Kael
“The storm swallowed the city, but whispers of the Cursed Blade cut through even the thunder.”
The rain poured relentlessly, washing Eldrenor in a grim haze of water and shadow. Lanterns flickered weakly against the storm, their light barely illuminating the cobblestone streets slick with rain. The air smelled of damp stone, burnt wood from distant hearths, and the faint iron tang of the blacksmiths’ district.
Kael sat in his refuge—a modest room above an unassuming inn. Sparse and utilitarian, the space bore little in the way of comforts. A single cot lay pushed against the far wall. A wooden table stood near the center, cluttered with tools, small vials, and a carefully maintained ledger. The room’s only other furnishing, a low stool, creaked faintly beneath Kael as he methodically sharpened a dagger.
The rhythmic scrape of the blade against the whetstone was the only sound until a soft knock broke the stillness. Kael stilled, his hand slipping beneath the table to retrieve another blade.
“Who is it?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade through silk.
“It’s me,” came a familiar voice. Jaron, the scrappy street urchin Kael employed as an informant, stood drenched outside the door.
Kael opened the door just enough for the boy to slip inside. Jaron’s patched cloak dripped rain onto the floor, and his face was pale, his teeth chattering from the cold.
“You’re late,” Kael said, setting his blade aside.
“Storm’s bad,” Jaron muttered, rubbing his arms. “But I’ve got what you asked for.”
He handed over a sealed envelope, and Kael broke it open with a flick of his dagger. Inside was a list of names, hastily scrawled but legible.
“They’re talking about you again,” Jaron ventured, his voice low.
“They always do,” Kael said, scanning the paper.
“This time’s different,” Jaron insisted, shifting uneasily. “They’re calling you...Cursed Blade.”
Kael’s lips curled in a faint smirk. “Is that what they’re calling me now?”
“Yeah. Saying you’re not human. That you kill without being seen.”
“Good,” Kael murmured. “Let them think that.”
Jaron hesitated, his gaze darting nervously around the room. “Doesn’t it bother you? Being a ghost to them?”
Kael folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “No.”
He tossed a silver Crest to the boy, who caught it with both hands. “Go home, Jaron. You’ve done enough for tonight.”
The boy nodded and slipped back out into the rain, leaving Kael alone once more.
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Kael’s face was hidden beneath the low hood of his black cloak as he entered the darkened back room of a decrepit tavern. The stench of stale ale and damp wood filled the air, but Kael had long since stopped noticing such things. His focus was on the man before him.
The client was a nervous wreck, fidgeting with his hands and glancing around as if expecting the shadows themselves to betray him. “It’s... it’s Tralvas Horne,” the man stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. “The merchant’s gotten too bold. He’s threatening to expose us if we don’t meet his demands.”
Kael leaned back in his chair, his gloved fingers tapping the table rhythmically. “Terms?”
The man swallowed hard. “Fifty crests now. Fifty more when it’s done.”
Kael’s cold gaze pinned him in place. “Triple that.”
“Triple?” the man sputtered, his voice cracking.
“You want Tralvas dead, not scared,” Kael said, his voice devoid of emotion. “You want it done clean, quiet. That costs more. If you can’t pay, find someone else.”
The man hesitated, then nodded shakily, sliding a small pouch of crests across the table. Kael picked it up, weighing it briefly before tucking it into his belt.
“Consider it done.”
Another desperate fool hiring me to clean his mess. One day, they’ll realize even shadows demand a price.
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The rain had worsened by the time Kael reached the marketplace. It fell in heavy sheets, turning the streets into a churning mess of mud and filth. The chaos worked in his favor, masking his movements as he stalked his target.
Tralvas Horne was in his usual spot, surrounded by crates of goods and flanked by two heavily armed guards. He barked orders with the confidence of a man who thought himself untouchable.
Kael moved with purpose, his steps silent and deliberate. He blended seamlessly with the crowd, slipping past vendors and beggars without drawing a single glance.
The merchant’s guards were alert, their eyes scanning the crowd. But they weren’t looking for Kael. No one ever was.
These men think power lies in steel and coin. Fools. Real power is being invisible.
Kael’s opportunity came as Tralvas retreated to his makeshift office—a cramped room in the back of the marketplace, its walls lined with ledgers and stolen artifacts. The merchant poured himself a goblet of wine, muttering about delays and profits.
Kael slipped into the room like a shadow, his presence undetected. He drew his dagger, the blade catching the faint light of the single candle illuminating the space.
Tralvas turned, his eyes widening as he saw Kael for the first—and last—time.
“W-wait—” Tralvas began, but Kael moved faster than the man could react.
The dagger found its mark, piercing the soft flesh beneath Tralvas’s jaw and silencing him instantly. The merchant gurgled, his hands clawing uselessly at the blade as he collapsed onto his desk.
Kael stepped back, watching dispassionately as the life drained from the man’s eyes. He wiped his blade on Tralvas’s cloak before pulling out his signature knife—a smaller, ornamental blade. He carved a single mark into the desk, a calling card that would be found long after he was gone.
It’s always the same look—shock, fear, regret. They all beg in the end, but the dead don’t deserve mercy.
The rain washed away any trace of Kael’s presence as he exited the market. Eldrenor’s streets bustled on, oblivious to the death that had just occurred.
Kael made his way back to the same decrepit tavern, where his handler awaited.
“Efficient as always, Cursed Blade,” the man said, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “The job was clean. Word will spread, as it always does.”
Kael said nothing, simply tossing the bloodied cloth onto the table as proof of the kill.
“Your debt shrinks, but it’s far from gone,” the handler continued, his voice oozing with mock sympathy. “But keep your ears open. There’s talk of a royal mage—Elara, I think—stirring up trouble in Eldrenor. The Ministry’s not happy, and neither are some... others.”
Kael didn’t react. He turned and left the tavern, disappearing into the storm without a word.
Debt. Redemption. They’re just words. This world only cares about one thing—survival.