The Song of the Shadows

The days in the Weaver's Nest became a routine of brutality. Kaelen did not seek pleasure in violence, but found a strange calm in it, a cold logic that soothed the song of the shadows in his mind.

Each "job" was a lesson: how to instill terror with surgical precision, how to break the will without annihilating the body, how to see others as mere obstacles or tools. His silvery white hair and amethyst eyes became a whispered legend in Grisel's underworld — the "Ghost of the Alleys."

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Seraphina was his constant shadow. She observed every blow, every moan of his victims, with a glint in her icy blue eyes that Kaelen was beginning to recognize as a twisted form of delight. She did not interfere, did not judge. She simply existed at his side — a companion in madness.

Sometimes, he found her humming strange melodies no one else seemed to hear, or talking to herself in incomprehensible whispers. Kaelen didn't feel uncomfortable. Her madness was a mirror of his own, and there was a strange comfort in not feeling alone in his mental unraveling.

---

One afternoon, after a particularly unpleasant assignment — recovering a stolen map from a merchant who turned out to be a sadist fond of torturing children, whom Kaelen dispatched with an efficiency that even impressed Gorok — Seraphina led him to a more secluded area of the Nest.

It was a common room where some guild members spent their downtime, eating, drinking, and forging plans.

—Here are ours —Seraphina's voice was almost cheerful—. Those who don't fit anywhere else. And those who haven't yet been devoured by the city.

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Among those present, Kaelen distinguished three figures that Seraphina subtly pointed out:

Darian, the Silent Forger:

A burly man of about forty, with arms like tree trunks and calloused hands that revealed his trade. He had ash-blond hair, always tousled, and eyes of a deep sky blue that, despite his imposing size, showed an abyssal sadness.

He spoke little and with a grave, rough tone. His past life as a respected blacksmith was destroyed when the Oni raided his village, taking his family. His silence was his way of processing the trauma. Now he forged weapons for the guild, hammering his pain into the steel.

Kaelen felt an inaudible connection with him — the echo of a similar loss.

Lyra, the Night Eye:

A young woman, no older than twenty-five, slim and agile. Her jet-black hair fell in a cascade down to her waist, and her piercing golden amber eyes seemed to see beyond the shadows.

Her voice was low and melodic, but always with a shade of melancholy. She was an exceptional explorer and tracker, able to move unseen even in the densest darkness.

She had been betrayed by her own family, sold as a slave to a cruel merchant, and escaped vowing never to trust again, though she yearned for a lost connection.

She had developed a kind of "night vision" that wasn't magical but an extreme sharpening of her senses in darkness.

Zoltan, the Speaker of Shadows:

A middle-aged man, with a slim build and elegant dark clothing that contrasted with the filth of the Nest. He had straight black hair, slicked back, and eyes of an enigmatic onyx color (pure black), which seemed to devour light.

His voice was soft, persuasive, almost hypnotic. He was the guild's negotiator, the one who secured the most lucrative contracts and manipulated targets without shedding a drop of blood (at least not himself directly).

Rumor had it he had connections to the Shadow Faes, making him feared and respected. His story was a mystery, but it was said his mind was a labyrinth of secrets.

---

Seraphina smiled — a smile that was almost proud.

—They're broken too. In their own way. But they found a reason to go on. Like you, Kaelen.

They approached an empty table. Darian, who was sharpening a massive sword, looked up. His blue eyes settled on Kaelen — not with hostility, but with a somber curiosity.

—This is Kaelen —said Seraphina, introducing him with a dramatic gesture—. The new... debt collector. He already had his first offering to the spider.

Darian grunted — a sound that might have been approval.

—I've heard. You did a good job. Clean. Efficient.

His voice was like the scraping of two rocks.

Lyra approached, her amber eyes watching Kaelen with an intensity that made him feel vulnerable.

—I didn't know you —she said, her voice a melancholic whisper—. There's something in you... a shadow I recognized.

Kaelen just nodded, his mind already processing the nature of each one.

The voices in his head whispered to him about their strengths, vulnerabilities, potential uses.

> "Darian: muscle, contained rage. Lyra: eyes, stealth, resentment. Zoltan: sharp tongue, secrets."

---

In the following days, Kaelen was dragged deeper into guild life.

Bigger jobs. More brutal. More risk.

He and Darian were often paired on missions that required brute force.

