The Song of the Shadows

Grisel reeked of fear. The news of the disappearance of several children from the slums had spread like wildfire—not as a cry for help, but as a murmur of resignation. The City Guard, rotten to the core, turned a blind eye. But not everyone. The Weaver's Nest had received a contract—one of those that paid well because the job was "delicate," and the truth, horrible.

—Those kids didn't just vanish, Kaelen —Gorok growled one morning, slamming a map on the table. His voice was a scraping of stones—. There's a cult. The "Devourers of Innocence," that's what they call themselves. They're taking the brats for... their rituals. Someone saw them dragging one into the sewers. South zone, under the old merchant district.

Kaelen stared at the map, his mind processing the information with dispassionate coldness. The whispers in his mind—the song of the shadows—intensified at the mention of the cult.

> "Depraved! They must fall! Suffering is their offering!"

It wasn't an impulse of justice, but a recognition of different prey—a new form of evil to dissect.

—The pay is good —added Seraphina, her voice like a seductive hiss as she approached, her icy blue eyes glowing with barely contained excitement—. And the "cleansing" will be... deep. Right, Kaelen?

Her pale, thin hand brushed his arm, a cold caress that Kaelen no longer rejected.

---

The team for this mission was carefully chosen: Kaelen, for his brutal efficiency and unsettling lack of mercy; Seraphina, for her stealth, her skill with distraction, and her taste for chaos; and Darian, for his unstoppable strength and skill with steel. Lyra wasn't assigned; Gorok said he needed her for "other surveillance matters." Kaelen didn't ask further. The guild's dynamic was like that: each with their role, each a gear in the machine of brutality.

The sewers of Grisel were a labyrinth of darkness and stench. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of mold, rot, and, most disturbingly, a sweet, almost metallic scent of blood. The little light filtering through surface grates barely illuminated the stagnant black waters they waded through; the splash of their boots was the only sound. The walls, covered in slime and fungi, were slippery and damp.

Kaelen moved at the front, his amethyst eyes, which barely registered light, now seemed to see heat—the trail of life. The voices in his head were a constant murmur, almost a guide.

> "Right. Close. Whispers. Fear."

He could feel the children's desperation—a ghostly echo in his own broken mind.

---

Suddenly, Seraphina raised a hand, stopping them.

—Here. I can hear them. And... I can smell the flesh.

Her voice was a guttural whisper, with a tone of almost morbid fascination.

A side tunnel opened to their left. From it, faint chants could now be heard—monotonous and dissonant. And something else, a muffled wail that made Kaelen's hair stand on end.

—They have the children —Darian growled, his voice a dull thunder that reverberated in the narrow space.

His already grim expression twisted into a grimace of restrained rage. His giant, calloused hands tightened around the handle of his warhammer. The fury of loss—the same Kaelen shared—burned in his sky-blue eyes.

---

The passage opened into a natural chamber, an underground cavern with jagged walls and a small crude stone altar at its center. Around it, a dozen hooded figures, dressed in dark, filthy robes, whispered chants. On the altar, restrained, were three children. Their small bodies trembled, their mouths gagged, their eyes wide with terror.

The light from a few candles flickered, casting dancing shadows that made the cultists seem even more grotesque. One of them—the leader—wore a mask made of animal bone covering his face, raising a sacrificial dagger, its blade gleaming ominously.

Kaelen's heart didn't race in panic but with cold determination. The voices in his head roared:

> "Kill them! All of them! Let their blood soak the mud! No mercy! As they did to you!"

---

Seraphina didn't wait. She slipped forward like an eel, her dagger flashing in the gloom. The first cultist fell without a sound, his throat opened in a clean, deep cut. A spurt of dark blood gushed, soaking his robe before his body collapsed in a puddle of his own fluids.

Darian burst in with a war cry, his hammer crashing down with the force of lightning. The sound of impact was like a pumpkin crushed under a giant foot. The cultist's skull exploded in a cloud of bone fragments and brain matter, splattering the walls and the other cultists with a thick, reddish mixture.

The remaining cultists screamed—more from surprise than organization—trying to find weapons.

Kaelen moved then—a ghostly, lethal figure. He gave no quarter. His hand axe whistled through the air, finding flesh and bone with brutal precision. One cultist tried to flee; Kaelen drove the axe into his spine, a dry, nauseating crunch echoed in the cavern as the body collapsed, legs useless.

Another let out a scream, trying to raise a dagger; Kaelen sliced off his hand in a swift strike—blood gushed in jets, covering the floor and splattering his face. The cultist howled, and Kaelen took advantage of his distraction to drive the axe into his stomach, ripping through flesh and organs. The sight of the exposed entrails didn't sicken him—only brought a cold appreciation of the anatomy of damage.

---

Seraphina moved with macabre grace—not always killing, but slicing tendons, stabbing eyes, disarming in the most painful ways. Her laughter, high and clear, filled the cavern—a chilling counterpoint to the screams of agony.

One of the cultists, trying to reach the leader at the altar, slipped in a pool of blood. Seraphina caught him—her pale fingers closed around his throat.

—Oh, my little one —she whispered with a demented smile, her icy blue eyes fixed on the man's terrified ones—. Flesh... life... is so delicious when it writhes.

And with a twist of her wrist, a thin dagger sank just under his chin, piercing the brain without a sound. The body convulsed briefly before falling lifeless.

---

The leader—the man with the bone mask—was paralyzed with terror. He tried to raise his dagger toward the children, but Darian was faster. His hammer crashed into the leader's leg, shattering the bone with a wet crunch. The man fell, his scream a mix of pain and fury.

Darian didn't stop. Each blow of his hammer was an explosion of flesh and bone. He didn't just kill—he disfigured, dismembered, driven by a rage Kaelen recognized in himself. Flesh flew in shreds, bones splintered into white fragments, and blood—hot and thick—splashed the air, painting the walls with a dark, gleaming red.

---

Kaelen approached the altar. The children—small, filthy—trembled. Their eyes looked at him with a fear even greater than what they had shown the cultists. He was no savior to them. He was another shadow.

With quick movements, he untied their bindings—his hands expert after unbinding countless prisoners or victims. He said nothing. There were no words of comfort.

He looked at the dead cultists—their bodies dismembered, crushed, slit open, bleeding out into the mud and black water. The stench of death was thick.

Darian stood, panting—his hammer still dripping blood. Seraphina wiped her dagger with a scrap of cloth, a satisfied smile on her face. The cavern echoed with silence, broken only by the children's muffled sobs.

—Done —Kaelen said, his voice was monotone, devoid of any emotion.

Darian nodded—his rage had subsided, replaced by sorrow.

—Yes. Done.

---

Seraphina approached Kaelen—her icy blue eyes glowed. Her smile was disturbing.

—See, Kaelen? The world is a great canvas. And we are the artists. Pain... blood... tears... are our colors.

Her fingers brushed the blood on Kaelen's cheek.

—And your heart, my dear... your heart is the darkest and most beautiful brush of all.

Kaelen didn't pull away. He felt the warm blood on his skin, the stench in his nostrils, the echo of screams no longer heard with ears, but with his soul.

Madness wasn't just a disease—it was a new way of seeing, a new way of existing in a world that didn't deserve mercy.

And in that moment, surrounded by the carnage, Kaelen knew there was no going back.

Grisel had claimed him completely. And he, the Ghost of the Alleys, was ready to sink deeper into his glorious, bloody madness.

---