The scouts returned before dawn.
Kael stood on the rooftop of a weathered clock tower, the city sprawled beneath him like a map. The shadows slithered across the tiles and pooled at his feet, and from them rose two figures—the remnants of men long forgotten, now his unseen spies.
They knelt. Their voices were a chorus of whispers.
"Shipment… hidden in the east quarter. Warehouse. Guarded by mercenaries of the Cult."
Kael's eyes narrowed. Efficient. The shadows had tracked their quarry without error, feeding him details: numbers, routes, weaknesses. A starting move had presented itself neatly.
He rested a hand on the hilt of nothing—the gesture was habitual, as though he carried a blade once. In truth, his true weapon was the legion at his command.
"Good," he said softly. "Return to slumber."
The scouts dissolved into ink, vanishing into the floor of the tower.
Kael turned his gaze toward the horizon. The first hues of dawn painted the sky in pale gold, but the city below remained unaware of what moved within it. They lived in blissful ignorance, celebrating markets and trade, while in the shadows, men trafficked fear and blood for a hidden cult.
He smirked faintly. Let them cling to their illusions. I will strip them bare.
---
By midmorning, Kael had already scouted the east quarter. Disguised beneath a hood and simple garb, he blended among the common folk. The quarter was noisy—fishmongers shouting their catch, children darting between carts, merchants waving wares from foreign lands. But Kael's eyes skipped past the mundane.
He watched the warehouse.
It was outwardly plain, with no sigils or banners, just another structure amid the quarter's bustle. Yet its guards gave it away—mercenaries who pretended to lounge casually, but whose eyes swept too often, whose hands lingered near their weapons.
Kael slipped into a nearby alley, veiled in shade. His footsteps made no sound. He let his voice drop to a whisper.
"Arise."
The darkness stirred. From his own shadow crawled three warriors, each clad in mismatched armor, their bodies etched with scars of forgotten battles. Their eyes burned violet. They knelt, awaiting his will.
"You will infiltrate," Kael ordered. "No sound, no trace. Learn what lies within."
The shadows nodded silently and sank into the cobblestones, melting away toward their target.
Kael leaned against the wall, eyes closed. He could feel them still, faint threads of connection pulsing in his mind. Their senses were his, their sight his. He waited.
Minutes stretched, punctuated only by the noise of the marketplace. Then the images bled into his mind. Stacks of crates. Smell of iron. Chains. Dozens of cages—occupied. Prisoners, gaunt and trembling, their eyes hollow. Humans trafficked for experiments.
Kael's lips thinned.
So the Cult works here too. Bold. Reckless.
Then the vision shifted. At the center of the warehouse sat a chest, bound with strange seals. The aura it exuded was foul, corrupt, something even his shadows recoiled from.
Kael's eyes opened, cold and calculating. A prize worth claiming, then.
---
That night, the east quarter fell silent.
Kael moved like smoke, the hood of his cloak drawn low. The guards at the warehouse shifted uneasily, unaware of the void creeping beneath their feet.
He whispered, and the shadows obeyed.
From the alleys, the cobbles, the very darkness behind the mercenaries, forms rose. Armored hands wrapped around their throats, pulling them into the abyss before a cry could leave their lips. One by one, the guards vanished. No trace remained.
Kael entered the warehouse.
The stench was thick—sweat, fear, rusted iron. Rows of cages rattled as the prisoners shrank back from him. Their gaunt faces lit with faint hope, confusion, terror.
Kael studied them in silence. He was not their savior. To intervene rashly would invite notice. Yet he could not leave them here either. The Cult would return.
Balance the board.
He gestured. The shadows poured forth, dismantling locks, carrying prisoners into the night. They would be released far from here, scattered, nameless. The Cult would find nothing.
At last, Kael turned to the chest. Its seal pulsed, runes crawling like veins. The aura it radiated was foul, a mockery of life itself.
He knelt, pressing his hand against it. The shadows recoiled, hissing. Whatever lay inside was dangerous.
Which meant it was useful.
With a thought, his darkness surged, smothering the seal. The chest groaned, then split open with a metallic scream. Inside lay a crystal, black as obsidian, throbbing with crimson veins. Power radiated from it—wild, chaotic, unfinished.
Kael lifted it, feeling its weight, its hunger. The shadows whispered warnings.
"Quiet," he murmured. "You are mine, and so is this."
He sealed the crystal within his cloak.
The warehouse burned behind him as he departed, shadows devouring it in silence. By morning, nothing remained but ashes and rumors.
---
By the next evening, the city was buzzing.
Kael listened from the shadows of an inn. Patrons spoke of a fire in the east quarter, of prisoners vanishing into thin air, of mercenaries swallowed by darkness.
Some whispered of ghosts. Others, a curse. But a few—those who had seen violet fire in the night—called it something else.
"The Monarch."
Kael allowed himself a faint smile.
The legend was beginning.
---
But in another corner of the city, unseen to him, another figure also listened to the rumors. Cloaked in black, with an aura of theatrical menace, the man chuckled softly to himself.
"How interesting…" he said, his tone dripping with amusement. "A new player in the shadows?"
His crimson eyes gleamed beneath his hood.
Shadow had taken notice.