SHADOW NEVER DIE

The alley was dark, but that never mattered to him. Riven crouched low on the rooftop, wrapped in shadow like a second skin. A breeze swept through the narrow corridor below, carrying the stench of rot and smoke from the merchant slums. Lanterns flickered in trembling hands beneath him as two guards made their rounds, speaking in hushed voices about politics, women, and ghosts. He paid them no mind. His target was just beyond the next ridge — the Governor of Velmir, a bloated tyrant holed up in a marble manor surrounded by gold and fear. His death had been purchased with blood-gold, and Riven, as always, would deliver. He descended the wall with inhuman silence, his boots barely brushing stone. The streets were quiet. Too quiet. But that too, didn’t matter. He had been called many names in the underworld: The Hollow, The Silent Flame, The Last Whisper. None knew his true name, and that was how it should be. He slipped into the manor through the servant wing, past sleeping cooks and snoring guards, until he found the grand hallway with velvet drapes and obsidian mirrors. His fingers brushed the blade strapped to his back. He didn’t need magic. Not like others. Just steel, timing, and absolute control. The Governor slept alone, beneath a canopy laced with golden embroidery. Riven crossed the floor in six steps. He raised the dagger — curved, black, and soaked in past sins — and plunged it straight into the man’s heart. The body jerked. Gasped. Tried to speak. But Riven leaned in close and whispered, "Sleep." The body fell still. --- Outside, the bells of the city began to ring. Too soon. Riven’s eyes narrowed. This had been a setup. A test, perhaps. The Bleeding Eye didn’t like retirement talk. He had told them this would be his last job. He moved faster now, slipping out through the shadows, across rooftops, down alleys slick with rain. He didn’t stop until he reached the old woodcutter’s hut miles outside the city — his current safehouse. Inside, he poured himself water, sat at the edge of the cot, and stared into the nothingness. He had done this for years. Killed kings, rebels, priests, lovers. No one had ever broken through the shell. No one had ever mattered. But something had changed lately. He opened a drawer and pulled out a crumpled flyer: a map of Greymoor, a sleepy village far to the south, where no one knew the name Riven. On the corner of the map was a hand-drawn ink circle — an apothecary shop. He’d seen her there. Just once. Her name was Elira. She had smiled at him when he bought herbs to clean a wound from a botched contract. She didn’t flinch at the blood on his gloves. Didn’t judge. Just offered a salve and said, “We all bleed.” It had stuck with him. And for the first time in his life, Riven thought: Maybe I can stop. --- The next day, he sent word to the guild. Three words written in blood. “I am done.” And he vanished.