Chapter 3 The Weight of Shadows
Three days in the Warrens taught me more about survival than twenty years as an assassin.
In my first life, I had resources: money, weapons, informants, safe houses. Here, I had nothing, only a borrowed body, a ghost inside me, and a strange child who heard voices in the walls. Now, I fought to protect the child and reclaim my lost power, driven by regret and a hunger for redemption. Everything else had to be rebuilt from scratch, every action a step toward making things right.
Pip proved invaluable.
She knew the Warrens as I’d known the Syndicate’s corridors: every alley, every hiding place. She knew who to trust, who to buy, and who to avoid. She introduced me to the invisible ones: street children, old women, crippled veterans.
"You're building something," Pip said on the third night as she watched me train in the main room. I had cleared the space, lit a fire, and run through basic forms. They were the same exercises I did as a child, before I was Specter.
"Survival," I corrected, sweat dripping down my face. "I'm building survival."
"That's the same thing." She tilted her head, listening to something I couldn't hear. "The voices say you're going to need more than survival soon. They say trouble's coming."
"Trouble always comes."
"This trouble has a name." Pip's ancient eyes met mine. "Corvus."
I stopped mid-motion.
The name hit like a blade between my ribs, the same spot he'd stabbed me. Same betrayal. My chest seethed with rage. Liana's ghost surged, feasting on my fury, inflating it to a scream.
"How do you know that name?"
"The voices." Pip shrugged, but her eyes were troubled. "They've been saying it more since you came. Corvus. Corvus. Corvus. Like a drumbeat. Like a warning." She paused. "They say he's looking for you. That he knows you're alive. That he's sent people to find you."
The Syndicate. Already.
"How long do we have?"
"A week. Maybe less." Pip's small face creased with concentration. "The voices aren't sure. Time is... slippery for them. They see things that haven't happened yet, but they don't always know when."
A week. Seven days to prepare for the most feared organization on the continent to come hunting.
Seven days to turn a dead girl's body into a weapon.
I started training harder.
On the morning of the fourth day, a knock at our door signaled a change. Pip had brought me a visitor.
Rafe was sixteen, quick with his hands and quicker with his smile. He'd been running small cons since he was eight and had the arrest record to prove it. Pip found him hiding in a drainage ditch, his wrist broken, a stolen purse clutched to his chest.
"He needs help," Pip said simply, pulling him through our door. "I told him you could fix him."
I looked at the boy, his swollen wrist, his thin frame, the fear in his eyes. He reminded me painfully of who I once was, and of Corvus before betrayal twisted him. The urge to help him was not just pity. It was a chance to find allies like myself, to build a team capable of surviving what was coming.
"Sit down," I said. "Let me see it."
He hesitated, distrustful. "Who are you?"
"Someone who's going to fix your wrist if you stop asking questions." I gestured to the floor. "Sit."
He sat.
His wrist was in bad shape, broken in two places. It was already healing the wrong way. Left untreated, he would lose hand function. I had seen it: careless thieves ended up begging in alleys instead of stealing purses.
"This is going to hurt," I warned.
He nodded. I reset the bone in one brutal motion. His scream tore through the room, sharp as a knife. He bit down on leather, sweat streaming, every second agony. When it ended, he was ghost-pale and trembling, but alive, his hand his own.d his own.
"Why?" he asked when he could speak. "Why help me?"
"Because Pip brought you. Because you're young and reckless and remind me of someone I knew. But mostly because I need people who go unnoticed in crowds, able to steal, unafraid. I’m not just helping you. I need your skills for what comes next."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then: "You want me to work for you?"
"I want you to work with me. There's a difference."
"What's the pay?"
"Food. Shelter. Protection. A future that doesn't end in an alley with a knife in your back." I held out my hand. "Interested?"
He looked at my hand. At Pip, who nodded encouragingly. At the ruins of his old life, which had never given him anything except hunger and fear.
"Yeah," he said finally, taking my hand. "I'm interested."
Another recruit. Another step toward building a force capable of resisting Corvus and the Syndicate. I needed each of them if I hoped to survive and reclaim what was stolen from me.
The Nightshade was beginning to take shape.