Once, they were sent to "convince" an innkeeper who was hiding refugees who couldn't pay.

The innkeeper refused. Darian, in a fit of silent rage, nearly tore him apart.

Kaelen intervened — not out of mercy, but pragmatism. The lesson of the Sereno Valley still echoed.

—Don't kill him —Kaelen told Darian, his voice a growl—. He'll make more noise. Break his bones. Let him learn.

Darian stopped. His blue eyes locked onto Kaelen's with a grim understanding.

It wasn't kindness Kaelen offered, but a more effective brutality.

Darian nodded and proceeded — his blows precise, methodical, whispering the names of his family with every fracture he inflicted.

Kaelen watched without blinking, the voices in his mind applauding the efficiency of pain.

A connection — dark and tacit — was formed between them.

---

Missions with Lyra were different. They required stealth, intelligence.

On one occasion, they were tasked with stealing some documents from a corrupt noble's villa.

Lyra moved like a ghost, her golden amber eyes glowing in the dark, guiding Kaelen through secret passages and invisible shadows.

While waiting on a balcony, Lyra sat down, her gaze lost in the distance.

—Sometimes —Lyra whispered, her voice an echo of melancholy—, I envy the blind.

They don't see how rotten everything is. They believe in the light.

She turned to look at him, her eyes piercing.

—But you... you see like I do, right? The darkness. You feel it.

—There's no light —Kaelen replied, his voice emotionless—. Only different shadows.

It was a truth he had learned through blood and fire.

Lyra gave a sad smile.

—Yes. Exactly.

There was an acceptance in her words — a recognition of her own distorted vision of the world.

Kaelen felt a flicker of affection — a hint of a connection not born from madness, but from mutual understanding of pain.

Something fleeting, but real.

---

Interactions with Zoltan were always a game of words.

Zoltan didn't use brute force. He used persuasion, veiled threat.

He was a master manipulator, his onyx eyes always observing, calculating.

Sometimes he would invite Kaelen to his quarters — more comfortable — and speak of the "politics" of Grisel, of intrigue, of the threads that moved power.

—Your gift, boy, is not brute strength —Zoltan would say, his voice a hypnotic whisper—.

It is your... emptiness. That cold indifference.

The Oni get emotional. The Vampires are vain. But you... you are a blank canvas for brutality. And that is rare. Useful.

Kaelen listened, absorbing.

The voices in his head became more complex, more cunning.

> "Learn from the manipulator. Use his tricks. Don't let yourself be used."

Zoltan was a dangerous ally — a charming snake — but his lessons were valuable in Grisel's power game.

---

As Kaelen sank deeper into the guild, his relationship with Seraphina grew more intense, more disturbing.

She didn't just accompany him on missions — she followed him everywhere, a constant presence.

At night, in the darkness of his small room in the Nest, Kaelen would feel her nearby — sometimes sitting silently, other times whispering in the dark.

—Your pain... is a symphony, Kaelen —Seraphina whispered one night, her voice a caress of silk.

She approached him — her pale, cold fingers brushed his cheek, running through his white hair.

—Mine is too. We're made of the same broken thread.

Kaelen didn't pull away.

His amethyst eyes, no longer shining with innocence, met hers.

He felt the strange, twisted attraction she exerted over him.

It wasn't the tender love he had known with Lígia.

It was something darker, more primal — born of madness and loss.

She was the only one who didn't judge what he had become — she celebrated it.

She loved his darkness.

—What do you want from me, Seraphina? —Kaelen asked, his voice hoarse.

Seraphina smiled — her eyes gleamed with a feverish light in the gloom.

—I want you to be free, my love. Free of the burden of light. Free of guilt.

I want you to sing your song loudest.

And I want... to be there to hear you.

Her voice turned into a lullaby that vibrated in Kaelen's chest.

—I want us to be the most beautiful and terrible melody in Grisel. Together.

---

The idea was attractive.

A world where his madness wasn't just accepted — but celebrated.

A place where the song of the shadows would be his anthem.

Kaelen didn't feel love in the traditional sense — but a powerful attraction toward the understanding she offered him.

It was twisted affection — born of the abyss — but affection nonetheless.

And Kaelen, in his loneliness and descent, was letting himself be pulled in.

The bonds were forming — not with threads of gold, but with chains of pain and madness.

And the price of those bonds, Kaelen knew, would be high.

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