The compound transformed overnight into something resembling a military fortress under siege.
By dawn, news of Overseer Brennan's death had spread through the administrative ranks like wildfire. His body had been discovered by a servant bringing morning tea—throat cut, blood soaked into expensive bedsheets, with no sign of forced entry or struggle. The servant's screams had brought the entire night shift running, and within an hour, every exit from the compound was sealed by armed guards.
Aiden lay on his cot, listening to the sounds of organized chaos filtering through the dormitory walls. Shouted orders. Running feet. The distinctive jingle of mail armor as additional security forces arrived from the regional garrison. Through the single grimy window, he could see torches moving back and forth across the compound in search patterns that spoke of professional paranoia.
They're terrified, he realized with dark satisfaction. An overseer murdered in his own chambers, and they have no idea how or why.
The first interrogations began before the morning meal. Slaves were dragged from their cots one by one, questioned with the kind of brutal efficiency that assumed guilt until proven otherwise. But the questions revealed more about the investigators' assumptions than any systematic search for truth.
"Which overseers had conflicts with Brennan?"
"Who had access to the administrative wing?"
"Have you noticed any unusual behavior among the senior staff?"
Not once did anyone ask if a slave might have been responsible. The very concept seemed beyond their imagination—slaves were property, beaten animals that existed solely to move stone and die quietly. The idea that one might possess the skill and audacity to murder a trained overseer in his own chambers was literally unthinkable.
Their blindness made Aiden's concealment almost trivially easy. When his turn for questioning came, he sat before Overseer Drayton and two visiting investigators with his head properly lowered and his hands folded in the submissive posture expected of broken property. His stolen goods were hidden in plain sight—the coins sewn into the lining of his work shirt, the storage rings worn on leather cords beneath his clothes, the key to his freedom disguised as a simple piece of scrap metal.
His misdirection made the investigators' eyes slide past any irregularities, ensuring they saw exactly what they expected to see: another cowed slave with nothing to hide.
"Name?" Drayton asked, consulting a list of workers.
"Aiden, sir. No family name."
"How long in the quarry?"
"Six years, sir."
"Any contact with Overseer Brennan outside normal work duties?"
"No, sir. I keep to my assigned tasks."
The lie flowed as smoothly as water. Drayton made a notation on his list and waved Aiden away without a second glance, his attention already shifting to the next suspect in line.
Invisible, Aiden thought as he returned to the work yard. They see what they expect to see, and they expect nothing from someone like me.
The investigation dragged on for days, growing more paranoid and less focused with each dead end. Suspicion fell on rival overseers who might have had conflicts with Brennan. On guards who had gambling debts. On merchants who might have been cheated in supply contracts. The questioning became increasingly violent as frustration mounted, but it never once turned toward the slave population.
By the end of the first week, two overseers had been transferred to other assignments under suspicion, three guards had been flogged for "negligence," and the compound's security had been increased by fifty percent. But the actual killer remained invisible, hiding in plain sight among the army of broken souls no one bothered to truly see.
Aiden used the chaos to his advantage, testing the limits of his abilities while everyone's attention was focused elsewhere. His misdirection had grown stronger since absorbing Brennan's essence—more precise, more reliable, capable of affecting multiple targets simultaneously. And his new detect ability provided constant awareness of awakened individuals nearby, allowing him to avoid dangerous encounters before they developed.
But it was during the second week, when the investigation had finally begun to wind down, that his careful routine nearly got him killed.
He was practicing in one of the abandoned storage caves deep in the quarry's lower levels, working on extending the range and duration of his misdirection, when footsteps echoed from the tunnel entrance. Not the heavy boots of a guard patrol or the soft shuffle of escaping slaves—something different. Purposeful but cautious, like someone who knew how to move quietly but wasn't trying to hide their presence entirely.
Aiden's detect ability flared to life, scanning for awakened powers. Nothing. Whoever was approaching was either unawakened or had abilities too subtle for his still-developing senses to identify.
Probably just another slave looking for privacy, he thought, but something about the footsteps made him uneasy. Too confident. Too controlled. This wasn't someone sneaking around in terror of discovery—this was someone who belonged here.
The footsteps stopped just outside the cave entrance.
"I know you're in there," a voice called softly. Male, middle-aged, with the kind of confidence that came from experience with violence. "Sensed your little light show from halfway across the compound. Neat trick, but you're not as invisible as you think."
Aiden's blood turned to ice water. Someone had detected his practice session. Someone who knew what to look for and where to find it.
"Come out slow," the voice continued. "Hands where I can see them. Try anything clever, and you'll be decorating the walls before you finish the thought."
Guard, Aiden realized. But how did he—
The answer came as the man stepped into view at the cave mouth. Medium height, lean build, moving with the fluid grace of someone who had spent years learning to kill efficiently. But it was his eyes that told the real story—pale grey orbs that tracked movement with predatory focus, missing nothing.
"Guard Captain Morris," the man introduced himself with casual professionalism. "Former guild rogue, current head of compound security, and the unlucky bastard who gets to clean up messes like you."
Rogue. That explained how he'd found the cave despite Aiden's misdirection. Rogues specialized in stealth, infiltration, and countering the same abilities in others. If Morris had experience with deception-based powers, Aiden's amateur techniques might as well have been signal flares.
"Interesting story, your little murder spree," Morris continued, drawing a wicked-looking dagger from his belt. "Took me a while to piece it together, but the pattern's clear enough once you know what to look for. Brennan gets butchered in his own room by someone who can avoid detection. Next day, one of my best guards disappears from his patrol route—probably stumbled across something he shouldn't have seen. Bodies start piling up, and the only common factor is that nobody saw the killer coming."
