The victory in the Sealord's water court had changed everything. Jon had returned to The Drowned Mug not just with his life, but with a legend. The morning after, as he sat in the quiet of their room, the System confirmed the magnitude of his achievements. A new, unexpected notification bloomed in his vision.
[Trial of the City: Braavos - Complete]
You have faced the challenges of the Secret City and proven your worth. You have moved through its shadows, mastered its heights, and earned the respect of its masters.
- Objective 1: Uncover a high-level conspiracy. (Complete)
- Objective 2: Defeat a master of the local fighting style. (Complete)
- Objective 3: Conquer the city's greatest landmark. (Complete)
[Trial Reward: 2500 Experience, New Skill - [Leap of Faith]]
Jon blinked, a jolt of understanding running through him. The duel with the First Sword, the climb of the Titan, the conspiracy he had uncovered—they hadn't been random events. They were a test, a series of trials the System had been silently tracking to measure his mastery over this new environment. He quickly checked his status. The experience points pushed him significantly closer to his next rank. But it was the new skill that held his attention.
[Leap of Faith]
Description: The ultimate expression of an Assassin's trust in the Creed and in their own skill. Allows the User to perform a survivable, controlled dive from immense heights into a viable landing zone (hay, deep water, etc.). It is not a magical flight, but a perfect, instinctual understanding of aerodynamics and impact dispersal. It is a physical act, but it is performed with the soul.
He understood. It was more than just a more powerful version of [Feather Fall]. It was a philosophy, a commitment. It was the ultimate expression of trust in his own abilities, a way to turn a certain death into a perfect escape. It was a tool he knew he would need.
The month that followed was a blur of focused, relentless work. The name "Corvus" was now a legend in the city's underbelly, the boy who had bested the First Sword. Doors that had once been closed to them now opened. Their new ship, a Longship they named Wayfarer, was being outfitted in the shipyards, courtesy of a grateful Lady Zarrina. Orbelo's name was cleared in a public declaration that humiliated Tregarro and, by extension, Magister Borro. They had their freedom. Now, they had to build a company worthy of it.
Their small, rented training room became a crucible. Jon pushed Kaelo harder than ever before. He was no longer just teaching him stances; he was teaching him to be a commander. He would pit Kaelo against three hired braavosi at once, not to win, but to learn how to control a chaotic fight, how to create space, how to think under pressure. Kaelo's raw fury was being honed into the disciplined rage of a true warrior.
Orbelo's training was different. Jon would give him a purse of coins and a piece of information—a merchant who was cheating his partners, a guard who was in debt to a moneylender—and send him into the city. His task was not to fight, but to listen, to learn, to find the leverage. He was becoming a spymaster, his sharp mind his greatest weapon.
While they trained, they built their legend. This was Orbelo's first true mission. Jon tasked him not just with finding potential recruits, but with crafting a narrative. Orbelo, with his knowledge of songs and stories, began to weave the tale of Corvus—the quiet wolf, a duelist of unmatched skill, a commander with a mind that saw secrets no one else could. He would spend his evenings in the wine sinks, not drinking, but talking, planting the seeds of the legend.
Kaelo's job was to make the legend real. He would take the stories Orbelo had crafted and spread them in the rougher taverns, the places where sellswords and sailors gambled and fought. He would back up the tales with the heavy purse of coin they had won, buying rounds of drinks and speaking of the impossible victory against the pirates, of the duel with the First Sword. He made Corvus sound like a man who could not lose.
Their recruitment was a direct result of this. They were not just hiring men; they were attracting believers. They sought out the outcasts, the desperate, the men with nothing left to lose. Jon would use his [Sight] to find them, his gaze cutting through the city's crowds to find the specific auras of skill and desperation he needed.
He found the archer in a squalid tavern near the docks, a Westerosi man named Garth. He was a longbowman from the Reach, exiled for poaching a lord's deer, and his aura was a bitter, resentful red. Jon watched him for an hour as he methodically fleeced a group of sailors at a game of dice, his hands steady, his eyes missing nothing. Jon sat down opposite him. "You have a good eye," Jon said. "Good enough," Garth grunted, not looking up from the dice. "They say a longbowman is only as good as the lord he serves," Jon said quietly. "What if you served yourself?" Garth finally looked up, his eyes hard.
