"This last lead isn''t like the others," Kaelen said—his tone unusually grim—voice cutting through the damp fog as we crossed a fog-drenched bridge into the southern ruins of Veyrith—stone slick underfoot, mist curling thick—"Goes by Niraethra—they call her Spectral Widow—she''s deadly and mysterious like a ghost—gets in and out of places in unexplained ways—her only telltale sign of being there is faint threads of shadow."


    "What—is she a shadow of a ghost?" Mavik asked—cocking a brow—voice lilted, gray armor glinting faint as he smirked—"What exactly is she?"


    "I have my theories—no one really knows though—being a ghost of some sort might not be far off the truth—but from what I hear she''s a menace—cold—unnatural—I think... she made a deal with something she shouldn''t have," Kaelen replied—voice low, steady—his fox-sharp gaze fixed ahead, scar a faint slash under his hood.


    "You sure she''s even friendly?" Varra asked—her hand resting near her longsword—golden eyes narrowing, shield slung low—a Thuumar''s caution threading through her tone.


    Kaelen looked ahead—expression unreadable—fox mask a shadow in the fog—"In this business you don''t have friendly—only logical reasoning why they should ally themselves with you—here in Veyrith the answer is to escape"—he was right—so far each one had joined because they had the same interest—to leave Veyrith behind for good—logic aligning their motives with ours.


    He led us to the edge of the old district—the part of Veyrith where buildings were half-swallowed by the earth—crumbling stone sinking into damp soil—where the air was colder and sound didn''t carry at all—silence thick, unnatural—it felt wrong here—like the world was too thin—stretched between two planes of existence—from one side of the veil to the other—fog pressing like a shroud, shadows pooling deep.


    "She sent a message," Kaelen said—"Didn''t write it—didn''t speak it—it just... appeared—a scrap of shadow, twisting in the shape of an odd signature—she wants to talk, I believe"—his voice clipped, assessing, hand brushing where the sigil had flared then faded.


    I didn''t like this—none of us did—it felt like a trap—logic noting the variables, the risk—probability tilting uncertain, instinct suppressed but present.


    We waited in silence atop the broken shell of an abandoned bell tower—its jagged spire piercing the fog—stone cracked, moss clinging—time stretched—even the wind held back—time seemed to crawl at a snail''s pace—each breath a measured beat, tension coiling tight.


    Then the shadows rippled—stone shuddering faint, air warping.


    She stepped out of nothing—one moment the wall was stone—the next, it peeled back like a curtain—and Niraethra emerged—shadow unfolding into form.


    She moved like a broken marionette—graceful in all the wrong ways. Her cloak shifting as if it had a will of its own—black threads trailing behind her like forgotten memories—rippling, alive—her face half-hidden—skin pale and marked with thin cracks that bled silver shadow—porcelain touched by smoke—her eyes glowed faintly violet—hollow voids flickering with fractured light—dead things shouldn''t glow—logic noting the anomaly, not the unease.


    "I thought shadow ghosts were supposed to blend in," Mavik muttered—disappointed—voice low, gray armor creaking as he squinted through the fog.


    "She''s not a ghost," I said under my breath—"Not by the looks of it"—logic parsing her form—shadow, not spirit—something reforged, not undead.


    "I am what remains," she whispered—voice warped—layered like multiple people speaking at once—a chorus of echoes—"A vessel bound by threads and shadows"—her words a hiss of veiled truths, cutting the silence.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Kaelen stepped forward—"You are said to be one of the best, Niraethra—you''ve been close since we entered Veyrith—you''ve been watching, haven''t you?"—voice steady, fox mask tilting—logic probing, not accusing.


    "I see where secrets gather," she replied—"Where truths rot—where the veil trembles—and you... you reek of purpose"—her violet eyes glinting—threads coiling faint around her fingers—assessing, not reacting.


    "What do you want?" Varra asked cautiously—hand tightening on her longsword—golden gaze sharp, shield steady—a Thuumar''s wariness rising.


    Niraethra tilted her head—"To serve—to spread the will of the Father of Secrets—the chain I severed... led me back to the Hand"—voice a whisper, intent veiled—her cloak rippling like shadow spilled ink.


