The Cult was already moving.
Kael knew it before the dawn bells had finished tolling. He sat on the roof of an abandoned chapel overlooking the merchant district, a parchment in hand. His shadows had intercepted it the previous night—sealed orders carried by a trembling courier who never made it to his destination.
The orders were simple but revealing:
Investigate the east quarter incident.
Recover or destroy any missing cargo.
Kill witnesses.
The signature was a name Kael recognized from the whispers of his shadows: Viscount Daren Vellor.
A noble, then. One who hid behind silks and wealth while serving the Cult. Kael's lips curved faintly. Every mask has seams. I only need to pull at the right one.
He rose, tucking the parchment away. The city was a chessboard. Its nobility were pieces, each moving with predictable greed. And somewhere behind them lurked the true players: the Cult of Diablos.
Kael intended to smoke them out—piece by piece, mask by mask.
---
The Vellor estate was a monument to arrogance. Tall gates of wrought iron, manicured gardens that stretched needlessly wide, banners stitched with the family crest. Servants bustled about like ants, their movements rehearsed, precise, afraid.
Kael stood across the street, hood drawn, studying. A frontal assault would be crude. The Cult expected blades and fire. They did not expect whispers and shadows.
He slipped into an alley, muttered the word, and three shades rose from the cobblestones. One bore the form of a scribe, ink-stained and hunched. Another wore the remnants of a guard's armor. The third was faceless, a phantom with empty sockets.
"You will infiltrate," Kael commanded. "Learn his habits. His secrets. His allies."
The shades bowed, melting into the darkness, their forms dissolving like mist.
Kael waited.
Hours passed. He remained motionless on a rooftop opposite the estate, cloak blending with the night sky. Patience was his ally; haste was for fools.
When the shadows returned, they spoke with a single voice:
"Daren Vellor… hosts gatherings in secret. Cult emissaries attend. In three nights, one such gathering will occur."
Kael's eyes glinted. Perfect.
---
That evening, Kael moved among the common folk, blending effortlessly. The tavern he chose was crowded, alive with laughter and arguments. A bard strummed a lute in the corner, while serving girls carried pitchers of ale.
Kael ordered nothing. He listened. Always listening.
The Cult's activities had not gone unnoticed. Merchants grumbled of missing caravans. Mothers whispered of children disappearing after dusk. Soldiers muttered of orders that made no sense. The threads were there, tangled and half-hidden. Kael only needed to weave them together.
And then, a voice cut through the din.
"Have you heard? They say the shadows themselves rose up in the east quarter."
The speaker was a young mercenary, drunk but animated, gesturing wildly with his cup. "Swallowed the guards whole! And some say they saw violet fire in the dark."
"Bah," scoffed his companion. "Old wives' tales. Probably just rival gangs."
Kael's lips twitched. Rumors spread faster than truth. Good. Fear was the foundation of legend.
But as he listened, he noticed something unusual. A man at the far table, cloaked in black, leaned slightly too close, too attentive. His movements were deliberate, measured—an actor waiting for a cue.
Kael's instincts sharpened. Not a drunk. Not a commoner. Someone else is listening.
For a fleeting second, their eyes met. Crimson gleamed from beneath the man's hood. Then he smiled—subtle, amused—and rose, vanishing into the crowd.
Kael's fingers flexed. So. The other shadow makes his move.
---
That night, Kael convened with his legion.
The ruined cathedral had become his seat of power. Shadows filled its broken halls, countless figures kneeling in silence. Knights, rogues, beasts—all remnants of forgotten warriors, bound by Kael's authority. Their violet eyes flickered like stars in the abyss.
Kael stood before them, cloak stirring in the still air.
"We move in three nights," he declared. "The Cult gathers under Vellor's roof. We will strip their masks. But we do not rush. Patience. Precision."
The shadows bowed as one, their voices a chorus: By your will, Sovereign.
Kael's gaze hardened. He knew the game had grown more dangerous. Another figure walked the night, one who called himself Shadow, weaving theatrics and mystery.
The difference was simple.
Shadow played at myth.
Kael was myth.
And when the two crossed paths, the world would tremble.