"I serve coin. Nothing else."
"Coin buys you a drink," Jon said.
"It doesn't buy back your pride. We are building a company where a man's worth is measured by his skill, not his birth. A place for men with no lords." Garth said nothing, but he didn't turn away.
He found the sailors, two brothers from the Summer Isles named Kojja and Sona, being harassed by a group of braavosi who mocked their dark skin and feathered cloaks. The brothers stood back-to-back, their hands on the hilts of their curved knives, their auras a cool, defiant blue. They were outnumbered five to two, but it was the braavosi who seemed afraid. Jon waited until the bravos had thought better of the fight and left, then he approached.
"They will be back with more men," Jon stated simply. The older brother, Kojja, scowled. "Let them come."
"Or you could come with me," Jon said.
"I have a ship. She needs a first mate and a quartermaster. I don't care where you are from. I care if you know how to read a storm."
Sona looked at him. "You would make us officers?"
"I would make you partners," Jon corrected him.
Their last founding member was the hardest to find. He was a quiet, hulking man named Sten, a pit fighter from Norvos with the body of a bear and the gentle, sorrowful eyes of a lost child. His aura was a deep, mournful grey. Kaelo knew his story: Sten had been a champion, until the day he had refused to kill a beaten opponent. For that act of mercy, he had been cast out, a pariah in a world that valued only brutality. Jon found him working as a laborer, hauling crates on the docks.
"They say you have a soft heart for a killer," Jon said, his voice quiet. Sten didn't look at him, his massive shoulders slumped. "I am no killer."
"I know," Jon said. "That's why I'm here. We are not looking for killers. We are looking for warriors. There is a difference."
On the night before they were set to sail, Jon gathered the twenty founding members on the main deck of the Wayfarer. The ship was dark, the only light coming from a few swaying lanterns that cast long, dancing shadows.
He did not give a grand speech. His words were simple, direct, and born of the world they all knew. "Look around you," he said, his voice quiet but carrying in the still night air. "The world has cast every one of us out. We are exiles, poachers, pit fighters, and disgraced scholars. We have no lords and no kings. We have only each other. Out there," he gestured to the sea, "there are no rules but the ones we make. So here are ours: We are a pack now."
As he spoke the word "pack," a pale shape detached itself from the shadows at his feet. Ghost, now nearly the size of a full-grown wolf, padded silently into the center of the circle of men. He did not growl or show his teeth. He simply sat, his red eyes moving from one man to the next, a silent, unnerving assessment. The men shifted, their hands moving nervously towards their blades.
"He is the first of us," Jon said, his voice calm, quieting their fears. "He is Ghost, an outcast. Like all of you. Like me. We look out for our own. We do not betray the man beside you. We finish the jobs we take. Is that understood?"
A low, rumbling chorus of "Aye" came from the assembled men, their eyes flicking from Jon to the silent, white wolf and back again. Jon nodded to Orbelo, who stepped forward and unfurled a small, newly painted banner. He held it up in the lantern light for all to see. The design was stark and simple against the black cloth: a single, vertical silver blade, its shape reminiscent of a stiletto, plunged down through the center of a golden crown that was wreathed in red and orange flames.
Jon let the image sink in, letting the men find their own meaning in the blade and the burning crown. "We are The Hidden Blade," he said, his voice quiet but firm. He looked at each of them in turn. "This is the pact. Are you with me?"
This time, the "Aye" was a roar, a single, unified voice of men who had found a new purpose.
The year turned, and 297 AC began. On a cold, misty morning, Jon stood on the deck of Wayfarer, his new crew making the final preparations for their departure. Kaelo stood beside him, no longer a deckhand, but a second-in-command, his axe on his back and a new, hard-won confidence in his eyes. Orbelo was below, checking their supplies, his movements precise and efficient.
They were no longer three boys and a wolf. They were a company. His company. He looked out at the Titan, a silent, stone sentinel against the grey sky. He remembered the feeling of standing on its crown, the world spread out at his feet. He had come to this city as boy running from his past. He was leaving it a commander, a man forging his own future.
"Where to, Captain?" Kaelo asked, his voice a low rumble of anticipation.
Jon looked south, towards the warmth and the chaos of the Disputed Lands. "To work," he said. "It's time to show the world what we can do."