Chapter 284: More Sixty Blades in the Dark
More Sixty Blades in the Dark
A narrow, long-forgotten corridor stretched behind the counter of the Iron Mug tavern—hidden behind a loose panel of old wood, its planks aged and warped with time, like no one had noticed them in years. To most, it was just part of the tavern’s battered shell. Nothing more. But when that hidden panel slid aside with a low, tired groan, it opened to something colder. Something deeper.
A stairwell. Stone-carved. Falling into shadows that didn’t move, that didn’t breathe.
The steps coiled downward in a tight spiral, like a spine twisting underground—leading into a world buried beneath the city’s skin. The deeper it pulled, the heavier the air turned—damp, thick with dust, the faint taste of metal sticking to every breath. Lanterns lined the crumbling walls, each one wrapped in cloth, choking the light before it could bloom. The glow they gave off was weak and amber, smeared like fogged glass—soft, yes, but not kind. Not comforting. It felt like breath from something old and waiting. Something watching. The flames flickered, casting stretched halos that clung to the stone—never enough to see by, just enough to remind you there was darkness everywhere.
Bootsteps echoed, steady and dry—ten figures in black cloaks moving single-file, their shadows crawling across the walls like silent ghosts. The air hissed around them. Not quite wind. Just... breath. Thick with sweat. Steel. Maybe blood. The man in the middle moved with precision, unshaken, each step quiet but deliberate—the others followed his rhythm.
Beside him walked a man who didn’t belong. Not in armor. Not in poise. The tavern’s owner. His face pale, lips drawn thin. Eyes twitching side to side like they were trying to leave before the rest of him could. But his feet didn’t stop. Not once.
He already knew what waited at the bottom.
The stairs gave out into a chamber—vast, hidden beneath the Iron Mug’s bones. No sunlight had ever kissed this place. No sound from the city above ever reached it.
The air stretched out. Cold. Empty. Too still.
Crystal orbs clung to the walls, their magical glow dim and uneven—like they were bleeding, not shining. Between them, torches burned crooked and low, their flames stuttering with every whisper of movement, shadows throwing shapes across the arched stone ceiling like spirits waiting to be named. The space was wide. Crude in construction. But it carried something sacred. Something forgotten and alive.
Sixty cloaked figures stood within—clustered, motionless.
The light caught on bits of metal at their hips—short blades, curved daggers, a few weapons that shimmered faintly with silent magic. Some of them looked young, standing straight with that hungry sharpness in their eyes. Others had the kind of stillness that comes from surviving things you don’t talk about—wrinkled skin, weathered hands, faces carved from silence.
Women who moved like the air bent around them.
Men who stood like pillars—steady, unreadable.
They came from different lives, different corners, but right now? They were the same. Sharpened. Held in place like blades laid out before use.
Low voices stirred the air. Tactics. Names. Questions. Whispers.
Not idle talk.
No one laughed. No one leaned against the wall. The tension clung to the stone like a living thing, thick and wired. Everyone could feel it.
Something was coming.
They were all waiting.
Then—
Tap... tap... tap...
Footsteps. Heavy ones. Dragging down the stairwell from above. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady.
Every strike of boot on stone landed like it meant something. Like a countdown.
And then, ten more figures appeared, hitting the chamber floor like a war drum’s final beat.
The whispers vanished.
Gone.
Sixty heads turned.
Some knew what they were seeing. Others just felt it.
But all of them braced.
The silence wasn’t just silence. It cut. It sealed.
The air froze the second those boots hit the ground.
They came down the stairs under the swing of old lanterns—low, close to the stone, throwing crooked shadows against their cloaks. You could smell the oil. Taste the iron.
The ten of them looked like the rest—same cloaks. Same cut. But something was off. Heavier. Sharper. Their movements too precise. Too smooth.
Their faces? Covered in iron masks. Not polished. Not ornamental. Just dark metal that caught a flicker of light and turned it cold. Behind the slits, only glimpses—skin, steel, nothing human.
And walking in their center...
The tavern owner. Head low. Shrinking. Dwarfed by the ones beside him.
But no one cared about him.
Not now.
All eyes locked on the man in the middle.
The leader.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
No signal. No command.
But when he stopped—right there, center of the room—
The others followed like clockwork.
Sixty black robes dropped to the floor. Knees down. Fists to chests. Heads bowed so low the stone almost kissed them back.
No hesitation.
Not a breath out of sync.
Then they spoke—not as individuals. As one.
"We greet our leader."
The man didn’t move.
Didn’t return the salute.
Just stood there.
Watching.
His hood stayed low, his face buried in shadow, but no one doubted who he was.
His presence wrapped the room like armor.
Not noise. Not action. Just a weight that settled into bones.
And then—just one word.
Low. Steady. Certain.
"Stand."
No second ask.
Cloaks rose together. Steel whispered from scabbards like breath drawn sharp.
Sixty stood. Straight. Still. Ready.
The leader stepped forward once. Just once.
Didn’t need more.
He looked over them—not with eyes anyone could see, but they felt him. Like heat on skin. Like a knife hovering close.
Even behind the mask, his gaze sliced through the cloth and bone.
The room went colder.
He spoke again, voice quiet but cutting through everything.
"Good," he said. "You look in fine condition."
Then he paused. The kind of pause that carried teeth.
His voice dipped, the edge coiling in behind the words.
"I trust your blades are as sharp as your minds... and your postures—because if they’re not, you won’t leave this night alive."
The silence after that wasn’t silence.
It was pressure.
Heavy. Alive.
It sat over them like the chamber itself was waiting to see who flinched.
Then came the voices.
Not all. Just a few.
Low. Solid.
"We know, Leader."
He nodded slowly. Just once. Letting it settle.
"Now tell me, all of you—are you ready for tonight?" His voice didn’t rise, but it hit harder. "Tonight... we fulfill the purpose for which we were gathered. The reason we were hired."
No break. No space for fear.
They answered like it came from the marrow.
"Yes, Leader! We know, and we are all ready!"
He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift.
Still as stone, but the weight of him held the whole room in place.
"As you all know... Duke Leon has returned to Silver City."
And that name—
It hit like cold wind through open wounds.
No one said a thing. But the room shook without moving.
"And his presence changes everything."