Page 54 of Shadowvein

Not Authority. They travel in pairs at a minimum, and lack this level of subtlety. A bandit scout perhaps—sent ahead to assess, to count, to mark. It’s possible. The caravan has guards posted, but not enough to repel a full assault. Not if it comes fast, or well-timed.

Another sound. Further downslope. I send shadows out to investigate.

Three figures. Their formation is loose. Spread wide. Moving into position.

Not scouting then.Coordinating. I recognize the maneuver well.

I rise to my feet and send the raven into the sky. Its wings carve a silent arc over the camp, before climbing higher, the tether between us tightening as its senses merge with mine. From above, the pattern resolves itself.

Eight in total. The three I already saw closing from the south—fast, direct, loud.Bait.The others hold to the northern boundary, flanking wide, ready to attack when the guards are drawn off-balance.

Not amateurs. This is practiced. A split-force pincer, timed for collapse.

I don’t consider alerting the guard, and I don’t wait for the first blade to fall.

Threads of black rise from the ground to meet my steps. Magic moves within me. Not the shadows, but another form. Not hereditary but part of me, nonetheless. A second skin that fits as if I never set it aside.

I reach the first man before he knows I’m there.

“Vauren.” The word is low, almost inaudible, and the shadows tighten, aligning with the beat of my heart.

His blade disappears. His hand with it. A splash of blood hits my cheek, warm and sticky. The void takes him without sound. The darkness doesn’t just swallow his flesh, it unmakes it. Bone, sinew, skin.

His eyes bulge in horrified realization as I send tendrils of darkness up his arm, burrowing beneath his skin like liquid serpents, tracing his veins in ink-dark relief against his pale flesh. The scream never leaves his mouth, as shadows cut through them like acid through paper.

The second stares for too long, caught by my eyes, and the hesitation seals his fate. Darkness cleaves across his chest in a curve sharp enough to sever him in half. The wound doesn’t bleed—the shadows cauterize as they cut, leaving blackened edges where flesh meets void. His body slides apart in two clean pieces. No cry escapes him. Just a wet hush as lungs cease to function.

The third turns. But his chance to flee has gone.

“Hael devan.”

The phrase summons a stillness deeper than silence. The night thickens around him. I let the dark rise over his face and draw him down. No noise. No struggle. Just the quiet compression of air as the night fills his lungs with death instead of oxygen. He claws at his throat as it enters, penetrating every cell until he collapses inward like deflated skin. Not a corpse, an emptied vessel.

I move past him without slowing.

A sound breaks the silence, and I turn to find one of the caravan guards rooted in place, halfway through drawing a blade he wouldn’t have time to use. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow bursts. Ican see the effort it takes to meet my gaze. His pupils are pinpoints of terror in a pale face.

Then he drops to one knee and presses a hand to his chest.

The raven arcs high above. Through its sight, I find the others, moving like wolves through underbrush. Five men in staggered formatting, sliding between trees. They haven’t seen the collapse of their distraction. They believe the plan is already in motion, and the guards will fall for the noise and rush south.

They move without urgency. Confident. Blades already drawn. Spread wide enough to carve a channel through the camp in a single sweep. Timing is everything. One signal, and they’ll descend together.

But their signal will not come.

I slip into the forest’s edge. The trees here are low, the canopy thick. No light filters through, but I see clearly.

The first man doesn’t hear me. A coil of black winds around his ankle, halting him mid-step. He stumbles, and the void folds over his face before he can cry out. It presses inward—eyes, ears, mouth—filling him from the inside. His body spasms, limbs jerking. When the shadows recede, his face is blank, wiped clean of detail.

The second turns, reacting to the fall. He finds me already there.

He backs into a low branch.

“Aeren.”I shape a needle from nothing, and drive it through his chest. A clean hole opens where his heart once beat. He collapses to his knees, staring down at the emptiness. His mouth opens, but no words form.

And in the stillness that follows, I feel it. The pull. Power expanding. Not merely obeying, but converging. It flows within me.

Breathless.Certain.Willing.

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