Solari asked me to recount our time recruiting members for the Shadow Hand—his voice steady, a directive I''d anticipated. Well—he asked Kaelen first, but Kaelen dismissed it—stating he had more important duties and no time to waste writing things down "for pleasure"—his tone flat, edged with impatience, as if ink were beneath his station. So—to avoid further confusion—it''s Laboritus... yet again—tasked with the record, my quill moving methodically across parchment in the hideout''s flickering torchlight, a duty I accept without sentiment.


    We headed out that morning—boots striking Thoringard''s stone in unison—following Kaelen''s lead, his cloak drawn tight against the dawn''s bite. My sister Varra, Mavik, and I had been tasked with recruiting new members—Solari''s orders clear, his intent precise. He spared me from their mission in Thoringard—a kindness I won''t soon forget—logical, given Varra''s presence and my utility in this endeavor, a choice I assess as efficient.


    "Hey Kaelen, buddy, where are we headed to find new recruits?" Mavik asked—curiosity piqued, voice carrying that casual lilt he never sheds—his broad frame lumbering beside me, hands restless with idle energy. He always had that tone—even with people of high rank—a habit Kaelen once corrected with sharp rebukes. Eventually, he gave up—resigned to Mavik''s informality, a concession to practicality over protocol.


    "We''re going to Veyrith," Kaelen replied—voice even, gaze fixed ahead—his halfling stature cutting a lean shadow through the thinning mist. "I''ve got leads—a handful of promising candidates."


    "A city run by a crime syndicate? That''s a gold mine for recruits," I mused—rubbing my chin, fingers brushing stubble as logic clicked into place—Veyrith''s lawless sprawl a breeding ground for the skilled and desperate, ideal for the Hand''s needs.


    Veyrith is a hidden city—nestled between the border of Volstruum Valley and the Adrestia Forest—a labyrinth of crooked spires veiled by the fog rising from the Veiled River below. Its waters whisper through the dark—secrets carried on currents—shrouding the city in a perpetual haze that masks it from outsiders. Ruled by the Veiled Chain—a syndicate of cutthroats, corrupted mages, and masked informants—it''s a realm where power is the only currency, vanishings commonplace, order a myth forsaken.


    We arrived under cover of dusk—fitting for a city forged in shadow—mist clinging to the rooftops like a shroud that refused to lift—tendrils curling around gnarled eaves, draping alleys in gray silence. The air hung thick—smoke from hidden braziers, rot from forgotten corners, spice from illicit stalls—a haze that bit the lungs with every breath, laced with the Veiled River''s damp murmur beneath the streets.


    The city wasn''t quiet—Veyrith never was—every whisper sharp, every glance over a shoulder laden with intent, every merchant''s shout muffled behind wards of silence—a tapestry of secrecy woven tight. A dozen smells clashed in the tension—wet stone slick with mist, incense wafting from shadowed altars, blood sharp from fresh kills, stale wine souring in cracked barrels—an assault as constant as the city''s pulse, a rhythm of survival and subterfuge.


    Kaelen moved ahead—cloak drawn close—his halfling frame slipping through the crowd with practiced ease—shadow among shadows, barely a ripple. Varra stalked close behind—golden eyes sharp, scanning the rooftops—her seven-foot Thuumar height a silent warning, bow unslung, steady. I kept my arms crossed—grim and silent—my own seven-foot bulk parting the throng—two Thuumar clearing a path through masked faces, a calculated presence requiring no words.


    Mavik brought up the rear—unreadable behind his burn-scarred face—his weathered gray armor dulled under a tattered cloak, broad shoulders hunched, silent for once. Veyrith thrived on whispers—and tonight, we were here to listen—senses honed, voices low, steps measured.


    Kaelen stopped near a fog-choked square—crooked stalls leaning under flickering lanterns—where shadowy figures darted between wares, bartering in hushed tones. He glanced back—scar twitching faintly under his hood—"Our first lead''s here. They call him Hollow Step—or Silent Death."


    "And the catch?" I asked—voice low, brow lifting—logic demanding the variable, the flaw in this equation.


    Kaelen''s mouth twitched—a flicker of acknowledgment—"He''s a mystery. All we know is he leaves bodies in his wake—silent. Efficient. Calculated."


    My brow lifted higher—complexity noted—a prospect undefined, potential weighed against uncertainty.


    We moved like ghosts—steps muffled, blending into the mist—searching the square''s edges, eyes tracing every flicker in the gloom. We didn''t find him—he found us—emerging from the fog like a wraith summoned by shadow''s will.


    A figure—pale as moonlight—silver veins glowing faintly beneath his skin, a delicate lattice pulsing slow under a taut surface. Polished steel eyes—reflective, unblinking—cut through the haze, framed by a frayed cloak—deliberately tattered, its hem weighted to conceal a blade''s subtle line. His presence was quiet—not loud with menace, but cold with it—a whisper of death in stillness.


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    He was a Nightblood—a soul reclaimed by Tenumbra, the Silent Keeper—reborn from an unnatural end, rare and solitary, bearing the mark of a second chance under shadow''s pact.


    "I heard the Shadow Hand was gone," he said—voice like frost scraping stone—low, deliberate, chilling the air.


    "It''s rebuilding," I answered—tone even, factual—arms still crossed, meeting his reflective gaze with measured calm.


    He studied me for a moment—head tilting faintly—then gave a small nod—acceptance, not warmth—"Good. The Veiled Chain is becoming... an annoyance."