The fifth day, I found him under a bridge, feral and wild-eyed. He drank himself into oblivion, clutching each bottle like a lifeline. Once a soldier, now disgraced for striking an officer who brutalized a prisoner. He was massive and shattered, a man ready to die or take someone else with him.
I sat down next to him. Didn't talk. Just sat.
An hour passed. Then two. The sun set, and stars appeared. Still, we sat side by side in the dark. Pip waited in the shadows, watching and learning.
Finally, he spoke.
"What do you want?"
His voice was rough from drinking, shouting, and years of pain. But there was something else: strength, intelligence, a trace of the man he was. "Someone who knows how to fight," I said. "Someone to teach. I need allies with a reason to fight back." He laughed, a humorless sound. "Angry at everyone, more like." He fell quiet. "The officer I hit? Still in the guard, still beating prisoners, hidden from sight. I saved a prisoner and beat the officer bloody, but I was thrown out. That’s the world: hurt others, get rewarded. Try to stop them, get broken."
"Sounds like we have similar enemies."
He looked at me then. Really looked. Saw the frail body, the too-thin arms, the eyes that didn't match the face.
"You're not what you seem," he said. He thought for a long time. Then he set the bottle down between us.
"What's the pay?"
"Food. Shelter. Purpose. A chance to hit back at the people who broke you."
He picked up the bottle and stared into it. Then he threw it into the river.
"When do we start?"
That night, after recruiting the soldier, I dreamed of the ancient woman again.
She stood in the same gray void, watching with silver eyes. But now, she wasn't alone. Corvus stood beside her, young and whole, smiling as he did before the betrayal.
"My replacement," the ancient woman said, gesturing at him. "Your successor. The knife that ended you."
"I know who he is."
"Do you?" She circled him slowly, pride showing in every movement. "He's everything you were supposed to be. Cold. Loyal. Efficient. He doesn't question. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't care about anything except the mission."
"He betrayed me."
"He followed orders. Mine." She smiled. "You taught him loyalty. I simply redirected it."
Fury surged in me. But it wasn’t only mine. Liana’s ghost prowled, restless and hungry for old agony. Two betrayed souls fused in vengeance. Her pain mixed with mine. I couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. "Why show me this?"
"Because you need to understand." She stopped circling and faced me directly. "Corvus isn't your enemy. He's my tool. The Syndicate isn't your enemy. It's my creation. The Vex family, the nobles, the city itself—all pieces on a board I've been playing for centuries."
"Then who is my enemy?"
"You already know." She spread her arms. "I am. I've always been. From the moment I plucked you from that gutter, I was shaping you for this moment. Every kill, every choice, every piece of yourself you gave away, all of it leading here."
"To what?"
"To a choice." She stepped closer. "You can fight me and lose, die for good this time. Or you can accept what you are and stand by my side." I said, "I'd rather die."
"You already did, darling." She smiled. "Remember, I clawed at the sheets. My heart thundered, and my breath caught in my throat. A scream tore from my chest, raw and open. Even awake, terror burned the roof of my mouth. my mouth.
Pip was there instantly, her small hand on my face, her ancient eyes filled with something that might have been pity.
"She's getting stronger," Pip whispered. "The old woman. The voices are scared of her. They say she's been alive for hundreds of years. They say she's killed more people than the plague."
"How do I stop her?"
Pip was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I don't know. But the voices say there's someone who might. Someone in the city. Someone who knows things about her."
"Who?"
"She's called Mags. She runs a tavern called the Rusted Nail. The voices say she's been watching the shadows for decades. If anyone knows how to fight the old woman, it's her."
Mags. A name. A thread to pull.
"Tomorrow," I said. "We find her tomorrow."
But before dawn arrived, the Syndicate scout found us first.
He was good, better than I expected. He had tracked us through the Warrens without alerting anyone in Pip's network, found our building, and waited until the darkest hour of the night to strike.
If not for Liana's ghost, he might have succeeded.
She woke me, a surge of warmth, a warning, a presence that screamed danger. I was moving before I was fully conscious, rolling off my pallet as a blade sliced through the space where my throat had been.
The scout recovered quickly. Professional. Trained. He came at me again, knife flashing, aiming for vital spots with practiced precision.