    I didn''t say anything—I couldn''t—her presence didn''t feel demonic—or undead—or anything I''d fought before—she was quiet entropy—decay wearing a person''s shape—logic stalling, unable to classify.


    "You''re here for a reason," Kaelen said—"Show us what that reason is"—voice firm, a command wrapped in calm—fox eyes piercing her violet glow.


    Niraethra raised a hand—threads of pure shadow unraveled from her palm—flickering black weaving a net—living tendrils hissing soft—she hurled it downward—through the broken floor—shadows slicing stone like air.


    Below us—Veiled Chain agents had been quietly tailing us—boots silent, gold masks glinting—hoping to catch us unaware—logic noting their error, their miscalculation.


    They didn''t stand a chance—probability null.


    The moment the net touched the ground—a rift split open—like a wound torn in the fabric of reality—jagged violet light flaring—screams echoed—a sharp chorus cut short—and a flash of violet lightning lit the tower from beneath—crackling wild—shadow knives darted through the gap—changing direction mid-flight like they chose their targets—curving, striking—no blood spilled—just agonizing silence—bodies crumpling to ash mid-cry.


    Then her voice echoed—a chant I didn''t understand—in no tongue I knew—low, resonant—"Noct''Velyros... aperi secreta—inimicos tuos perdam"—words twisting the air, a pact''s price paid.


    Reality fractured—stone splintering—the tower shaking—we were surrounded by a moment of raw unbeing—shadows bending light—time stalling—when the rift snapped shut—there was nothing left of the Veiled Chain agents—nothing but ashes... and shadows slowly threading themselves back into her hands—coiling like serpents, alive.


    She staggered slightly—her lips moved—but no words came—mouth hung open—as if trying to form a sentence—but nothing coherent emerged—logic noting the cost, the strain.


    "She broke herself to cast that," I murmured—voice low—assessing the toll, not the act.


    "It''s a gift," Kaelen said softly—"One only someone truly lost would survive"—voice steady, fox eyes glinting—recognizing the price, not mourning it.


    Niraethra straightened—threads of shadow coiling around her arms like serpents—her eyes flicked to Kaelen—then to me—then... stillness—violet glow dimming faint, a vessel rebalanced.


    Kaelen nodded—gesture crisp—"We''re rebuilding the Shadow Hand—we need someone who can walk between realms—someone who gathers secrets no one else can even hear"—voice firm, purpose clear.


    Her lips parted again—this time—the words were quiet—like paper tearing in the dark—"I will gather them all"—voice a whisper, resolve absolute.


    Kaelen didn''t smile—he didn''t need to—logic sufficed—"Our hideout is beneath the Osirian Desert—find it—and we''ll show you what purpose feels like"—voice clipped, a pact offered.


    She bowed slightly—if it could be called that—a tilt of shadow—and vanished into the shadow behind her—like a page burning in reverse—threads dissolving, form fading fast.


    Mavik exhaled slowly—"Okay... I don''t think she walks anywhere—I think the world just moves to let her pass—I''m still not convinced she isn''t a shadow ghost either"—voice lilted, gray armor shifting as he grinned—delight unshaken.


    I didn''t argue—there was no point when Mavik got like this—he got an idea and would latch on—no matter what you had to say to prove him wrong—logic yielding to his whimsy.


    Varra looked to Kaelen—"Was that... was she an undead?—I couldn''t tell what she was at all"—golden eyes narrowing—sword steady—I nodded in agreement—I''d never seen anything like her myself—logic stumped, classification void.


    Kaelen shook his head—"That was a Noctixan—that was what she became—a person reforged into a shadow being"—voice steady, fox mask tilting—knowledge cutting through.


    We stood there for a while longer—unsure if the tower was still standing—or if we were—fog pressing thick, stone trembling faint—reality settling slow.


    Then Kaelen turned to me—"Write that one down carefully, Laboritus—because that wasn''t a recruitment"—voice low, a directive weighted.


    "No," I agreed quietly—"That was an awakening"—logic affirming—five monsters forged, a pact sealed in shadow.


    These five recruits would be remembered by one name—the Shadow Demons.


    They weren''t just killers. They were the things killers feared.


    Five monsters, five disasters, bound by shadow, purpose, and ruin.


    Probability no longer tilted. It bent to them.