"We got a Veiled Chain operative gone rogue—she goes by the name Shinda Josei," Kaelen briefed us—voice low but steady—cutting through the fog''s damp hush as we wove through Veyrith''s alleys—"She reached out to me a few days ago. We set a time and place to meet. She wants to join us in exchange for protection against the Chain."


    He led us through the quieter veins of the city—alleys choked with mist and silence—narrow corridors where torchlight barely pierced the haze, stone walls slick with river damp. Eventually, we reached a desolate corridor on the far end of Veyrith—its confines pressing tight, shadows pooling thick—these narrow alleyways made me claustrophobic—logic noting the spatial constraint—but it''s still better than being in the mountains of Thoringard—open stone preferable to Thuumar-forged peaks, a calculated trade-off.


    "She should be around here somewhere—No." Kaelen broke into a sprint—boots echoing against stone—a sharp crack splitting the stillness—his halfling frame darting forward, cloak trailing like a wraith''s shroud. My stomach twisted—a rare flicker, quickly suppressed—I followed close behind—seven-foot bulk pounding pavement—and the sight stopped me cold—breath halting, logic snapping to assess.


    An elven woman lay at the end of the alley—motionless—sprawled against the wet stone, her cloak splayed like broken wings. I dropped to a knee beside her—armor creaking faint—torchlight glinting off a long, jagged shard of obsidian protruding from her chest—black and glistening, embedded deep. She wasn''t just dead—she''d been executed—the placement of the shard precise—through the heart—the lack of blood minimal—clean, purposeful—whoever did this was a professional—skill evident, intent absolute.


    "Laboritus, watch out!" Varra shouted—voice sharp, cutting through—her seven-foot Thuumar frame crashing into me—knocking me sideways—shoulder slamming stone as her shield went up—metal ringing—a barrier against an unseen attack. I hit the ground hard—gravel biting through my gear—just in time to see something step from the shadows.


    No—emerge—like stone given will.


    It loomed over us like a walking mountain—carved from volcanic stone—a massive form, eight feet and six inches of jagged obsidian—its body sculpted in sharp planes, cracks along its arms and chest glowing with a faint, pulsing crimson—veins threading like molten fault lines. Its eyes—twin orbs of deep red with no pupils—gave away nothing—wells of intensity burning steady, unreadable.


    It moved without a sound at first—but the sheer weight of its presence made the alley feel smaller—tighter—more dangerous—air thickening as if compressed by its mass. Then the veins along its arms flared—bright and pulsing like magma under pressure—a surge of heat rippling outward. The next instant—a deep bang cracked through the alley—like a volcanic eruption—deafening me—a blast of dust and obsidian slammed forward—shards hissing past. Varra threw up her shield just in time—metal denting under the force—shielding me from the blast—impact kicking up a storm of debris—her stance braced like a fortress against a tempest, unyielding.


    Its arm twisted—reshaped—hardened into a black-bladed weapon of raw obsidian—jagged, brutal—morphing seamless from flesh to edge. They clashed—not like brawlers or trained duelists—but like forces of nature—Varra''s longsword meeting its blade in a crash of steel and stone. It was like watching mountains collide—unyielding, ancient. Not a duel. A demonstration—of force and immovability.For the first time ever I was unsure if Varra could beat this thing—logic faltering against its mass.


    The air rippled with every strike—sparks dancing along the edges of their blades—flaring crimson against Varra''s golden aura—blow for blow, neither giving ground—her sword slashing precise, a well-oiled machine showing no signs of slowing—its strikes graceful for its size—eerie, controlled—each hit a calculated shear of force. Varra ducked under a wide sweep—blade whistling overhead—and lunged forward to tackle it—shoulder lowered, momentum surging.


    The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    For a moment—I thought she had it—her strength a proven breaker of foes.


    But its feet rooted into the stone—like an anchor in sand—unmoving—obsidian flesh cracking the pavement faint, holding fast.


    She bounced off harmlessly—like a child trying to tackle an adult—her shield clanging useless against its bulk.


    I''d seen my sister drop ogres with that move countless times—logic affirmed her power, her record—not this time—its mass defied her force, an anomaly unshaken.


    Then came the hum—deep and ominous—its sword vibrating in a blur—low whine rising, rattling the stones beneath my boots.


    It was tension before a quake—rising sharp, promising ruin.


    "Wait!" Kaelen''s voice sliced through the chaos—small frame commanding—cutting the hum dead—his tone steel despite his size, a marvel of presence.


    The vibration stopped—slowly, the obsidian titan turned toward him—crimson eyes glinting—its head tilting faint, assessing. It never ceased to amaze me—how someone so small can carry such a commanding voice—logic noting the anomaly, not the marvel.


    "Varra is our strongest Nightedge," Kaelen said—voice steady, factual—"It''s not every day she''s bested in combat. How would you like to become one for the Shadow Hand? We could use that mixture of stealth and brute force you''ve mastered."


    He paused—then added—eyes locked—"The Veiled Chain called you the Indomitable Shadow—they fear you—we don''t—we''d rather point you at something that deserves to be broken."


    It was silent for a moment—long enough to feel like the whole alley was holding its breath—air taut, fog still—looking back, I''m sure I did hold my breath—logic suspended, outcome pending.


    Then its voice rumbled out—like magma breaking through stone—low, resonant—"I want to see more than this gods-forsaken cesspool—I''m in."


    "Our hideout is below the Osirian Desert," Kaelen said—unfazed—voice clipped—"Find it and you''ll be officially initiated as a member."


    Without another word—it turned and lumbered off into the shadows—the ground trembling faintly under each step—obsidian form fading into Veyrith''s haze, a mountain receding.


    "He''s fast for a big guy," Mavik said—still smiling—voice lilted, eyes tracking the fade—"I never knew volcanoes could walk—hey Kaelen, I thought we''re recruiting members, not monsters."


    "It''s better to have a monster as an ally than an enemy," he responded—watching the obsidian behemoth disappear from sight—voice flat, logic mirroring mine.


    "You alright?" I asked—helping Varra to her feet—hand steady under her arm, dust clinging to her shield.


    "Yes," she said—dusting herself off with a grin—golden eyes glinting—"Thanks—I''m glad you''re okay as well—that was one tough opponent."


    I nodded—agreement factual—but my mind lingered on the fight we''d just witnessed—replaying each strike, each stillness—logic parsing the anomaly.


    I''d never seen her hit something that didn''t budge—not even ogres stood up to her momentum—whatever that thing was... it wasn''t just strong—it was unshakable—an outlier defying her record, my calculations.


    I''ve seen magic warp flesh—turn fire to ice—whisper lies into men''s minds—but this was something else—this was raw—old—ancient even—like the mountain itself had learned to walk—its obsidian flesh a testament to time, its force a pulse of the deep.


    And now that mountain was walking with us—Nightblood, Veilborn, and whatever that last monstrosity was—each one more terrifying than the last—monsters in form, but weapons in function—and we were gathering them with purpose—not for power—not for fear—for war—logic aligning intent with outcome.


    Terrifying—yes—but perfectly suited for an assassin guild like the Shadow Hand—I couldn''t even begin to fathom what we would find next on this mission—if we even survived the next encounters—probability tilting uncertain, variables stacking.


    But one thing was certain—the shadows were growing stronger—our web tightening, threads forged in Veyrith''s dark.


    Whatever Veyrith held in its shadows—we were ready. Not by hope. By calculation. Vigilance demanded. Steel sharpened. Monsters gathered.