Chapter 2: The Girl Who Forgot Her Name

Darkness spread behind her eyes like oil across water. She sat motionless on the worn stone floor, legs folded beneath her, spine rigid, the dagger in her lap untouched. Breathing shallow. Silent. Still. Within the heavy silence of the cellar room, time itself seemed to hold its breath. Then came the humming. It drifted in like smoke—soft and haunting, a lullaby without language. A voice without a face. The melody stirred something deeper than memory—something primal and aching. And with it, as always, came the dream. Her white hair is like falling snow in the winter. Eyes the color of summer leaves, a woman’s outstretched hand reaching through a sea of ash. The vision blurred. Not a memory. Not quite. More like a wound reopening from the inside.

“Come back to me,” the woman whispered, her voice muffled by wind and thunder. But her mouth did not move.

Lightning flared in the void behind her, and from that flash emerged a battlefield—shadows writhing like insects, twisted bodies stretching from an endless chasm. A tree stood among them, blackened and leafless, roots drenched in blood, blooming without sun. Then silence again. Her eyes snapped open. The walls of the cellar reassembled around her in the dark. Dust drifted through slats in the boarded window. Her fingers twitched against the handle of her blade. A fine sheen of sweat kissed her brow. She should have been calm. Detached. But this time…

This time, the vision stayed with her like frost clinging to bone. Shade exhaled slowly, like her trainers taught. Emotion was a weakness. Compassion, distraction. These things were carved out of her young mind long ago. She had killed dozens—hundreds—and never once hesitated. But after the last mission, something had changed. That final breath. That look in his eyes. The way his blood steamed against the cold stone. For the first time, it hadn't felt clean. She bit down on the thought, drawing her blade up into her lap. Focus. Breathe. Let the mind be still. Her thoughts tried to scatter, but she reined them in with iron discipline. She was a weapon. Nothing more. Still, in the quiet of the cellar, the vision echoed. Come back to me. She didn’t know who the white-haired woman was. Just a figment, perhaps. A glitch in her conditioning. But something about the dream—the feel of that hand reaching for hers—left her shaken. The voice wasn’t the Hollow Vows conditioning. It wasn’t the voice of a target, or a handler, or a memory from her training. It felt… older, deeper, almost familiar. Like it belonged to a name she’d forgotten. But names didn’t matter. Not anymore. She was Shade. And tonight, there was work to be done. The rooftops groaned beneath her weightless steps. From the top of the arched gatehouse, Shade moved like a ghost, no more than a shimmer in the torchlight. Cloaked in dusk-hardened dama and veiled by her breath control, she watched the sprawling celebration unfold below her like an unfamiliar dream.

The stench of roasted meats drifted up to greet her, layered with the scent of sweat, woodsmoke, and far too many people packed into too little space. Bastion’s Keep, the largest fortress on the northeastern border, had transformed into something nearly unrecognizable. Paper lanterns bobbed from rafters and battlements, throwing warm gold and crimson light across the cobbled square. Children ran underfoot, shrieking with laughter. Bards played flutes, drums, and foreign stringed things whose names Shade didn’t know. Somewhere in the crowd, people were dancing. All to honor the death of a monster. At the heart of the courtyard, lit by braziers and surrounded by garlands, sat the colossal, severed head of a Behemoth—its hide like scaled obsidian, one eye still half-lidded, even in death. Rank Seven. The kind of creature that swallowed horses whole and snapped iron like kindling. A fresh kill. They must have brought it down less than a week ago. Shade had read about Behemoths. Fought their spawn on darker nights. She could still feel the bone-jarring roar of one echo in her spine from a mission long past. Killing one took a small army or a miracle. That meant tonight, Bastion’s Keep was both proud and off-guard, Perfect.

She shifted, balancing on a beam’s edge no wider than her thumb, eyes scanning for her mark. She knew the target’s name and face. Knew the layout of the fortress. Knew the backup routes and what wines the guards drank to excess. But in this sea of bodies, sound, and smoke, the usual methods failed her. Too many variables. Too much noise. She didn’t like improvising. Gliding down the tiled slope of the roof, she descended like mist, using the angle of banners and stonework to break the line of sight. Then, in a moment of practiced silence, she slipped into the shadows between a butcher’s stall and a half-unloaded cart of ale.

Now she was among them. The ground felt different—too warm, too loud. Voices crashed into her from all sides, full of cheer and drunken courage. She kept her hood low, her presence compressed tight like a coiled spring. Just another traveler drawn in by the festivities. No one looked twice. Even so, she hated it here. Hated the smell of joy. Hated how her heart refused to settle. Every laugh sounded like a scream. Every step felt wrong, but the target would be here somewhere amid the illusion of safety.

