The Song of the Shadows

Seraphina moved through Grisel's twisted alleys like a familiar shadow, her dark hair and fluid movements almost blending into the gloom.

Kaelen followed closely, the hand axe at his belt, his amethyst eyes scanning every corner.

The city was a labyrinth of flickering lights and dense shadows, a seething pit of despair and vice.

The stench of garbage, sweat, and stale alcohol was overwhelming, mixed with the distant sweet scent of some kind of incense burned in the upper district's temples.

The voices in Kaelen's head, the song of the shadows, grew louder here—not with fear, but with a kind of macabre euphoria, as if the city itself resonated with his madness.

> "Predators! Thousands! Weaker than you!"

they whispered, and in every face that passed, Kaelen saw a possible victim or a potential executioner.

---

The bustle of the market faded, replaced by the lurking silence of the poorer, forgotten districts.

Narrow streets, crumbling houses, eyes watching from the dark.

Grisel wasn't humanity's last hope; it was a prison of stone.

—Here, the weak die slowly —Seraphina's voice was a musical whisper that cut through the thick air.

She stopped in front of a black stone building, no windows on the ground floor and a barely visible emblem of a spider with a dagger at the center.

—And the strong... thrive. Welcome to the Weaver's Nest.

Kaelen felt a surge of unease.

The air around the building was heavier, charged with a dark energy that he, in his current state, could almost taste.

It wasn't the pure darkness of the Oni or the Shadows, but something more twisted—human.

—The Shadow Weaving Guild —Seraphina explained, her ice-blue eyes glowing in the light of a nearby torch—.

That's what the outsiders call it. Here, we're 'those who see the truth.'

We do the dirty work. The kind no one else wants—or the kind no one else can do.

Her smile widened, a promise of chaos.

—Murders. Extortions. Recovery of 'lost' goods. Sometimes, just... cleaning. Understand?

Kaelen nodded, his face expressionless.

Yes, he understood. It was the business of survival in its most brutal form, without pretenses.

The kind of "work" where his new nature would fit like a glove.

---

Inside, the place was dark and cavernous.

The sweet smoke was stronger here, mixed with the smell of old blood and sweat.

Heavy wooden tables, stained by years of use and grease, spread across the main hall.

Rough-looking men and women, with weapons within reach, drank, played cards, or sharpened their knives.

There was a mix of mercenaries, thieves, and more mysterious figures with cloaks hiding their faces.

The voices in Kaelen's head became almost euphoric.

> "Companions! Predators like you! Kill them before they kill you!"

A bulky figure with a scar running across his brow approached them, his piggish eyes evaluating Kaelen with distrust.

—Seraphina. I see you brought a lamb with teeth. Is this the new toy you spoke of?

His voice was a growl.

Seraphina laughed, her pale hand touched Kaelen's arm.

—He's not a toy, Gorok. He's a sheathless sword.

A boy who met the truth of the world too soon.

He's come looking for... opportunities.

And maybe, a place where his darkness won't be judged.

Gorok grunted, not taking his eyes off Kaelen.

—Darkness is common here. But madness... that's a rare coin.

Do you know how to use that axe, boy? Or do you only know how to grunt?

Kaelen felt the provocation, but his mind stayed cold.

The voices advised him:

> "Show. Don't speak. Let them see."

He ignored Gorok and fixed his gaze on the hall.

In a corner, two men practiced with blunt swords.

They weren't Oni or Vampires, but their movements were sloppy.

Kaelen smiled, a barely perceptible grimace that didn't reach his amethyst eyes.

—He knows —Seraphina said, her voice almost a caress—.

And he'll prove it. Right, Kaelen?

Her ice-blue gaze pushed him, a wordless provocation.

Kaelen nodded.

A whisper from the voices gave him a brutal idea.

He approached the men who were practicing.

—I need a job —his voice was rough—. I need to prove myself.

One of the men, a burly guy with a spider tattoo on his neck, laughed.

—Ah, a rookie? There are no lessons here, boy. Here, we bleed.

He raised his blunt sword.

Come on, show us what you've got, moon-hair.

---

The "fight" was quick and brutal.

It wasn't a duel of honor, but a cold slaughter.

The tattooed man was strong, but slow.

Kaelen didn't fight with honor; he fought to survive and to kill.

The voices in his head became a macabre conductor, pointing out every opening, every weakness.

> "The knee! The neck! Break the fingers! Make him scream!"

He didn't use the axe.

He used his fists, his elbows, his knees.

With a ferocity that frightened even some of the hardened mercenaries watching, Kaelen moved like a specter.

He broke the man's arm with a dry crack, a sound that made several onlookers grit their teeth.

He punched his face repeatedly, each hit a solid thud, until the man's screams drowned in his own blood and splattered Kaelen's white hair.

Then, with a brutal, precise kick, he shattered his jaw.

The man fell to the ground, a sack of broken, bleeding meat, conscious but unable to move or scream.

---

Silence took over the Weaver's Nest.

Even Gorok's eyes widened in astonishment.

No one had expected that kind of calculated brutality from such a thin young man.

Kaelen stood over the body, breathing slightly, the hot blood staining his clothes.

His amethyst eyes burned with a disturbing light, a mix of old pain and newly awakened ferocity.

Madness had taught him to hurt, to destroy, in a way that simple anger never could.

Seraphina broke the silence with a slow, loud applause, her blue eyes fixed on Kaelen, a twisted admiration on her face.

—See, Gorok? A sheathless sword.

An artist of pain.

Welcome, Kaelen!

Gorok approached, his expression had shifted from distrust to cautious respect.

He looked at the man on the ground, writhing silently.

—Quite... effective. Too much for a rookie.

I won't ask what you saw to learn that, boy.

He pulled a coin pouch from his belt.

—We have a job for you.

A merchant who refuses to 'contribute'.

A few words. A few... lessons. You'll like it.

---

Kaelen took the coin pouch, the weight of gold in his hand was cold and indifferent,

but the feeling of having won, of having taken control, was strangely comforting.

The voices in his head sang loudly:

> "Power! You have it! Destroy them! Harvest!"

---

Kaelen's first "job" in Grisel wasn't just a task,

it was a deeper descent.

The merchant, a fat, weeping man, refused to pay his "fee" to the guild.

Kaelen, accompanied by Seraphina who watched with an enigmatic smile, didn't kill him.

It was worse.

He used the "lessons" of madness, the same ones Oni or Vampires would use,

but with a touch that Master Elías would never have forgiven him for.

---

There were no excessive screams, just muffled pleading.

Kaelen broke the merchant's fingers one by one, with surgical coldness,

the bones cracking under his thumb.

The pure horror in the merchant's eyes, his silent whimpers,

filled Kaelen with a strange satisfaction.

It wasn't sadistic pleasure, but the confirmation of his power, of his ability to inflict suffering, to be feared.

Each crack was a blow to the naivety that had been ripped from his soul.

The blood and tears mixed.

---

Seraphina watched, her ice-blue eyes glowing with disturbing fascination.

When Kaelen finished, the merchant, a trembling bundle of pain, promised to pay double.

—See, Kaelen? —Seraphina whispered, her voice almost a lullaby—.

There is beauty in pain. A brutal truth.

Now... you are like me.

Or maybe... a little more.

---

Kaelen looked at her, his amethyst eyes empty of emotion.

He had crossed another threshold.

Brutality was not just survival;

it was expression, a release.

Madness embraced him, and he, for the first time, did not resist as much.

Grisel had opened a door, and Kaelen was stepping through it,

the song of the shadows echoing with every step that took him further from humanity.

---