The Shadow Assassin

  The Oren Leatherglove Arc

  PROLOGUE

  My father was worried. Not nervous. Worried in a way that sat deep behind his eyes, the kind of worry that comes from knowing something terrible is already in motion. I’d never understood that look. Life had always worked out for me. Problems came and went like tides, and I’d learned to float through them without much thought.

  “Oren,” he said quietly. His hands had stopped mending the fishing net in his lap. “Promise me something. No matter what happens, you’ll stay strong.”

  I studied his face. The lines around his mouth were deeper than I remembered, and his knuckles were white where they gripped the netting.

  “Dad.” I kept my voice light, easy. “I don’t know why you’re so worked up. I’ll be fine.” I took the net from his hands and hung it on its hook by the door.

  But I did know why. The Society had been roaming the western quarter of Riverdale for weeks now. Lean figures in dark coats appearing at market stalls and dockside taverns, watching with the patience of people who didn’t need to hurry. My father had spent my whole life trying to keep me from the worst parts of the world, even though we both knew I could handle myself.

  He opened his mouth to say something else, but a sharp knock rattled the front door hard enough to shake the walls of our shack.

  “Oren! You in there?”

  I groaned. “That’s Valor. I’m off, Dad.” I squeezed his shoulder as I stood.

  I barely got the latch undone before Valor pushed past me, filling our small front room with his usual restless energy.

  “Hey, Lucas. How’s it going?” he said, dropping into a chair and propping his feet on the table like he owned the place.

  My father managed a thin smile. “Oh, just living. How about you? Still chasing that Eratiell guard position?”

  Valor crossed his arms, grinning. “As if there was ever any doubt.” He cut his eyes toward me. “Oren. You coming or not?”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  I hesitated at the threshold. A strange flutter ran through my chest—not quite fear, not quite excitement. Something about today felt weighted, like the air before a storm. I couldn’t name it.

  Valor’s grin thinned. “Alright. Let’s move.”

  He stepped outside first, stretching his arms overhead and letting out a shout that made a passing dock worker flinch. The man bumped Valor’s shoulder on the way by and grunted, “Watch it, boy,” without breaking stride.

  “What’s his problem?” I asked, stepping out into the morning.

  The streets hit me all at once: the smell of salt and smoke and frying fish, sunlight glinting off wet cobblestones, vendors already shouting over each other for attention. The docks were alive.

  “So what was that about?” Valor asked as we walked, weaving through clusters of merchants hauling their catch. “You don’t seem like yourself.”

  “Nothing. I’m just… I heard they only take the best. That’s all.”

  We turned the corner onto Western and Main, and the festival swallowed us whole.

  The Job Festival. A week-long event that drew every trade in the kingdom: knighthood, blacksmithing, farming, stonework, architecture, even assassin work. Everything a fifteen-year-old could dream of trying. Colored flags snapped overhead. Merchants screamed their pitches until they were hoarse. The crowd pressed so tight I had to sidestep a cart loaded with barrels just to keep moving.

  “Now hiring stoneworkers!” a voice bellowed from somewhere to our left.

  “Fair work for a fair wage!” another shouted louder.

  I glanced at Valor. He was beaming, radiating the kind of confidence that made people step out of his way without being asked.

  “Do you see the Eratiell signup?” I asked, craning over the crowd.

  He tapped my arm and pointed. “That one.”

  A long line snaked toward a grand stone stall. A banner hung above it: Eratiell Knighthood: Apprentices Wanted. Next to it, equally grand but far quieter, stood another stall marked with strange, angular lettering. I shouldn’t have been able to read it but somehow, the words resolved in my mind as clearly as my own name:

  Society of Assassins.

  No advertisement. No pitch. Just the stall, a table, and a line that was longer than it had any right to be.

  I understood the appeal. The Society was the highest-paying work you could get, even among the upper tiers. But there was something else...an eerie stillness around that stall, a gravity that tugged at something behind my ribs. My chest tightened. My breath shortened. Every instinct I had said: This matters.

  Valor walked ahead and joined the Eratiell line. He looked back, waiting.

  I stepped up beside him. But my eyes kept drifting to the Society stall.

  They were pricking people’s fingers and collecting blood in small glass vials. From where I stood, I could tell they were testing for something. Magick, most likely.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. My feet were already moving.

  “Oren—you’ll lose your spot!” Valor reached for me, but I was already gone.