She weaved through the crowd like water, past a puppet show of a heroic hunter slaying the beast, past women painting children’s faces with red war paint. An older man toasted the slain monster with honeywine, weeping at its death and claiming it had taken his son five years past. Shade didn’t flinch.

Focus. Scan. Evaluate. Eliminate.

A flicker caught her eye. There, near the inner barracks. A flash of noble silver armor, adorned with crimson plumes. Captain Darrek Vael, commander of Bastion’s border force, slayer of the Behemoth, and her target. He was laughing, arm-in-arm with a pair of squires, his sword not even on his belt. Sloppy. She marked him with her mind—voice, rhythm of his step, where the crowd thickened and thinned around him. A slow breath passed her lips. Her pulse had already returned to resting. She began circling, mapping potential strike points. No good here. Too open. Too many children.

She would wait. Let the celebration rise higher. Let the wine flow deeper. Let the Keep lower its guard just a little more, and then she would remind them that nothing—not even victory—was immune to the quiet pull of death. She lingered in the currents of the crowd, drifting like ash on the wind. Eyes still on the barracks archway, she mapped every exit. The timing of guard rotations. The position of a rusted bell. Everything else was noise. Distraction.

Until the smell hit her. A savory, golden warmth—salt and pepper and flaking pastry, rich with slow-roasted ironboar and onions. Shade stopped. Her stomach didn’t lurch, didn’t growl—she was trained beyond that. But something deeper stirred. It was the smell of home. Not one she remembered in images or names. Just feeling. Soft light. Laughter. A hand that held hers while they sat at a fire. A world that wasn’t made of stone and silence and blood. She turned without thinking. The stall was modest: an old iron oven on wheels, its paint faded, its metal patched. A short, round woman stood behind it, face weathered by heat and time, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she worked with practiced ease. Her pies sat on a worn cutting board beside a rack of firewood—some whole, some half-eaten by satisfied patrons.

The woman caught Shade’s glance and smiled. “Ah! A sharp-eyed one, I see. You’ve got the look of a traveler about you.” Shade said nothing. She never did. But she took a half-step closer, unable to help herself.

“You’re not the only one drawn in by the smell. These little things took me half the day, but they’ll cure what ails you.” The woman chuckled and reached beneath the counter. “You look like you haven’t eaten a thing worth remembering in days.” She hesitated, then pulled out a warm, single-serve pie from a cloth-wrapped basket. Steam curled from the top where the crust had split.

“No charge,” the woman added with a wink. “First-timers and pretty girls get a free taste.”

Shade blinked. Pretty girl? The phrase floated through her like an echo from another life. She glanced around, uncertain. This wasn’t part of the mission, she shouldn’t, but her fingers moved before her mind could stop her from grabbing the pie.

“...Thank you,” she said, voice rough from disuse.

The woman gave a knowing nod. “Eat it while it’s hot. And try not to rush through it like a soldier. Food like this deserves a little ceremony.”

Shade turned, retreating toward a quieter corner by the edge of the wall, partially shadowed by ivy. There, she crouched, eyeing the pie like it might vanish. Or worse—like it might change her. She bit. The crust cracked beneath her teeth, spilling rich, peppered meat and onion into her mouth. It was too hot. The flavor was overwhelming. Her eyes stung, and she didn’t understand why. For the first time since she could remember, she ate something because she wanted to. Not for energy. Not for survival. Not because a mission demanded she stay moving.

But because something warm inside her had reached out and whispered:

"You used to know this."

She crouched beneath the edge of a crumbling archway, shielded by ivy and half-shade. The crowd’s laughter and music dulled around her, dimmed by the low hum inside her chest—an echo she couldn’t name. She held the pie in both hands, small, golden, and warm as a heartbeat. Flakes of pastry clung to her gloves. A smear of gravy glossed her lips. Bite by bite, she ate. It was clumsy, almost reverent. Her jaw moved slowly, as though chewing through a memory rather than food. Each mouthful fed something buried beneath scars and silence. Something alive. The crust gave way to tender meat, rich with rosemary and drippings. She didn’t know the spices, but they sang of kitchens, of aprons, of being small and cared for. A sense of comfort, once forgotten, now bloomed like an ember in a cold hearth. For a moment, her eyes softened. No one was watching. Not the crowd. Not her handlers. No orders. No punishment for joy. She finished the last bite, fingers resting on her lips as if trying to preserve the taste. Her eyes drifted closed. She forgot the mission. Just for a breath. Just for a beat longer. Then—

“—AND I TOLD THE DAMNED THING, IF YOU’RE GOING TO EAT MY ARM, AT LEAST LET ME FINISH MY DRINK FIRST!”

