Midnight blanketed Ashveil, the city's maze of alleys drowned in fog and moonless dark. Arin crouched atop a sloped roof across from the Black Fang compound, surveying every guard's routine, every lantern swing, every gap in their defenses. He waited, breath steady, heartbeat measuring each second. In the distance, dogs barked and a drunk beggar sang, masking the quiet as if fate herself was clearing Arin's path.
He moved—not as a man, but as a shadow peeling free from stone. The lessons of Stonehand whispered in his bones: Don't rush. Don't let hatred blind you. Become the darkness before you strike within it.
Slipping down from the roof, Arin reached the side wall—a patch of loose bricks, a forgotten drain. He entered the Black Fang's realm not through bold force, but in perfect silence, veiled by a ward cast with Selene's old chant. Even the rats seemed to freeze as the air shimmered and bent around him.
Inside, torchlight flickered along rough corridors. The first patrol rounded a corner—two hulking men, casual but armed to the teeth. Arin calculated their steps: one limped, distracted by a heavy pouch at his hip, the other twirled his knife. A moment—then Arin burst from shadow, catching the limping guard with a swift choke, dragging him into darkness in a deadly hug. Before the second could shout, Arin's dagger raked his throat, a flash of silver, then silence.
He shoved both bodies behind a barrel—just like Kaelis taught him. Clean, fast, without glory. Here, victories meant survival, nothing more.
Further in, the compound pulsed with heated danger. Boots pounded on overhead floors. A sharp alarm call snapped the night—the discovery of a missing patrol. Arin's mind raced. He pressed his palm to his soul mark, channeling Veilborn power, feeling the familiar rush—Lyara's discipline, Kaelis's fluid speed, Selene's stillness.
He sprinted down a servant's passage. Echoes of old Red Fang drills guided him: never move in straight lines, always look up. He slipped by a cook in a smoky kitchen, her eyes wide but lips sealed by fear. Arin's gesture—two fingers to lips, a silent promise—kept her rooted and safe.
A heavy iron door blocked his route. He studied the rusty lock, fingers remembering Selene's trick for silent unlocking—murmured a passage in the old tongue and slid two thin blades inside. The tumblers gave way with a sigh.
The hallway ahead erupted with chaos—Black Fang sentries rallied, shouting curses, swinging swords wild. Fire arrows hissed, lighting up the stairwells with bursts of hellish light.
Arin rolled past a barrage, diving low, his blade slicing up in an arc—catching one sentry in the thigh and then disarming the second so fast the sword clanged harmlessly to floor tiles. With each heartbeat, his Veilborn intuition flared: danger to the left—he ducked as an axe split the air; confusion to the right—he feinted, then used a kitchen ladle as a distraction, recalling Kaelis's laugh about "utensil warfare." It worked—the attacker slipped on spilled oil, and Arin ended his struggle with quick, merciful force.
Fury, purpose, and memory merged. Each borrowed skill was now his own, woven into every move.
A bigger fight brewed as he crossed into a main storage hall. Eight Black Fang enforcers formed a half circle, blocking his path, their eyes cruel, grins mocking.
"Arin the Veilborn?" the leader snarled, scarred blade pointing straight at Arin's heart. "The Council will pay double for your head tonight."
Arin's smile was thin and cold, just like Kaelis's when cornered. "I don't have time for speeches."
He surged forward, unleashing the full tide of Veilborn power—feet moving so quickly he was a blur, hand looping blade strikes, feinting high, slashing low. One attacker fell, clutching a gashed arm. Another swung from the side, but Arin spun away, planting a foot and ramming an elbow into the man's gut—a move from Lyara, perfected through pain.
The leader charged, massive and merciless. Arin matched his strength with speed, darting in and hooking the man's wrist. A quick twist—bones cracked; the sword dropped. Arin knocked him cold, head slamming into a crate.
The fight left Arin breathing sharp, knuckles bleeding, soul mark blazing. He could barely feel the pain—only rage and hope.
He pushed deeper, finally reaching a barred door ringed by Black Fang symbols—inside, the cellars where prisoners were kept. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Arin bent light around his form, approaching unseen and unchallenged.
Inside dim candlelight, huddled forms blinked at him—faces tired, eyes sunken. At the back, Kaelis herself sat upright, bloodied but unbroken.
"Arin—you mad idiot! They said you were dead!" her voice trembled, half-laughter, half-relief.
He knelt, cutting her bindings with shaking hands. "Not dead. Not ever again."
He freed Lyara next—her hand squeezed his wrist, eyes fierce. "You came back. I knew you would. Now let's burn this place down."
Selene—pale and quiet, magic flickering at her fingertips—embraced him wordlessly, tears tracking clean lines through dust.
Arin freed every remaining prisoner and pressed weapons into their hands. "If you can run—run. If you can fight, follow me."
Chaos erupted as alarms blared above. Black Fang reinforcements poured in, swords waving. Arin led his battered crew back the way he came, Veilborn magic pulsing behind every movement—he raised shimmering shields like Selene, barked orders like Lyara, struck with Kaelis's instinct.
In the final corridor, a trio of elite Black Fang warriors surged in. Arin blocked a wild swing, ducked a spear, and together with Kaelis and Lyara, turned the tide. Sword met dagger, spell met blade, every sound swallowed by shouts, curses, and the ringing clash of steel.
When the last enemy fell, Arin staggered, half-carried by Kaelis and Lyara. The prisoners sprinted ahead, some weeping, others swearing vengeance.
Outside, dawn painted Ashveil gold, the city waking to the sight of broken Black Fang doors and long shadows fleeing.
Arin stood, bloodied and unbowed. He looked at his friends—survivors, fighters, family—and knew a new war was coming. But now, he wasn't alone. His pain had become strength; his loss, fire.
His vow burned brighter, bolder: Ashveil would never forget the day the Veilborn returned.