Why were there no shadows in the city tonight?
Because the shadow itself was hunting.
His name was Adrian Volkov.
But in the gutters of Ravenport, this sprawling cesspit of a port city, he was known only as a ghost. A whisper of death in the salt-choked alleys. A cold draft in a warm room.
Tonight, that ghost had a target.
The rain fell without end.
It was a cold, ceaseless drizzle that did not wash away sins. It only revealed the rot underneath. It slicked the cobblestones until they shone like polished bone under the faint, sickly glow of the gas lamps. It carried the day's filth in greasy rivers toward the overflowing drains.
To Adrian, only the rain felt honest in this city.
From the slick, tiled rooftop of a dilapidated warehouse, he watched.
His world was a canvas of grays and blacks, punctuated by the occasional flare of a watchman's torch or the warm, inviting light of a tavern window.
That window was his focus.
The Salty Siren. A name that promised pleasure but reeked of cheap ale and desperation.
His eyes—one the color of a gathering storm, the other a burning, predatory amber—missed nothing.
He was sixteen years old.
But the cold, reptilian patience in his gaze belonged to a man three times his age.
A man who had seen too much.
His mission was simple.
Vengeance.
The first name on a list written in blood.
He shifted, his worn leather boots making no sound on the wet tiles.
His target was inside. Captain Valerius.
A man of the Adamantine Order.
A pig in shining armor, grown fat on stolen glory and the Order's coin.
It was time to go to work.
He moved. Not with the grace of a dancer.
But with the terrifying efficiency of a predator closing in on its prey.
He leaped across a narrow, dark alley, his boots hitting the opposite ledge without a whisper. He slid down a rusted drainpipe, his gloved hands barely grazing the cold, slick metal.
He landed in the alley behind the tavern. A space filled with overflowing barrels and the ghosts of forgotten meals. The stench was overpowering. He did not notice.
Two guards stood by the kitchen door.
Their armor was tarnished. Their vigilance dulled by the miserable rain and a shared flask of cheap brandy.
"Another cursed night," one grumbled, his voice a low growl. "I'd rather be fighting Voros scum in the wilds than watching that pig get drunk."
"Quiet, you fool," the other hissed, taking a long pull from the flask. "The Captain pays well. All we have to do is stand here and look tough."
They never saw Adrian.
He was a ripple in the rain. A deepening of the shadows.
A flicker of movement.
The hilt of his dagger struck the first guard behind the ear. A choked gasp. The man crumpled, his head hitting the cobblestones with a wet thud.
The second guard turned, his eyes wide, his mouth opening to shout a warning.
Adrian's other hand shot out, clamping over his mouth while the flat of his blade pressed against the man's throat. Not the edge. Just a promise.
The guard's eyes screamed in silent terror.
Adrian applied precise pressure to a nerve cluster in his neck. The guard's body went limp, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Two bodies. Breathing, but silent.
He dragged them into the deeper shadows, out of sight. The ghost did not waste death on rabble.
Rintangan pertama telah disingkirkan.
He slipped the lock on the kitchen door with a thin piece of metal.
The heat and the smell of roasting boar and stale grease hit him like a physical blow.
A portly cook stood over a large, bubbling pot, stirring it with a wooden spoon, humming a tuneless shanty.
The cook turned to grab a handful of onions from a sack.
And his eyes fell upon Adrian.
For a single, frozen heartbeat, the world stopped.
The cook's eyes widened into saucers. His mouth opened, a scream building in his lungs.
Before it could escape, Adrian had crossed the distance in two silent strides.
The hilt of his dagger came up in a short, brutal arc. It connected with the man's temple.
Not hard enough to kill. Just hard enough to buy silence.
The cook collapsed like a sack of potatoes, the spoon clattering loudly on the greasy floor.
Adrian froze, listening. The noise from the main hall did not falter.
He stepped over the unconscious body, his face a mask of cold indifference.
He was not a monster. Not yet.
Monsters killed for pleasure. He killed for a purpose.
He pushed through the swinging door that led to the main hall, melting into the alcove behind a large, dusty tapestry depicting a forgotten sea battle.
The noise was a deafening roar. Laughter, shouting, the clatter of tankards.
In the center of it all, at the largest table, sat Captain Valerius.
He was exactly as Adrian remembered from that night. Fatter, perhaps. His face flushed a deep, unhealthy red from wine. He was surrounded by sycophants—merchants, lesser officers, all hanging on his every word.
"…and there he was," Valerius boomed, his voice slurring. "The so-called Ashen Wolf, Kazimir Volkov, cornered like the beast he was! Howling for his witch-wife, but she was no match for the righteous steel of the Order!"
Adrian's hand, hidden in the folds of his cloak, clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles turned white.
He could feel the rage. A familiar, burning tide, rising in his chest.
He forced it down. Pushed it deep into the cold, hard place in his soul.
Rage was a luxury. It made you sloppy.
He watched as Valerius lied.
He heard the Captain describe his mother, Elara, not as the gentle healer who knew the names of the stars, but as a shrieking hag who cast dark curses.
He heard Valerius paint his father not as a god defending his home, but as a rabid animal put down for the good of the realm.
And the crowd cheered.
The lie was their truth now.
This man had not just taken his family. He had stolen their memory. He had desecrated their honor.
That was a crime that demanded more than a simple death.
Adrian's eyes scanned the room, his mind a cold, calculating machine.
He saw his opportunity.
A serving girl, harassed and overworked, placed a large tray of refilled drinks on a side table before rushing to another shouting customer.
Perfect.
He slipped from behind the tapestry, a shadow detaching from other shadows.
He moved with a purpose that made him invisible to the drunken patrons.
He passed the tray.
His hand was a blur.
A small, corked vial, no bigger than his thumb, appeared in his palm. He uncorked it with a flick of his thumbnail, the sound lost in the tavern's din.
He tilted it over Valerius's personal, jewel-encrusted goblet.
A single, clear drop fell into the dark red wine.
The poison was a masterpiece. A gift from the Crimson Syndicate's most skilled alchemist.
It was called "The Traitor's Kiss."
Colorless. Odorless. Utterly lethal.
A gift he had paid for with the blood of three of the Syndicate's enemies.
He retreated, melting back into the shadows near the entrance.
And he watched.
He waited.
Valerius, his story finished, grabbed his goblet. He raised it high, wine sloshing over the sides.
"A toast!" he roared. "To the Adamantine Order! And to dead wolves!"
The room roared its approval.
As Valerius brought the cup to his lips, his gaze swept across the room, a conqueror surveying his domain.
For a fraction of a second, his eyes met Adrian's.
He frowned. A flicker of confusion crossed his fat face. There was something familiar about the boy standing in the shadows. The mismatched eyes. The cold intensity.
Have I seen this boy before?
It was the last coherent thought Captain Valerius ever had.
He drank. Deeply.
For a moment, nothing. He slammed the goblet down on the table, laughing.
Then the laugh caught in his throat.
His eyes widened, the arrogance replaced by a sudden, stark terror. He clutched at his chest, then his throat.