The night bled into chaos.
Korrath's main marketplace, usually a storm of barter and shouting, was drenched in silence broken only by the hiss of cooling engines. The Ark's crew walked cautiously between stalls, the weight of eyes pressing down on them from shadows above.
Kael felt it first—the shift in air, the prickle at the back of his neck. He raised a hand, signaling halt. Lyra, already tense, drew her sidearm without a word. Taren's hand hovered near his blade.
Then the first body dropped.
A merchant's scream cut through the market as one of her guards collapsed, a dagger buried in his throat. The wound was clean, deliberate—assassin's work.
"Shadows," Taren growled.
Figures moved among the rooftops, indistinct yet purposeful. Their armor was matte-black, their masks expressionless, their knives catching only the faintest glimmer of torchlight. The Shadowhands.
"Stay close!" Kael barked, pulling his rifle free.
The assassins didn't charge. They descended like falling crows—one slamming into a guard beside Kael, another spinning through the air to land near Lyra. Knives flashed, too fast for the untrained eye, but Kael blocked a strike with the butt of his rifle and countered with a burst of fire.
The assassin dissolved back into shadow. Not killed—withdrawn. Testing. Measuring.
"They're herding us," Lyra spat, parrying another strike.
"No," Kael said, voice tight. "They're sending a message."
Taren laughed darkly as his blade cut one down, the body collapsing at his feet. "Then let's send one back."
The marketplace erupted into pandemonium. Stalls overturned, civilians screamed, fires lit the night sky as the Shadowhands attacked and vanished, only to strike again.
Kael fought to keep his people alive, but the assassins weren't trying to kill all of them. He realized their true aim when a shadow streaked past him, blade raised for Lyra's back.
"LYRA!"
Kael lunged, catching the assassin mid-strike. The two crashed into the dirt, rolling through broken crates. The assassin hissed through their mask, knife grazing Kael's cheek. With a roar, Kael slammed his fist into the mask, shattering the visor.
For a split second, he saw a human face beneath—pale, scarred, eyes burning with cold devotion. Then the assassin spat blood and bit down on something hidden in their jaw.
The body convulsed—then went still.
Self-termination. No prisoners. No answers.
Kael pushed himself up, panting, just as more shadows gathered on the rooftops. But before they could strike, the blast of a horn echoed through the canyon.
From the northern gate, Veyra's soldiers stormed in—armor gleaming, banners unfurled. At their head, Veyra herself rode a machine-beast of steel and flame, her cloak whipping in the night wind.
Her voice thundered over the chaos.
"ENOUGH!"
The Shadowhands froze. For a heartbeat, the night was still. Then, as though answering an unseen command, they dissolved into the darkness, vanishing as quickly as they came.
Only bodies remained.
Veyra dismounted, striding through the carnage, her eyes cold but sharp. She stopped before Kael, looking at him as though weighing his soul.
"You've brought the Council's knives to my world," she said, voice low but heavy. "And yet… you still stand."
Kael wiped blood from his cheek and met her gaze. "Stand with me, and we make sure they never come back."
The marketplace held its breath.
Veyra's smile was a blade itself. "Perhaps you are worth the risk, exile."