The crowd roared with laughter, and Shade flinched. A massive voice had split through the fog. Commanding. Brutish. Familiar. The ripple of cheers that followed dragged her mind back into its cage. Commander Darrek. Her mark. He stood atop a raised platform made of stone and draped banners, a tankard held high, one foot propped on the jagged horn of the slain behemoth’s head. The monster’s jaw hung open below, fangs still gleaming with dried venom. Darrek’s crimson cape caught the breeze. His bronze armor shone with fresh polish and old dents. He grinned beneath his beard like a man who'd never tasted fear. All around him, guards, villagers, and ranking officers drank and laughed, their voices rising into the painted sky.

The warmth in Shade’s chest drained like blood from a wound. She stood slowly, fingers brushing off pastry flakes as her body reassumed its precision. The mask slid back into place. She adjusted the clasp on her cloak and melted into the crowd, vanishing like vapor in the heat.

The mark was present.

The celebration was her cover.

And the next few hours would demand all of her control.

But for the briefest moment, she had tasted something real, and that terrified her more than any monster ever had. This was routine. A pause. A mental blade sharpening.

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Inhale.

Exhale.

Sink into the dark.

Let it unfold. The vision always came when she was still enough. The white-haired lady—her phantom tether. A face like half-remembered lullabies and lost warmth. A presence she never knew but ached for all the same. But this time—

Nothing. A dead void. She opened her eyes. A scowl flickered across her lips. The sensation in her chest was wrong. Not empty, but… muddled. Clouded by the meat pie’s lingering warmth, like oil on water. The taste hadn’t left her tongue. Worse, it had left something in her—a softness. A weight. She forced it down. There would be time for punishment later. Cold silence. Starvation. Meditation until the vision returned, until the lady spoke again.

But now… the mark.

***

She crept out of the alley, scaling a stack of crates to perch atop a weathered awning. From there, the festival unfolded beneath her like a living sea. Laughter. Music. Flames dancing in paper lanterns. Her eyes scanned the courtyard. Darrek was gone. She shifted, blinking once, then twice, before spotting the glint of his armor receding into a narrow side passage near the keep’s interior gate. He wasn’t alone. Beside him walked a hooded figure—lean, cloaked in deep slate blue. Not a soldier. Not a drunk reveler. Something quieter. Purposeful. Darrek leaned close, whispering. The hooded one nodded once, then adjusted the folds of their cowl. They passed beneath an archway and vanished into the fort proper. Shade narrowed her eyes. Inside. A perfect place. Tight corridors. Controlled lighting. No eyes but hers.

She dropped down, silent as dusk, and vanished into the crowd. The warmth of the festival faded behind her like the ember glow of a dream. Bastion’s Keep rose ahead—stone and iron wrapped in celebratory banners, firelight flickering across its worn façade. The outer gate hung open, unguarded. Celebration made men soft. Inside, darkness ruled. The torchlight didn’t reach every corner. Not here. She stepped into the shadows. Not beside it, nor cloaked in it. Into it. The shift came easily—a cold glide of self sinking into shade, her form thinning like ink in water until the last sliver of her boot vanished. She moved like smoke then, tethered to walls and flickering lamplight. Eyes dimmed. Breath slowed. It wasn't painful. Not at first. But it wasn’t meant to be sustained. Her body still held shape. Her mind still bore weight. The longer she moved this way, the more reality would fight to drag her back. And if she were struck, jarred from her state mid-glide, Damage was inevitable. But now? Now she was a phantom. And phantoms did not knock on doors. She reemerged from the gloom in a narrow servant corridor, behind a pair of half-opened pantry doors. A maid’s voice filtered down the hall, sharp with irritation.

“If Commander Darrek tells that Behemoth story one more time, I’ll drown myself in the stew pot.”

“Could be worse,” said another. “You could be assigned east wing. That mage gives me hives.”

“Mmh. Haven’t seen her blink once. Does she even eat?”

“Butler says she’s from the Containe front. War conjurer. The dangerous kind.”

“Eyes like twin lanterns, he said. When she’s angry.”

Shade didn’t breathe. She didn’t have to—not when folded into the darker corners of stone and silence. So the hooded figure is a war conjurer from Containe. Unlisted. Dangerous. A complication. Not unexpected—but annoying. She slipped through the corridor like a whisper, her steps returning only when she was certain no eyes followed. Her breathing deepened as her body reassumed solidity. Limbs tingled faintly. The return always felt like thawing.

