Chapter 52 — What Follows a Blade
Shadeblade POV
We didn't celebrate.
That was the first thing that changed after the fight.
Before, victory meant noise—Bran laughing, Selia making jokes about how close death had come, someone exaggerating how impressive they'd been. Tonight, the forest swallowed sound like it was listening.
The mercenaries we'd spared were tied and seated near a tree, weapons piled out of reach. None of them spoke. Not defiant. Not afraid.
Resigned.
That bothered me more than fear would have.
I cleaned my sword slowly, scraping dried blood from the edge with practiced motions. Volrag had been strict about this.
"Steel remembers," he'd said. "If you don't respect it after a fight, it will fail you in the next."
The crackling fire felt too loud.
Bran broke the silence first, because of course he did.
"So," he said, squatting near one of the captured mercs. "Anyone wanna explain why people keep trying to kill our skeleton like he owes them money?"
No response.
Selia leaned against a tree, arms crossed. Her usual grin was gone. "These weren't amateurs. They didn't panic. Didn't improvise. They expected us."
Korran nodded once. "And they withdrew when the plan failed. Cleanly. That suggests orders, not opportunity."
Lysara stood slightly apart from the rest of us, eyes half-lidded, sensing something I couldn't. Her mana was quiet now, but not relaxed—like a blade sheathed, not put away.
"They weren't the danger," she said softly.
Everyone looked at her.
"They were a message."
That landed harder than any blade.
I finished cleaning my sword and slid it back into its sheath. My hands felt steady. That was new.
"Who sent you?" Korran asked one of the mercenaries again.
The man laughed weakly. "Doesn't matter. You kill us, more come. You let us live, same result."
Selia crouched in front of him, smiling without humor. "That's not how leverage works."
He met her gaze. "You think this is leverage? This is… curiosity."
I felt something cold slide down my spine.
"About me," I said.
The mercenary's eyes flicked to my mask.
"Yes."
I stepped closer.
"What do they want?"
He hesitated.
Korran's presence shifted—not threatening, just inevitable.
"They want to know," the merc said finally, "if you're worth the trouble."
Bran snorted. "Buddy, you lost half your team. I'd say that question's answered."
The merc smiled faintly. "Not yet."
I straightened.
"Then here's your answer," I said. "Tell whoever sent you that Shadeblade doesn't run. He doesn't bargain. And he doesn't die quietly."
The mercenary studied me for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
We let them go at dawn.
We moved camps immediately.
No discussion. No argument. Everyone understood.
By midday, the forest thinned into rocky high ground. Wind cut through the trees, carrying the smell of stone and old rain. I liked places like this. Fewer places to hide.
I walked point.
Not because I was fastest.
Because I needed to feel what was ahead.
Selia matched my pace, glancing at me sideways. "You're quieter than usual."
"Thinking."
"Dangerous hobby," she said. Then, more seriously, "They knew your limits."
"Yes."
"And you broke them."
I nodded.
"I didn't use magic," I said. "But I moved better. Fell less."
She smirked. "You still fell."
"On purpose."
That earned a genuine grin.
Behind us, Bran was arguing with Korran about whether rocks counted as cover or just insults from the ground. Lysara walked alone, staff tapping softly, eyes always moving.
Eventually, she spoke.
"You're changing."
I glanced back. "Am I?"
"Yes," she said simply. "Your presence feels… denser. Like something settling into place."
Tier-2.
Still Tier-2.
But closer to the middle now.
I felt it too—control improving, instincts sharpening. Not power. Understanding.
Volrag would approve.
Or tell me not to get arrogant.
Probably both.
We made camp near a cliff overlook as the sun dipped low. The view stretched for miles—hills, forest, distant smoke from settlements we weren't part of.
Bran cooked. Selia complained. Korran watched. Lysara listened to the world.
Normal.
But something had shifted between us.
Trust, once given freely, was now being measured.
After we ate, Selia tossed me a flask. "Don't get sentimental."
I caught it. "Wasn't planning to."
She hesitated. "They'll come again."
"I know."
"And next time, they won't test."
"I know."
She studied my mask—the crack running from eye to cheek, the symbol I'd hidden behind since Portscab.
"Just don't forget," she said quietly, "you don't have to face everything alone."
I didn't answer right away.
Then I nodded.
"I won't."
The fire burned low.
The forest watched.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, someone was recalculating the cost of my life.
Let them.
I was still standing.
And I was no longer just surviving—I was becoming deliberate.