Night on Korrath was never silent.
Engines roared through the canyon ports. Fires burned in rusting barrels. Distant shouts echoed from the pits where wagers were won and lives were lost. Even the wind carried a restless howl through the jagged metal towers.
But somewhere in the noise, shadows moved.
The Shadowhands slipped from the sky in blackened dropships, their hulls masked against scanners. They landed outside the main port, silent as falling ash, and melted into the chaos of the outlaw world.
No banners marked them. No words announced them. Only knives and silence.
Their leader, Ashen, surveyed the sprawl of Korrath through her visor. "Remember," her voice rasped through the comms, quiet but cold. "Kael Ardyn dies only when his rebellion dies with him. Cut out his allies first. Leave him hollow."
The shadows nodded once, then scattered into the labyrinth of the city.
Inside the Ark, Kael studied the holo-display of Korrath. It was a tangle of districts—mercenary quarters, market sectors, the fighting pits where he had proved himself, and Veyra's fortress carved into the canyon wall.
Lyra stood at his side, her eyes narrowed. "She's testing us. Every hour she waits, the more her people whisper, the more they measure us against their queen. If she means to stand with us, she'll make us bleed for it first."
Kael exhaled slowly. "Then we bleed. But not for nothing."
From across the chamber, Taren leaned against the wall, arms folded. "You know she'll betray you the moment it serves her."
Kael met his brother's gaze. "Maybe. But if she does, we'll be ready."
Taren's mouth curved in the faintest trace of a smirk. "That's what I like about you, brother. Always ready for the knife in your back."
In Veyra's throne hall, the queen herself stood at the balcony, watching the pits below where fighters clashed with steel and fire. Her lieutenant, a wiry man with augmetic eyes, approached.
"They're stirring," he said. "Kael's name spreads through the alleys. Some call him a fool. Others call him hope."
Veyra's lips curled. "Hope doesn't last long on Korrath."
But her gaze lingered, thoughtful. Kael's fight in the pit, his refusal to kneel, his steady eyes—he was different from the petty warlords she'd broken before.
The question wasn't whether he would fight. It was whether he could win.
That same night, a scream cut through one of Korrath's markets.
A ganglord who had once sworn loyalty to Veyra lay dead in the dirt, his throat slit with surgical precision. His bodyguards found nothing—no footprints, no trace, no sound.
Hours later, another corpse appeared. Then another.
Each death whispered the same message. The Council is here.
Kael heard the reports as they filtered in, his blood running cold. "They've already moved," he muttered. "Assassins."
Taren's eyes narrowed. "Shadowhands. The Council's blades. If they're here, then Serin means to end you before your rebellion begins."
Lyra's voice was sharp. "And they'll use fear to do it. Turn Korrath against us before we can turn it to our side."
Kael's hands curled into fists. He looked out at the lawless sprawl of the city, its fires burning against the night.
"They think they can hunt us in the dark," he said. "Then we'll bring them into the light."
Far above, on the ridge overlooking the canyon, Ashen watched the flames below. Her mask reflected the glow, unblinking.
"Let them gather," she whispered. "Let them think they stand tall. When the moment comes…"
Her blade gleamed in the firelight.
"…we'll cut their rebellion at the root."