Recap
After surviving the ambush in the pass, Riven is certain the white-and-gold knight is feeding their enemies information — but he has no proof, and confronting her now would be suicide. As the group approaches the fortified city of Blackstone, the air grows heavy with more than rain. The city is a place where power is traded like coin, and one wrong step can draw blood just as quickly as a blade.
Part 1 — The Road to Blackstone
By midmorning, the drizzle had become a steady rain. The muddy road snaked through the foothills like a dark scar, leading toward the jagged silhouette of Blackstone on the horizon.
The city rose from the plain like it had been carved out of the mountains themselves — high walls of black granite, weathered towers crowned with iron spikes, and gates so massive they seemed built to keep out giants.
Riven rode in the middle of the group, his hood pulled low against the rain. His legs ached from the saddle, but his mind was sharper than the cold steel in his hands.
Every hoofbeat, every shift of armor behind him was cataloged in his head. The white-and-gold knight rode two spots to his left, her armor gleaming even in the gray light. She looked straight ahead, posture perfect, reins held with the kind of control that came from years of drilling.
Too perfect, Riven thought.
The sword's voice coiled into his mind. "You could stare at her for the next hundred miles and she'd never give you another signal. She'll wait. She'll choose her moment. So must you."
"Yeah," Riven muttered under his breath. "Waiting's my favorite."
"Talking to your sword again?" The hooded shadow's voice came from just behind his right shoulder, low and teasing.
Riven didn't answer. The rain muffled their progress, but ahead, the sound of the city was already bleeding into the air — the clang of hammers, the distant call of traders, and somewhere, the hollow toll of a bell.
Part 2 — The Gate Guard's Warning
The rain had slowed to a mist by the time they reached the main gates. Up close, the black granite looked even more ancient — pitted and scarred, with deep grooves where centuries of siege engines had battered them without success.
Two guards stood in the shadow of the portcullis, their armor mismatched but well-kept. Each carried a halberd tipped with blackened steel.
Ysera rode forward first, pulling back her hood. "Ysera of Windmere. Escort detail for merchant envoy Corvell." She gestured toward the heavy wagon trailing behind them.
The older guard, a man with a crooked nose and eyes the color of muddy water, squinted at the group before speaking. "Windmere, eh? You've picked a fine time to visit Blackstone."
Riven caught the tension in Ysera's jaw. "Meaning?" she asked.
The guard leaned slightly on his halberd, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves might be listening. "Two days ago, the governor's nephew was found dead in the lower market. Stabbed in the back. City's been locked tight since. Every faction's pointing fingers, and the streets are crawling with spies."
The storm-haired fighter grinned faintly. "Sounds cozy."
"Cozy's not the word," the guard replied. His eyes flicked over each of them in turn — lingering on the white-and-gold knight just a moment longer than anyone else. "If you're here to do business, do it fast. If you're here for trouble… you'll find it quick."
The portcullis groaned as it lifted, chains rattling in the stone.
They rode through.
Riven's fingers tightened on the reins. A city under suspicion. A traitor in the group. And now, a murder that had every faction sharpening their knives.
The sword hummed in his mind. "This place smells of blood, boy. Keep yours inside your skin."
Part 3 — Shadows in the Market
The moment they passed under the portcullis, Blackstone swallowed them whole.
The streets were narrow and uneven, slick with rain, lined with tall stone buildings whose upper floors leaned over the road like they were eavesdropping. Cloth awnings dripped steadily, and the air was thick with the scents of spiced meat, wet wool, and woodsmoke.
Vendors called from behind counters piled high with bolts of fabric, jars of preserved fruit, and trays of steaming dumplings. A fishmonger slammed a cleaver into a slab of river trout, splattering the stones with red and silver.
Riven's eyes moved constantly.
That's when he saw him.
A man in a dark green coat, hood up, moving just close enough to keep the group in sight but always slipping behind carts or crowds when Riven turned his head.
He leaned slightly in his saddle toward the hooded shadow riding beside him. "We've got a shadow of our own."
