Chapter 31.5 — Shadows of Betrayal & Midnight Feast
(Shadeblade POV)
The alley finally quieted, monsters downed, Sylas bound, and the city's whispers receding into the night. My legs ached, my arms trembled slightly from the Tier‑2 sword-only fight, and my mask felt heavier than usual, smeared with dust and grime. The crack running from my left eye to cheek seemed almost symbolic—a reminder that survival carried scars, both physical and mental.
Selia perched on an overturned crate like a queen claiming her throne. "Skeleton," she teased, "you survived. That deserves something more than applause. How about… food?"
Bran's booming laughter filled the alley. "Food? Finally! I was beginning to think Portscab only offered death and betrayal!"
Mira smirked, precise as ever. "We can't fight effectively on empty stomachs. Lysara, help me retrieve the supplies from the merchant wagons. Improvisation is necessary for survival—and apparently, for tonight, a feast."
Even Korran's expression softened slightly, if only imperceptibly. "Efficiency first. Sustenance second. But morale… essential."
We found a small courtyard safe enough for a few hours. Bran built a fire with impressive force, tossing logs as if they weighed nothing. Selia and Mira arranged meat, bread, and whatever vegetables could be salvaged. Lysara silently cleaned and sharpened her blade, checking every edge with cold precision, ensuring nothing could compromise the team—even during a meal.
I flopped against a crate, mask still on, muttering, "Tier‑2 Disciplined… barely alive… and now feast."
Selia tossed me a loaf of bread. "Come on, Skeleton, even heroes need carbs. Don't trip on it, though. That's one thing I wouldn't laugh at."
Bran tore into a chunk of roasted meat. "Carbs, protein, victory. Perfect combo!"
I bit into the bread, grimacing as crumbs scattered. Selia snorted. "Even your meals are dramatic."
Lysara finally spoke, calm and precise. "Eat carefully. Energy recovery is essential. Tomorrow will test us more than tonight."
Korran observed from the shadows, silent but calculating. "You survived combat through fundamentals, teamwork, and improvisation. Humor is optional—but morale is not. This… gathering reinforces cohesion."
Mira exhaled, arranging vegetables. "Even in chaos, a moment of calm is worth preserving. Treasure it. Tomorrow brings tests beyond combat."
I glanced at my allies—Selia teasing, Bran devouring, Mira precise, Lysara composed and deadly, Korran cold but present. Somehow, despite the monsters, the city, and the lurking shadows, this felt like victory.
Selia raised a mug, spilling a little ale in excitement. "To surviving the undead, the treacherous, and Skeleton's spectacular trips!"
Bran laughed, raising his cup. "And to teamwork, sharp swords, and Lysara finally talking during a meal!"
I groaned beneath the mask. "Can't we have one night without a roast?"
Selia winked. "Not a chance. You're too entertaining."
Lysara's rare, subtle smile was enough to acknowledge our survival. Korran's gaze softened fractionally, approving the momentary respite. For a few hours, laughter mingled with the night air, swords rested, and the crew's cohesion deepened.
But the calm was fleeting.
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By the time dawn painted the sky in gray and silver, the warmth of last night's fire had faded. Muscles ached anew, tension simmering beneath our temporary relief. Selia perched on a rooftop, stretching and muttering about breakfast. Bran yawned, rubbing his jaw, while Mira arranged maps and scouting notes with her usual precision. Lysara moved silently, inspecting weapons. Korran lingered in shadow, expression cold, eyes sharp.
And me—Shadeblade—mask snug, sword at hand, bracing for what the day might bring.
Then came the subtle warning—a folded note slipped under the warehouse door. I picked it up carefully. The seal was unfamiliar. Unfolding it, I read:
"Abandon them, survive the day. Refuse, and they will bleed before nightfall."
A chill ran down my spine. Betrayal wasn't loud. It wasn't in the monsters, the city, or the clamor of combat—it was quiet, insidious, wrapped in a simple threat. Someone knew us. Someone knew me. Someone wanted leverage.
Selia leaned over my shoulder, frowning. "Skeleton… this isn't a joke."
Bran's voice rumbled. "Who the hell would dare—?"
Mira interrupted, her tone precise yet tense. "We've been watched. Someone—inside or outside—plans leverage. Shadeblade… it's directed at you. Consider carefully."
Lysara's eyes, sharp as blades themselves, locked onto mine. "Abandon your team for survival, or fight alongside them and risk death. Calculated risk is your ally. Betrayal, your enemy."
Korran finally spoke, voice cold, measured. "Loyalty is tested not when everything is easy, but when survival is at stake. Fundamentals guide the body… the mind is tested by temptation."
I clenched my sword, the weight of Tier‑2 responsibility pressing down. Step lightly. Step carefully. Trust fundamentals. Trust instincts. And trust allies, even when betrayal lurked in the shadows.
The alleyways of Portscab whispered of schemes and hidden eyes. Survival alone would never suffice. To protect the crew, to uphold trust, I would need to navigate the razor-edge of loyalty… and the temptation of self-preservation.