He stepped fully into the cave, the dagger held in a professional grip that spoke of extensive training. "So I started thinking—what kind of person could move around this compound invisible to guards and overseers alike? What kind of killer could get close enough to slit throats without being detected?"
Aiden's hand moved slowly toward the utility knife hidden in his belt, but Morris caught the motion immediately.
"Ah-ah. Keep those hands still." The guard's voice carried the kind of absolute authority that came from years of being obeyed without question. "We're going to have a nice conversation, you and I. About where you learned to use power. About who taught you to kill. About what other surprises might be hidden in this workforce."
He's going to torture me, Aiden realized. Get information, then hand me over to Drayton for core-breaking.
That could not be allowed to happen.
Aiden's misdirection surged outward with desperate intensity, not trying to hide his presence but to confuse Morris's perception of where exactly he was standing. The guard's eyes widened slightly as Aiden's image seemed to shift and blur, but his stance remained steady.
"Nice try," Morris said approvingly. "But I've dealt with shadow dancers before. You're good for an amateur, but—"
He lunged forward with lethal speed, the dagger aimed at where Aiden had been standing a moment before. But Aiden was already moving, his own blade clearing its sheath as he threw himself sideways to avoid the strike.
Steel rang against steel as the two weapons met, and Aiden learned immediately that he was outclassed. Morris fought with the smooth efficiency of a professional killer, his attacks flowing from one to the next without wasted motion. Every strike was precisely aimed, every defense perfectly timed, every movement calculated to end the fight as quickly as possible.
Aiden, by contrast, was a desperate amateur. His technique was crude, his footwork sloppy, his defense full of holes that Morris exploited with surgical precision. Within seconds, he was bleeding from half a dozen shallow cuts, giving ground steadily as the guard pressed his advantage.
I'm going to die, Aiden thought as Morris's blade sliced across his forearm, opening a line of fire from elbow to wrist. He's too good, too fast, too experienced.
But dying wasn't an option. Not when he still had names to cross off his list. Not when his family's murderers still drew breath.
Instead of retreating further, Aiden suddenly stepped forward into Morris's next attack, accepting a thrust through his shoulder in exchange for getting inside the guard's reach. The pain was immediate and excruciating, but it brought him close enough to use his abilities at point-blank range.
His misdirection wrapped around Morris's consciousness like fog, not trying to hide but to confuse. Making the guard's perception of distance unreliable, his sense of timing uncertain, his confidence in his own movements shaky.
It worked.
For just a moment—just one heartbeat—Morris hesitated as his spatial awareness became unreliable. His next strike went wide by inches, his footwork faltered, his perfect technique developed a flaw that Aiden could exploit.
Exploit Weakness activated automatically, highlighting the brief opening in Morris's defense. Aiden's crude thrust became something more, guided by supernatural precision to slip between ribs and find the heart with lethal accuracy.
Morris's eyes went wide with shock and something that might have been respect. "Clever," he whispered, blood frothing from his lips. "Should have... should have ended it faster..."
He collapsed, his professional competence finally overcome by an amateur's desperate cunning.
Aiden stood over the body, breathing heavily, his shoulder screaming from the wound Morris had inflicted. But he was alive. Injured but functional. And he had just gained another opportunity to grow stronger.
The essence absorption process was becoming familiar now—energy flowing out, knowledge flowing back, fundamental changes settling into his core like sediment in still water. When it was finished, he felt the shift immediately.
[ESSENCE ABSORPTION COMPLETE]
[NO NEW ABILITIES GAINED]
[ABILITY UPGRADED: Misdirection (Common → Uncommon)]
[ENHANCED FUNCTION: Can now detect and partially counter similar deception abilities]
Misdirection had become more sophisticated, Aiden realized as new understanding flooded his mind. Not just creating false impressions, but recognizing when others were doing the same. Morris's rogue training had included techniques for seeing through illusion and deception—techniques that were now part of Aiden's own arsenal.
He would never again be caught off-guard by someone with similar abilities.
Working quickly despite his injuries, he searched Morris's body for anything useful. The guard had been well-equipped—a quality eating knife, a small pouch of mixed coins, and most importantly, a set of lock picks that spoke of skills retained from his criminal past.
Aiden dragged the body deeper into the cave system, to a natural pit where it would eventually be found but not for weeks or months. By then, Morris would be just another mystery in a compound full of unsolved disappearances.
The trip back to the dormitory was agony. His shoulder wound leaked blood through his shirt, and every movement sent fresh waves of fire down his arm. But his misdirection made the journey possible, turning aside casual glances that might have noticed his injuries.
By morning, when the work bell rang and another day of slavery officially began, Aiden looked like just another exhausted worker struggling through another day of brutalized existence. The wound on his shoulder was hidden beneath his shirt, the stolen goods concealed as always, the evidence of his latest kill buried where it would never be found.
Two guards now, he thought as he collected his tools for the day's labor. Plus Brennan and Sarah. Four people who will never hurt anyone again.
But more than that—he was learning. Each fight taught him something new about combat, about using his abilities under pressure, about the kind of calculated violence that separated survivors from victims. His crude techniques were slowly being refined through trial by fire, his amateur mistakes corrected through lessons written in blood.
The Path of Whispered Lies was making him into something dangerous.
Something that could kill trained fighters and walk away.
Something that was patient enough to wait for the perfect moment to strike, and ruthless enough to take advantage when that moment came.
As he began his day's work in the quarry, splitting granite with mechanical precision while his mind planned the next steps in his long game of revenge, Aiden allowed himself a small smile.
He was no longer just a slave dreaming of freedom.
He was becoming something far more dangerous than his enemies could possibly imagine.
And every day brought him closer to the moment when he would be strong enough to collect every debt that was owed.