She climbed toward the upper floor now, low and steady, hunting the one voice she was here to silence. Shade moved like a shadow slipping between the flickering torchlight, every step calculated, every breath measured. The keep’s corridors twisted and turned like a labyrinth built to confuse intruders—but for someone like her, trained in patience and silence, the maze was a puzzle waiting to be solved. Ahead, voices murmured—a low conversation in the servants' quarters. She pressed herself against the cold stone wall, melting into the darkness as footsteps approached. Two servants passed by, their chatter barely above a whisper.

“You heard? The command hall is off limits tonight,” one said nervously. “Commander Darrek and the mage have... private matters to discuss.”

“Figures,” the other replied. “They say Darrek’s never been the same since that last battle. The mage from Containe only makes things more complicated.”

Shade’s eyes narrowed beneath her hood. Private matters. Command hall. That was where her target was. She lingered in the shadows, watching the servants disappear down the hall, then slipped silently toward the keep’s inner chambers. The scent of smoke and stew mixed faintly in the air, but her focus was sharp, and the command hall was her destination.

The heavy oak doors of the command hall loomed before her, their iron fittings gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Shade slipped through the narrow gap left by a careless guard’s exit, melting seamlessly into the shadows inside. The hall was cavernous, lined with banners and worn tapestries, but most of the soldiers had been drawn outside for the festival. Only two figures remained near the grand hearth: Commander Darrek and a mage, cloaked in dark robes now discarded, revealing pale skin and delicate tattoos tracing along slender arms.

They were caught in a private moment, hands gently brushing, clothing falling away in a slow, intimate dance. Shade’s breath caught. Perfect timing. The target was vulnerable. She shifted, muscles coiling as she prepared to strike—her daggers already gleaming, poised to end the commander’s life quietly. But then, just as she started to emerge from the shadows, the mage’s eyes snapped open, glowing faintly with an eerie light. “You’re not alone,” the mage hissed, voice sharp as a blade.

Before Shade could react, a sudden wave of force slammed into her chest—a burst of raw magical energy that shattered her connection to the shadows. The world lurched violently; her knees buckled. The mage’s hands flashed with dark energy, fingers weaving a spell, eyes burning with warning and power. From the far side of the hall, Darrek rose with a growl, drawing his blade in one fluid motion. His eyes locked onto Shade’s figure, now exposed and vulnerable.

“An assassin,” he snarled. “You’re braver than you should be.”

Shade staggered back, a harsh cough tearing from deep within her as a sharp sting bloomed in her chest, still reeling from the mage’s strike, daggers barely in hand as the room’s tension thickened—ready to erupt into deadly violence. A faint trickle of blood glossed her lips—a cruel reminder that even shadows could be wounded. Pain threatened to overwhelm her, but beneath it, something ancient and unseen began to stir.

“You falter… but you do not fall.”

The voice echoed—not aloud, but as a cold, silken whisper weaving through her mind. It was older than memory, darker than night.

“Let me be your blade. Let me be the silence that kills.”

A numbness crept through her limbs, dulling the pain, steadying her breath. The whisper offered strength beyond the limits of flesh. Steel flashed as Shade pulled a dagger from her belt, fingers trembling for a moment before sending it spinning true. The blade caught Commander Darrek’s sleeve, drawing a sharp grunt. From the shadows, two dark daggers formed at her fingertips—solidified void, shimmering with unnatural darkness. Such control over dama was nearly impossible; few could forge weapons like these without breaking. As the mage let loose a storm of crackling spells, Shade’s void blades sliced through the assault, fracturing magic into harmless sparks.

Darrek’s eyes narrowed. “She’s no ordinary assassin.”

With a growl, he surged forward, blade flashing to back the mage’s defense. The battle had just begun. Darrek closed the distance with a brutal kick, catching Shade’s ribs with a sickening crack. She gasped, staggered, but the shadow within her held firm, refusing to yield. Another punch slammed into her side, sending a shock of pain radiating through her body.

Before she could recover, the mage’s hand snapped forward, releasing a sharp magic missile. The glowing bolt struck her shoulder, burning through flesh and bone with unnatural heat. Shade gritted her teeth, the pain flaring bright and raw. But as the mage prepared to unleash more, Shade’s void daggers flickered and shifted. The two shimmering blades twisted in her hands, their darkness deepening, solidifying into a pair of null shortswords—silent, non-attribute weapons that could cut through magic itself. She parried the next volley of crackling spells with the null blades, the enchantments splintering on contact like glass.