    Kaelen stepped forward—cloak rustling—"We''re recruiting. Interested?"


    He gave the faintest smile—lips barely curving, a glint of intent in steel eyes—"A shipment of weapons arrives tonight. Take it out—quietly. Secure the crates. Then I''ll consider your offer."


    And just like that, he was gone—melted into the mist—his form dissolving into fog, leaving only the echo of his frost-voice, a test laid bare.


    Mavik chuckled low—voice rumbling—"He''s going to make a great Shade. Might even make Night Talon rank."


    I didn''t doubt it—his silence, his precision—aligned with the Hand''s ethos—logic affirmed by his calculated challenge. Still don''t—his terms a proving ground, efficiency the measure.


    Varra and Mavik held position behind the market stalls—crouched low, shadows merging with warped wood and canvas. I took a rooftop—seven feet of Thuumar bulk perched silent on sagging shingles—bow drawn, arrow nocked, sightline clear. Kaelen crouched behind a stack of crates near the pier—cloak pooling dark, daggers glinting faint in the mist.


    The ship arrived just past midnight—medium-sized, enough for thirty at most—its dark hull slicing through the Veiled River''s fog like a blade through silk. The dock was silent—save for the gentle lapping of water against wood and the quiet creak of ropes and pulleys—tension taut as the mist coiling around us.


    I drew a whispersting arrow—a needle-thin shaft, nearly invisible in flight—its tip catching a faint gleam under lantern glow. Normally used for precise shots between armor plates—perfect for silent kills—its design honed for stealth, a tool of calculated ends.


    Five figures moved across the deck—clad in dark clothing and gold masks—three hauling crates, one barking orders in a low growl, the last watching from the crow''s nest—eyes glinting behind slits, a sentinel in the fog.


    I loosed the first arrow—string twanging soft—whispering through the night, striking the lookout in the throat—a clean pierce, bloodless in its swiftness. He dropped without a sound—crumpling silent into the nest, unseen, unmissed.


    One down—four remained—timing critical, precision absolute.


    I notched a second—breath steady—Kaelen moved—flash-stepping behind the crate hauler—a blur of shadow—slitting their throat with a flick of steel, blood pooling dark—then plunging his blade into the chest of the next—no time for cries, just a gasp cut short.


    I loosed again—the second arrow whispering—finding the leader''s neck, dropping him with a soft thud—body slumping against a crate, mask tilting askew.


    The last turned—too late—eyes flaring behind gold—Kaelen already there—blade catching lantern light before silence claimed them—a swift thrust, a clean fall, no alarm raised.


    Then the captain''s cabin opened—wood creaking faint—one last figure stepping out—boots heavy on the deck, a silhouette in the mist.


    My third arrow found his throat before his boots even touched the planks—a whisper, a pierce, a collapse—silent as the rest, body folding mid-step.


    That was the night I earned the title—Unseen Death—five shots, five kills—no sound, no trace—a name later whispered in Veyrith''s alleys, though I gave it no weight—results matter, not titles.


    We finished unloading the crates—twenty in all—wood rough under my grip, stacked silent on the pier—no alarms, no alerts—not a single trace left behind—the mist cloaking our work, the river swallowing sound.


    "Umbra via. Aperi," Kaelen chanted—voice low, precise—hands tracing a glyph in the air—a bright flash of red light flaring, then fading—the crates vanishing into ether, a ripple dissipating fast.


    "Holy crap, man—where''d they go?" Mavik asked—eyes wide, explosive pausing mid-toss—shock cutting through his casual mask.


    "Our storage room," Kaelen replied flatly—voice clipped, unfazed—already scanning the fog''s edge.


    A familiar figure stepped from the shadows—like a ghost taking form—pale skin catching lantern glow, silver veins pulsing faint beneath. "I''ll admit," the Nightblood said—voice frost-sharp—"I didn''t think you four would pull it off."


    Kaelen shrugged—cloak shifting—"Efficient and silent is the Hand''s creed."


    "So," he said—arms folding loosely, steel eyes glinting—"do you want to join now?"


    "I''m tired of trying to survive in this forsaken pit of despair," he said—waving a hand toward the fog-choked city—mist curling around spires like a shroud—"This place betrayed me a long time ago. It''s time I do something with my second chance."


    I studied him—seven-foot frame looming—logic parsing his words—weariness genuine, intent clear—"What''s your name, Nightblood?"


    "Dareth," he said—then turned to each of us in turn—"The Viper himself... and the Walking Fortress,"—nodding to Kaelen and Varra—titles recognized, weighed—his gaze lingering on their scars, their poise.


    He frowned slightly—head tilting—"I don''t know you two."


    "I''m Mavik—you ever need a quick escape, I make them," he said—casually tossing an explosive in the air—gray gleam catching light, a grin tugging his burns.


    "Ah—Destruction''s Caller," Dareth mused—voice low, recognition slotting in—eyes tracking the device''s arc.


    He looked at me last—steel gaze steady—"I''m Laboritus."


    A small smile touched his lips—faint, measured—"They never knew what hit them. And your arrows always found their mark."


    He turned—already fading into the mist—cloak fraying into shadow—"I know the drill and the path to your doorstep."


    I watched him go—mist swallowing his pale form—realizing something unsettling—logic flaring sharp—he had more intel about us than we did about him—names, titles, a path to our base—a variable too informed, too elusive. And that... was dangerous—risk tipping the scale, a thread demanding scrutiny.