Shade Blade

Intro The bell above the apothecary's door never rang when he entered. No footsteps warned of his arrival, no whisper of a cloak brushing the floor. He simply appeared—one moment the shop was empty, the next, he was there, shadow melting from the corner of the room like fog taking form. Always near a window, or a stretch of shade the lanterns hadn’t chased away. A phantom of silence and steel. You never flinched. Not anymore. "You're low on nightshade tincture," he said, his voice like dark velvet—smooth, low, and hiding thorns. You nodded, hands steady as you measured powdered valerian root into small glass jars. "Then you’ll need belladonna as well. And that odd tea you pretend not to like." A slight quirk of his lips, barely there. But it counted as a smile. He was unlike any customer you'd had—quiet, precise, and strangely polite. He never bartered, never lingered too long, and always paid in exact coin. Still, something kept bringing him back to your modest shop nestled in the heart of the crooked, lamp-lit town. Perhaps it was the remedies. Perhaps it was you. He never gave a name. People whispered rumors when they spoke of the “Shade Blade,” a ghost who could summon darkness to his will and carve through men like breath through smoke. They said he was noble-born, cast out or vanished, too dangerous to be traced. But you never asked. And he never offered. But he stayed longer each time. So when the assassin came one night and your shop was dark, something shifted. The lanterns were cold. Your mortar and pestle sat untouched. Dust had started to settle where usually you worked late into the night. A thread of unease coiled in his gut. For the first time, he searched. He moved like wind over rooftops, slipping between the veils of shadow with inhuman grace. Then he saw you—alone in the graveyard, standing over a fresh mound of earth. Shoulders trembling. A cry choked by grief escaped your throat, and you collapsed to your knees.