Her head tilted, but she didn't look back. "Green coat?"
"Yeah."
"I saw him at the gate." Her voice was calm, but the way her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger told Riven she was already considering ways to make the tail disappear.
The wagon creaked to a halt at a busy intersection, and for just a moment, the green coat closed the distance — far too close. Riven caught the glint of something at the man's belt. Not a coin purse. Not a tool.
A narrow sheath.
The sword's voice whispered in his mind. "Knife for the ribs. Yours, maybe. Or hers."
The wagon lurched forward again, but Riven's gaze stayed locked on the alley where the man had just slipped away.
The streets of Blackstone were loud and full of life, but Riven felt the weight of unseen eyes pressing in on all sides.
Part 4 — The White-and-Gold Knight Speaks
They had been winding through Blackstone's side streets for nearly an hour when the crowd thinned and the noise dulled to a low hum.
It happened without warning — the white-and-gold knight eased her horse forward until she was riding at Riven's side.
For a long moment, she said nothing. The clink of her polished armor was the only sound between them.
Then, in a low voice meant for his ears alone, she asked, "You saw him too?"
Riven kept his eyes forward. "Depends. Are we talking about the man in the green coat who's been tailing us since the gate, or the invisible knife you're hiding behind your smile?"
She didn't flinch. Her gaze stayed on the road ahead, posture as perfect as ever. "You think you're clever, but if you keep treating allies like enemies, you'll have nothing but enemies left."
Riven's grip tightened on the reins. "I've got enough of those already."
"Not enough, apparently, to keep you alive in this city," she said, her voice sharpening just a fraction. "Blackstone is a pit. If you fall in, it will swallow you — and no one will bother pulling you out."
She glanced at him then, just for a second, her blue eyes cutting like glass. "I'm telling you this because you're new here. Watch the alleys, not me."
Before Riven could answer, she urged her horse forward, rejoining Ysera at the front of the group.
The sword murmured, "She's playing with you. The question is whether she's warning you… or distracting you."
Riven didn't know. And that was the problem.
Part 5 — The First Night in Blackstone
The sun had already vanished behind the jagged skyline when they reached the inn.
If you could call it that.
The "Iron Cask" was a squat, three-story building pressed between a tannery and a weaponsmith, its wooden sign swinging in the damp wind. The smell of roasted meat and stale ale drifted from the open door, mingling with the sharper stench of tanned hides from next door.
Inside, the common room buzzed with low conversation. Traders hunched over mugs, dice clattered against scarred tables, and a bard with one eye and half a set of teeth plucked at a lute in the corner.
Ysera handled the rooms with the innkeep while the rest of the group claimed a long table near the back wall. Riven chose a seat with his back against the wood, facing the door.
The hooded shadow leaned in. "Green coat's gone."
"Or he's waiting," Riven replied.
The white-and-gold knight was across from him, sipping water like the chaos of the pass and the tension of the city had never happened. Her gaze didn't meet his, but he could feel her awareness — like a blade resting flat against his throat.
They ate in relative silence, save for the occasional murmur from Ysera discussing supply routes with the merchant envoy.
It was almost calm.
Almost.
The moment came when the bard stopped playing mid-note. The door creaked open. And the green coat stepped inside.
His hood was down now, revealing a narrow face with sharp cheekbones and eyes that swept the room without pause — until they landed on Riven.
No smile. No greeting. Just a hand resting on the hilt of the narrow blade at his belt.
The sword's voice was almost a purr. "Finally. Someone who knows how to make an entrance."
Preview for Chapter 5
The man in the green coat doesn't wait until morning. Before the first candle burns out in the Iron Cask, Riven will be fighting for his life in the narrow stairwell of the inn — and the true question won't be whether he wins, but who in the group lets the attacker past their guard in the first place.
Call to Action
If you're enjoying The Betrayer's Edge: My Blade Hates Me, hit that bookmark, drop a rating, and share your theories in the comments — because in Blackstone, not everyone who sits at your table is on your side.