Darrek snarled and charged again, but Shade steadied herself, her eyes hardening with a cold resolve. The shadows embraced her, fueling her strength as she prepared to strike back with a fury born of desperation. Shade’s breath hitched, pain radiating from her battered body. She knew she needed a moment — a moment to turn the tide. Calling on the fragile thread of her knowledge, she wove a flicker of illusion magic: a perfect copy of herself, shimmering just at the edge of sight. The doppelgänger spun and lunged at Darrek and the mage, drawing their attention, their blades swinging at shadows. Seizing the distraction, Shade pushed through the agony pulsing in her limbs and body, slipping into the shadows. The familiar embrace was no longer a comfort but a torment — every step drained her, the backlash wracking her like a violent storm within.

Yet, she forced herself forward, the pain blurring to a distant hum. In a heartbeat, she materialized behind the mage, the null shortsword gleaming in the dim light. With cold precision, she drove the blade deep into the mage’s back. The mage gasped, eyes wide with shock, before collapsing silently to the floor.

Shade staggered, blood welling from her mouth as the full cost of the shadow step crashed over her. But the mage was down. One threat neutralized. She turned to Darrek just in time to dodge a blow, then another more. She dodged and weaved the blade strikes coming with a hairs breadth between safety and the point of a vital spot. Looking, scanning for any opening. Any weakness to exploit when Darrek raised both arms in a great strike? Shade took her chance and charged into the strike, cutting both of his arms off and hitting her with the hilt of the blade, cracking something. Darrek bled from the stump of his arms, hunched forward and gasping, his body trembling with rage more than pain. He raised his head, blood smeared across his jaw, and spat at her feet.

“You monster…! You shadow-dwelling bitch! —Why do this? Who gave you the right?!”

Shade stood silent. Blade in hand. Breathing steadily, though her ribs throbbed with pain.

“I don't…” she started, the words catching for a heartbeat.

Why? No one had ever asked. Not the Hollow Vows. Not her handlers. Certainly not herself. Purpose had always been handed to her like a blade. Kill. Vanish. Kill again. Was there ever a why? The clash of boots. The sharp steel cry of swords drawn. Guards flooded the hall behind her, gasping as they took in the scene. Commander Darrek, on his knees. The commander—their commander. Shade looked into his bloodshot eyes. Saw the hatred burning there. Saw the question still clawing at his last moments, and answered it with silence.

Her blade sliced clean across his neck. The guards screamed while one charged forward. But she was already moving. A burst of shadow erupted beneath her feet. Her form shimmered, unraveled, and slipped between the torchlight. She dove through the shattered window, trailing wisps of dark, indistinct matter that vanished before they touched the ground.

By the time the guards reached the edge, there was nothing but wind and a whisper of something cold. She didn’t stop running until the fortress was a memory behind her. Until the pain returned. Until she was Shade again. The woods swallowed her whole. Each step was a choice between enduring the pain or collapsing beneath it. Shade didn’t stop until her legs gave out near a stream barely visible in the moonlight. Her back struck the earth. Damp moss cradled her like forgotten velvet. Blood soaked her ribs, drying in a sharp crust. The magic burn from the missile still shimmered like a fever just beneath her skin. Her hands trembled as she dug through her pack, pulling out a stitched leather roll of salves, a dull needle, thread black as tar, and a small, chipped vial of numbing tonic. She sat against a tree and began the work. Silent. Precise. One wound at a time. By the time she pressed a cloth to her side, the stars had shifted.

She didn’t speak—not aloud—but her thoughts drifted like smoke around the fire she lit. Small. Just enough to stay warm. She stared into it and watched the flickers dance like the shadows she called home. Darrek’s question echoed still.

Why.

She hadn’t lied—she didn’t know. But the truth burrowed into her like the cold: she had never asked. She wasn’t trained to ask. She was trained to obey. And now, the mage was dead. The commander, too. Another mission—complete. But why did her stomach twist? She reached into her cloak and pulled out the last bite of meat pie wrapped in cloth. She stared at it. Cold now. Still fragrant. She bit into it. It tasted like warmth. Like a memory she didn't have. Like something stolen from a life not hers. That was the moment she decided.

Faeyren.

She’d heard whispers—neutral ground, outside the Hollow Vows' sphere of influence, a city of masks and markets, where names meant less than intentions. If there were answers, they’d be buried there, among the noise and the gold. Shade looked up, letting the wind brush her hair back. She didn’t know who she was becoming. But for the first time, she would choose where the shadows led.