Chapter 138: The Knife’s Edge
The taste of death lingered on Soren’s tongue as he emerged from the tunnels behind Mira, a metallic tang that no amount of water seemed to wash away.
Wastes’ dust clung to their cloaks, pale as bone and twice as stubborn, working its way into every crease and fold despite their efforts to shake it free.
The journey back had been conducted mostly in silence, their footsteps echoing through ancient passageways while the weight of what he’d done settled around his shoulders like an invisible cloak.
The familiar blue-green light of the Veiled Hand’s sanctuary greeted them, somehow different now. Or perhaps he was the one who had changed.
"This way," Mira said, her first words in hours. "He’s waiting."
As they moved through the corridors, Soren noticed the subtle shift in atmosphere. Conversations died as they passed, replaced by whispers that followed in their wake.
Eyes tracked their movement, some curious, others wary, a few with something that might have been respect or fear. Hard to tell the difference down here.
An assassin leaning against the wall straightened as they approached. Another stepped aside, giving them a wider berth than necessary. The shard against Soren’s chest remained neutral, neither warming nor cooling, as if waiting to see what he would make of this new regard.
Sylas’s chamber stood at the end of the eastern corridor, its heavy door slightly ajar.
Candlelight spilled through the opening, golden and warm compared to the blue-green glow that illuminated the rest of the sanctuary. Mira paused at the threshold, gesturing for Soren to enter first.
He stepped inside, the familiar scent of beeswax and oil greeting him. Sylas sat behind his ornate desk, those unsettling green eyes rising to meet Soren’s as he approached.
The assassin leader’s perfect face revealed nothing, no approval, no disappointment, only that calculating assessment that had become so familiar.
Without being instructed, Soren withdrew the proof of his kill, a wooden pendant bearing the Church’s eight-ringed symbol, stained dark with dried blood. He placed it on the desk’s polished surface with steady hands.
Sylas studied it for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Soren’s face. The candlelight caught in his eyes, turning them to liquid emerald.
"Clean," he said simply.
Mira stepped forward, her tattooed face half in shadow. "Cold," she added quietly.
A flicker of something, satisfaction, perhaps, crossed Sylas’s features. "Good."
He gestured toward the door, dismissing Mira without another word. She left silently, though Soren felt her gaze linger on him a moment longer than necessary before she disappeared into the corridor beyond.
When they were alone, Sylas leaned back slightly in his chair, those green eyes never leaving Soren’s face. "You felt nothing?" The question held no judgment, only curiosity.
Soren considered his answer carefully, remembering the moment the blade had slipped beneath the informant’s ribs, the way the man’s eyes had widened in surprise rather than pain.
"I felt the moment," he replied truthfully.
Sylas nodded once, a single economical movement that conveyed more satisfaction than any elaborate praise could have. "That’s enough."
–
Word traveled through the Veiled Hand’s underground sanctuary with surprising speed. By morning, every member seemed to know about Soren’s first kill, and more importantly, how he had executed it.
He caught fragments of conversation as he entered the training hall, voices dropping to whispers that weren’t quite quiet enough.
"—didn’t hesitate at all. Just walked in and—"
"—Sylas is impressed, and he’s never impressed—"
A group of recruits paused their drills as he passed, eyes following his movement across the stone floor. One, a lanky youth with a perpetual sneer, leaned toward his companion.
"Didn’t even blink," he muttered, loud enough for Soren to hear.
"That’s what makes him dangerous," another replied, voice barely above a whisper.
Soren continued past them without acknowledging the comments, his face a careful mask of indifference. The shard against his chest pulsed once, faintly, as Valenna’s voice brushed against his mind.
’They fear what they can’t define.’
He answered internally, the response coming with surprising certainty. ’Then let them.’
The training session proceeded as usual, though Soren noticed subtle differences in how the others interacted with him. Sparring partners approached with greater caution. Instructors offered corrections with increased respect.
The space around him seemed to expand, as if his presence now commanded a wider territory.
–
That night, after the others had retired to their quarters, Soren returned to the training hall. The vast chamber stood empty, lanterns dimmed to their nighttime glow, shadows pooling in corners and clinging to the high ceiling.