My borrowed body was weak, slow, and undernourished. But twenty years of muscle memory didn't care about any of that. I moved on instinct, letting my body follow patterns it had never learned, trusting the ghost in my chest to guide me.
The fight lasted three minutes.
When it was over, he was on the ground, disarmed, with my knee on his chest and my stolen knife at his throat. In the corner, Pip watched with her ancient eyes, completely unafraid."Who sent you?" I demanded.
He laughed, a broken, defiant sound. "You know who."
"Corvus."
"He says to tell you that he's sorry. That it had to be this way. That if you'd just stayed dead, none of this would be necessary." The scout's eyes met mine. "He also says the next one won't be alone."
I should have killed him. That was what the old Specter would have done. Clean. Efficient. No loosBut the ghost in my chest stirred, and I heard Liana's voice, faint but growing, whispering: Mercy.
I knocked him unconscious instead.
"We need to move," I told Pip. "Now. Before he wakes up and reports back."
Pip nodded, already gathering our meager possessions. "Where?"
I thought about the name the voices had given her. The woman who might have answers.
"The Rusted Nail. We find Mags."
Dawn was breaking when we reached the tavern.
It sat in the worst part of the city, even lower than the Warrens, where the cobblestones turned to mud, and the guards only came in groups of four or more. The building was low and sagging, with windows too grimy to see through, but the laughter that spilled out when the door opened was genuine. Dangerous people laughed differently than safe people. Freer. Louder. Like every night might be their last.
I told Pip to wait outside, in the shadows, where she could watch and run if things went wrong. She didn't argue. She understood survival better than most adults.
I entered alone.
The tavern's interior was dark, smoky, filled with the kind of people who didn't ask questions. A few glanced at me, a young woman in ragged clothes, too thin, too pale, but no one stared. No one cared. That was the point.
Mags was exactly where Pip's voices said she would be, sitting in a back corner, leaning back in a chair with her boots on a crate and a half-empty bottle in her hand.
She was old, sixty or maybe more. One eye was clouded, white, blind, and milky. The other was sharp and blue like a winter sky, fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. Her hair was grey and cropped short. Her clothes were patched but clean. Her free hand rested on a knife so worn the handle matched the curve of her palm.
"Heard you coming fifty feet away," she said without looking at me. "Feet too light for a normal girl. Too deliberate. You're either a dancer or a killer."
"Which do you think?" She took a long drink from the bottle, swallowed, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Dancers don't case buildings before entering. So that leaves killer." She turned her head, and that single sharp eye fixed on me. "Question is, whose killer? And what do you want with Mags?"
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the silver coin—Kael's wolf, still warm from my body heat. I tossed it onto her crate. It landed spinning, caught the lamplight, and finally fell flat.
Mags looked at it. Her expression didn't change, but something shifted in that one good eye. Recognition. Respect. A certain wariness that hadn't been there before.
"Kael's mark." She picked up the coin and weighed it in her palm. "Haven't seen one of these in five years. Boy must really want something." She looked at me again, sharper this time. "Or someone."
"I need information," I said. "About the Syndicate. About the elders. About a woman with silver eyes who's been alive for centuries."
Mags went very still.
For a long moment, she just stared at me with that single sharp eye. When she spoke, her voice was different, lower and more serious, stripped of its earlier amusement.
"What do you know about the silver-eyed woman?"
"Not enough. That's why I'm here."
She studied me for another long moment. Then she nodded slowly, as if confirming something to herself.
"Sit down, girl. This is going to take a while." She gestured to a chair. "And send the child inside. It's cold out there, and I don't like my secrets spoken where the walls can hear."
I hesitated.
"Don't worry," Mags added, a ghost of a smile crossing her weathered face. "I don't bite. Much."
I signaled at the window. A moment later, Pip slipped through the door and came to stand beside me, her small hand finding mine.
Mags looked at her, really looked, and something in her expression softened.
"Well, well," she murmured. "Two of them. I haven't seen two silver-eyed girls together in... decades." She shook her head. "The old woman is going to be very interested in this."
"The old woman is why we're here," I said. "She's hunting us. Hunting Pip. I need to know why."
Mags sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of years.
"Then you'd better sit down and listen," she said. "Because the answer to that question is longer and darker than you can imagine."
I sat.
Pip sat beside me.
And Mags began to talk.