The cold wind bit sharply as it whipped through the narrow streets of Ashveil, carrying with it the scent of smoke, wet stone, and distant hope. For months, Arin had moved like a shadow in the Iron Hills, a ghost sharpened by relentless training, carved by pain, shaped by loss. But now, standing on the edge of the city he once called home, the weight of everything pressed down on him heavier than stone.
The city slept—or pretended to. Lanterns flickered in alleyways. Rats rustled in empty barrels. Hidden eyes watched from cracked windows and dark corners. None suspected Arin had returned.
His hands trembled faintly as he sheathed the short blade Stonehand had given him. The metal's edge gleamed cold and sharp, but the real blade was in his heart—the hunger to right what had been broken. To take back what politics, betrayal, and fire had stolen.
He carried no illusions. Revenge was no simple feat, no quick victory. It was a long, burning road laced with shadows. But it was the only path left.
Flashbacks invaded him, relentless and vivid.
Kaelis screaming as she pushed him through the narrow service door, dragging attackers behind her. Lyara's steady voice cutting through smoke and chaos, commanding, commanding. Selene's pale eyes glowing as her chants turned deadly light. And then—darkness.
Every time he closed his eyes, the memories came back, sharp and cutting. They weren't just images; they were echoes in his soul that refused to be silenced.
The weight of their absence crushed him. The guilt clung like heavy chains.
He had failed them.
Alone in an abandoned tannery, far from the watchful eyes of the Guilds and the Council, the mask he'd worn for months shattered.
The tremor in his hands grew. A sharp heat bloomed in his chest, squeezing one cold, relentless truth out from the break:
He was broken.
And he would either break completely or rise beyond every limit placed on him.
His first sob tore from his throat before he even realized it. Then another. The floodgates opened.
He forced no sound past the walls—no one was here, no one to witness except the ghosts of his past.
For hours, he crumpled, wept, relived every nightmare.
Until the fire in his chest turned from pain to iron resolve.
The broken pieces of himself were to be reforged into steel.
Days passed in a blur of harsh training with Stonehand. The old fighter was a mountain of a man, unyielding and brutal. His words were few but fierce.
"Strength without control is noise and death," Stonehand growled. "Pain is the fire that tempers the blade. If you want to survive Ashveil, you will bleed."
Every strike, every fall, every gasp was a step forward. Arin's muscles screamed, his breath burned, but his spirit grew fierce. The Veilborn power no longer overwhelmed him. Instead, like a storm harnessed by skillful hands, it surged with purpose.
Stonehand pushed him beyond exhaustion, forcing him to stand on the edge of breaking again and again. And each time, Arin rose, rawer, harder, and thirstier.
But training wasn't only physical. Stonehand drilled him in patience, patience to outthink enemies far craftier than muscle. They poured over maps, studied Ashveil's midnight trade routes, its deadly politics, and the cruel chess game the Magisters and Guilds wove with allies and lies.
Arin's mind sharpened like a honed blade. The seed of vengeance took root, nourished by every lesson and every loss.
One night, near the fire, the ragged messenger from Brynn's network arrived—breathless, eyes wide.
"They've moved your friends deep into Black Fang strongholds," he whispered. "They're more than prisoners. Some say experiments, others worse. But the Council knows you're alive… and scared."
Arin's fingers tightened around his blade until his knuckles cracked.
"Then I'm going to burn their empire down," he said quietly.
Stonehand met his gaze.
"When you go back, you don't hesitate," he said. "Not once."
"I won't."
Returning to Ashveil was like walking through a waking nightmare. Every street corner stirred memories—familiar cracks in walls where Kaelis once leapt, silent steps beside gnarled trees where Lyara had taught him to fight, the still pond where Selene had guided his mind to peace.
Ashveil hadn't changed—but Arin had.
The boy who fled was gone. In his place stood a man forged of fire, resolve, and ruthless purpose. The Veilborn power had settled deeper, no longer a flood but a steady river flowing through him.
The night he chose to strike, the moon hid behind clouds like the city itself dreaded what was coming. Lounging atop a shadowed rooftop, he watched the Black Fang compound—its walls alive with torchlight and the clatter of incoming guards.
Every breath was slow, controlled, a prayer to every ghost who had fallen.
He quietly disappeared into the city's veins—the twisted alleys, the forgotten tunnels, the dark lungs of Ashveil's underbelly. No one knew he had returned.
His first kill was silent—a dagger across a throat, a whispered curse swallowed by night. Every move was precise, every second a dance between death and survival.
The Veilborn whispers echoed softly—but this time, they belonged only to him.
The strike was cleaner than any previous fight. No hesitation. No wasted energy. A message sent in blood and shadow.
His name, once whispered only in fear or curiosity, grew louder in the city's darkest corners.
But the price was high.
With every enemy fallen, with every step toward revenge, the weight on him grew heavier. The memories, the losses, the unrelenting burden of his vow pressed deeper into his soul.
One quiet moment, hidden in the ruins of a long-forgotten alcove, Arin's composure cracked again. Tears traced silent paths down the dust beneath his knees.
"I'm not just fighting the city," he whispered to the night. "I'm fighting myself."
But then the fire inside flared once more, fierce and unyielding.
He rose, a warrior reborn from ashes and shadows. The darkness might chase him, but it would never claim him.