled just enough to glance off the edge of my balance. Not fatal. Not disastrous. Enough to keep the rhythm alive.
"Bravo, Skeleton," Selia's voice rang from above. "Graceful as ever."
Bran chuckled, muffled. "Ten points for style, minus fifty for dignity!"
I ignored them. Focus was not optional.
The second mercenary moved with deceptive speed. A thrust, then a pivot, then a follow-up that almost caught me off guard. I stumbled again—slightly, purposefully—just enough to redirect his momentum into a harmless tumble. Observation. Improvisation. Volrag's lessons manifested painfully, but effectively.
Korran's murmur reached me from behind: "Their rhythm is predictable. Your stumbles are not a weakness—they are a tool. Control them."
I didn't reply. Concentration consumed my every thought.
Selia, ever dramatic, launched from the rooftop to intercept one mercenary silently. The blade's movement was a whisper of steel, a precise strike that sent him sprawling into shadows. Mira directed Bran, who intercepted another attack with perfect timing, their coordination seamless. Lysara's presence, quiet and watchful, allowed me to anticipate threats that would have otherwise gone unnoticed.
The hooded man shifted, moving between crowd and shadow, eyes fixed. I felt the weight of his observation as though it were physical pressure. Every step we took, every minor stumble, every calculated pivot was being measured. The city wasn't attacking yet—but it was preparing. Waiting. Watching.
Another misstep. A cobblestone shifted. I nearly fell, catching myself with a swing that staggered a mercenary. Sparks flew. My sword felt heavier, not in weight but in responsibility. Bran's chuckle returned softly. "Still alive, Skeleton. That's progress."
"I hate you all," I muttered under the mask.
The alley widened into a small square. The mercenaries retreated, sensing the test was over. The hooded man disappeared once again, vanishing into the crowd like smoke.
Silence settled.
Selia landed beside me, smirking. "You survived. That's growth. You're learning Portscab's rhythm."
Mira's voice was calm but sharp. "They are studying your movements now. Expect attention, not confrontation."
Korran finally spoke, icy and precise. "Fundamentals are solid. Unpredictability is your weapon. Use it sparingly."
Lysara's quiet presence behind me reminded me that observation mattered as much as action. Her eyes followed shadows, scanned corners, and weighed each unseen possibility, silently supporting the group's cohesion.
I allowed myself a brief exhale. My legs were aching, muscles screaming, yet I could feel progress. Every stumble, every recovery, every minor success stitched together lessons Volrag had only hinted at months ago. Fundamentals, improvisation, awareness, rhythm—each combined with a sword and nothing else.
Portscab had taken notice. The city whispered my name without speaking it. The hooded man had set the standard. The mercenaries had measured my reactions. And I… survived.
But survival was not victory. It was merely a step toward it. The city, the shadows, and the unknown observers were patient—they would wait for a real mistake. One slip could cost more than embarrassment; it could cost lives.
I adjusted my grip on the sword. The weight of the mask felt heavier, the crack along my cheek more prominent. I reminded myself: humor was optional. Focus was not.
Bran nudged me, grinning despite the tension. "Skeleton, you're a disaster… but an effective one."
Selia laughed softly, perching on a post. "A clumsy hero, that's what you are."
I scowled beneath the mask, suppressing the instinct to trip on purpose just to spite them.
Mira's expression softened fractionally. "You're learning more than you realize. Observation, improvisation, rhythm… your fundamentals are taking shape in chaos."
Korran's gaze met mine briefly. "Portscab will test you again. And again. Your Tier-2 discipline is your foundation. Build on it, Shadeblade. Do not falter."
Lysara said nothing. She didn't need to. Her quiet vigilance was a reassurance stronger than words.
The sun dipped lower, shadows lengthening across the stone. The city was still watching. Counting. Waiting. Measuring.
And I knew, beneath the mask, that the next encounter would be more than an alley, more than mercenaries, more than whispers.
I had survived this test, clumsily, with stumbles and accidental flourishes, but alive. And that mattered.
Because survival, above all else, was the first real lesson of being Shadeblade.
And the city… would remember.