He moved through his forms with meticulous precision, each strike and parry executed with economical grace. No wasted energy, no flourish, no excess, just the pure geometry of movement honed to its essential purpose.
The blade felt different in his hand now, an extension rather than a tool. Each motion flowed into the next with liquid certainty, his body remembering patterns his mind had internalized through countless repetitions.
So absorbed was he in his practice that he didn’t immediately notice the observer. Only when he completed the final sequence did he become aware of Mira’s presence in the eastern archway, her tattooed face half-hidden in shadow.
She stepped forward as he lowered his blade, moving into the pool of blue-green light at the center of the training floor.
"You didn’t flinch when he died," she said without preamble, her dark eyes studying him with unsettling intensity.
Soren wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "I’d already accepted it."
"That’s not calm," she replied, her voice carrying an edge he couldn’t quite identify. "That’s aftermath."
He considered her words, remembering the strange stillness that had settled over him in the moment of the kill. Not peace, not satisfaction, something else entirely.
"Maybe that’s what strength feels like," he said finally.
Mira studied him, her expression unreadable in the dim light. The tattoos across her face seemed to shift slightly, though whether from the lantern’s glow or some trick of shadow, he couldn’t tell.
"Careful," she said at last. "That’s what Sylas once believed too."
She turned away before he could respond, disappearing into the corridor beyond with silent steps, leaving him alone with the weight of her warning.
–
Days blended into each other after that, marked by subtle changes rather than dramatic shifts. Soren moved through his daily routine with quiet efficiency, eating without tasting, training without exhaustion, sleeping without dreams. Each task accomplished with the minimum necessary effort, no energy wasted on hesitation or doubt.
In the dining hall, others began giving way when he approached, creating a small bubble of space around him without conscious thought. Conversations faltered as he passed, resuming only after he had moved beyond hearing range.
During group drills, he noticed Sylas watching from a balcony overlooking the training floor, those green eyes following his movements with pleased calculation.
The assassin leader’s expression revealed nothing, yet Soren felt the weight of his assessment, measuring progress, evaluating potential, calculating future use.
The shard against Soren’s chest pulsed occasionally throughout these days, not in warning or approval, but simple acknowledgment. Valenna’s presence lingered at the edges of his awareness, more observer than guide now that his path had been set in motion.
As he completed a particularly challenging sequence during afternoon training, her voice brushed against his mind, cool and thoughtful.
’Each life you take sharpens you, but edges cut both ways.’
Soren wiped sweat from his face with a cloth, his breathing already returning to normal despite the exertion. ’Then I’ll learn to bleed slower,’ he replied internally.
–
Night settled over the underground sanctuary, bringing with it the familiar rhythm of dimmed lanterns and hushed voices. Soren lay in his quarters, staring up at the ceiling where shadows danced in the low light of the single lamp beside his bed.
The silence pressed against him, different than before, heavier, almost alive in its presence. He could feel it filling the small chamber, wrapping around him like a second skin. Not uncomfortable, just... present. Constant. Like the beat of his heart or the rhythm of his breath.
His hand moved to rest on the shard beneath his shirt, feeling its familiar contours through the thin fabric. The metal felt neither warm nor cold against his palm, simply there, a constant companion to whatever he was becoming.
"A blade without a hand," he murmured to the darkness.
Valenna’s voice came in response, quiet and thoughtful. "Until the world tries to wield you."
Soren closed his eyes, breathing deeply, steadily. The darkness behind his eyelids felt less like absence now and more like potential, a canvas waiting for purpose to give it form.
He drifted toward sleep with strange certainty settling in his chest. The boy who had fled Northaven was gone, burned away like morning fog beneath a rising sun. What remained was something harder, something cleaner.
Something that no longer flinched at death.
The next morning, when Soren entered the communal dining hall, conversations died mid-sentence.
He felt the weight of every gaze tracking his movements as he collected his portion of dried meat and coarse bread. The silence followed him like an invisible shadow, wrapping around him as he found an empty space at the far end of a stone bench.
He chewed methodically, barely registering the food’s bland taste. Two assassins who’d been seated at the table rose without a word, carrying their half-finished meals elsewhere.