Chapter 3

“It’s me.” I stared at the ghost-blue light pulsing on the commstone, my voice dry, like I’d swallowed sand.

On the other end came heavy breathing, mixed with a suppressed cough.

“Shadow Song… I’m sorry. I lost Emeraldleaf.”

Morningstar’s voice carried exhaustion and guilt so deep my heart sank.

Three years ago, when I handed the alliance to him, he’d sworn he would die before letting Grayroot’s bottom line be crossed.

“What happened?” I kept my voice low, my fingers unconsciously digging into the scarred edge of the wooden table.

“Those old hands broke the rules.” Morningstar’s words sped up, hatred grinding through his teeth. “They think protecting the slums and limiting crystal-ore trade brings money too slowly. They secretly joined hands with the Ironthorn Consortium.”

My pupils tightened. The Ironthorn Consortium, Silvercrown’s greediest leeches, wolves that swallowed people whole and spat out no bones.

“They sidelined me,” Morningstar swallowed bitterly. “The alliance is rotten now. Rotten through.”

Low-grade black-market crystal ore was flowing again. Protection fees in the slums had tripled. Vendors who couldn’t pay had their arms and legs broken on the spot.

“Just yesterday, Old Blind Pete couldn’t pay. They threw him into a sewer ditch.”

The air left my chest at the name.

Pete was an old apothecary in Grayroot. When I first arrived, he’d shared half a rock-hard piece of black bread with me.

Looking at my wrecked shop, at the Startear petals crushed into mud, I fell into a silence that felt like death.

Why had we founded the Emeraldleaf Alliance in the first place?

So bottom-tier elves like Pete wouldn’t live in fear every day.

So miners with crystal dust packed in their lungs could get back the copper they’d bled for.

So with hands already stained, we could carve out a clean strip of survival in filthy Grayroot.

Back then, my shadow-stepping and soul curses were nightmares to corrupt guards and blackhearted merchants.

The name Shadow Song, whispered once in the black market, was enough to make the loudest boss step back.

Now my work was being eaten by parasites and turned into a blade to butcher the weak.

“The brothers are waiting for you.” Morningstar’s voice carried a plea. “Come back. Clean house.”

“Without you, Grayroot won’t hold.”

The commstone’s blue light flickered, reflecting my coarse apron stained with medicine.

I was tired of endless killing. For three years I’d even avoided arteries when slicing herbs.

I wanted to be an ordinary apothecary. Even when bullies kicked over my rack, I endured it.

But they shouldn’t have touched my line.

I closed my eyes and drew in a slow breath, pressing the surging bloodlust down, compressing it until it turned solid.

When I opened my eyes again, there was only biting cold in my pale-gold gaze.

“Give me three days.”

Before Morningstar could answer, I cut the comms.

The blue light died, but the dark fire in my eyes fully ignited.

I turned toward the smashed apothecary cabinet. My boots crunched over broken glass with a sound that made teeth ache.

I crouched and pushed aside the dusty panel of the lowest hidden compartment.

Both hands hooked the edge and yanked.

A heavy wicker chest scraped out, gouging a deep line across the tile.

It was the past I’d sealed with my own hands three years ago.

I opened the lid. Familiar leather and magic washed over me, driving out the stink of cheap potion waste in the room.

A neatly folded shadow-woven cloak lay inside. A life charm that faintly glowed. I reached past them and gripped the silver dagger at the very bottom.

My fingers brushed the cold blade. Callus against metal produced a thin, deadly hum.

A long-forgotten killing intent surged up through the hilt into my limbs.

I stood and let the torn apron slide off my waist.

The ears I’d kept lowered for three full years tightened and rose, inch by inch, like arrows about to leave the string.

I stared toward the towers of Silvercrown and tightened my grip on the dagger.

“Emeraldleaf. I’m back.”