Frozen in Time

Sanctuary of Shadows

Night had fully fallen by the time the storyteller finished his tale. The tavern erupted in cheers and applause, a rare and genuine outpouring of emotion that lit the storyteller’s face with a broad, satisfied smile. Around him, villagers surged forward with questions, their voices full of urgent curiosity, hungry for more details, for any scraps of knowledge they could glean from this stranger who had dared to speak the forgotten past aloud.

But many were turned away, their eager faces shadowed with disappointment. The storyteller answered only a few, his eyes moving patiently from one to another, speaking in measured tones that left much unsaid. I watched as his gaze drifted through the crowd, scanning, searching—until suddenly, it locked with mine. In that moment, his eyes shifted color ever so briefly, a flicker of something foreign, something deep. It was so fleeting, so subtle, that no one else noticed but me.

The restless murmurs of the crowd began to rise as unanswered questions piled up. The storyteller turned to face the next eager villager, and I took that as my cue to leave. There was something unsettling about him—a feeling in my bones that this encounter was far from over. Fated, perhaps.

Stepping outside into the cool night air. I breathed in deeply, letting the crispness fill me and chase away the lingering scent of the storyteller’s spiced smoke. Night has always been my sanctuary. Most villagers shut their doors tightly after dusk, barricading windows, and retreating into dreams shaped only by what they know—familiar, safe, unchanging.

But for a few dark souls who thrive in the shadows, the night is an open invitation. A playground for thieves, assassins, and worse. For those who know how to wield darkness as a weapon, the night holds treasures beyond the reach of the day.

Lost in thought, I wandered aimlessly through the narrow, winding streets, savoring this brief freedom. Then something no, someone caught my attention. I stopped, my senses sharpening.

Swiftly, I drew the dagger from its sheath on my thigh, the blade gleaming faintly in the moonlight. Moving silently, I approached the source of soft, suppressed laughter. The sound was almost a whisper, a fragile human sound that didn’t belong in the shadows.

A figure cloaked in black stood just ahead. Without hesitation, I let the dagger fly. It struck the wall with a sharp thunk just beside him.

“Bloody hell! Are you trying to kill me, Val?” The man gasped, startled as I stepped closer, his breath swirling visibly in the cool air.

“Depends,” I replied coolly, my eyes locking with his—those mesmerizing, impossible eyes that see right through you. “What were you trying so hard not to laugh about?”

He sighed, rubbing his face with a look of exhausted defeat. “My goal was to spook you. I’d say I succeeded.”

His smirk faded as I drew the dagger free and let the cold edge slide slowly along his cheek before slipping it back into its sheath. His expression—equal parts horror and something else—made me laugh aloud.

“Oops,” I teased, pressing my hips closer to his as his breath quickened. My laughter echoed off the alley walls. He glared, but I only laughed harder.

Tanner was a Shadow Informant—or Shi, for short. Rare and dangerous, Shi trained for years to become what their name promises: shadows. They are spies, collectors of secrets and whispers, rarely assassins. Most are slaves to whoever holds their leash; only a precious few are free.

I found Tanner by accident once—broken, bleeding, and near death. I never asked what he was or where he came from when I took him home and nursed him back. When he recovered, he told me his story. Since then, he’s been my closest ally.

To protect him, I pulled him into the Order of the Moon Raven as an “assassin” in name only. It kept him safe from hunters who sought Shi to enslave or kill. At first, Tanner resisted, fearing exposure, but eventually he accepted. That brings us to now.

I stepped back, breaking the moment. “So… why are you here?”

“A gentleman came by today. Offered a contract that could change everything,” Tanner said, circling behind me with a grin. “Would I be right to guess you’re interested?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Before I answer, how much is he offering?”

He leaned close, voice low. “Enough to leave this place a hundred times over.”

My breath caught. This was it. Freedom at last. A chance to escape this cursed village forever.

But there was a problem. I hadn’t set foot in the Order of the Moon Raven in years—not since Jonathan died. This was a path I wasn’t ready for, and perhaps never would be.

I turned to thank Tanner, but he had vanished into the shadows, leaving me alone in the alley. Well, rest was the first order of business. Tomorrow would be a long day, and I’d need all my strength.

Afternoon, the next day

I stood before the old warehouse, its rotting wood and mossy bricks filling my lungs with the scent of decay and memory. So many ghosts stirred in this place—laughter and pain, victories and defeats—woven into every cracked floorboard.

There was no avoiding it. If I wanted that contract, I had to claim it in person.

Tanner had been bringing me small contracts for years—enough to keep us alive. Simple jobs he couldn’t or wouldn’t do himself. Since he didn’t fight, I became his blade; he gathered information, and I finished the job. When he wasn’t off chasing his own demons, he stayed with me in the spare room.

The Order of the Moon Raven was born shortly after the war. Jonathan—my mentor and the only person who’d ever truly cared—had created it. After King Ignius tore down laws and threw the land into chaos, murder and theft became the new normal. Lies and deceit were spoken as easily as breath. But Jonathan built order from that chaos.

He raised me. Taught me to read, to fight, to dance, to lie with grace when needed. He was the father I never had.

But he died a few years back, and since then, the Order changed. The noble cause tarnished, becoming a haven for scum and lowlifes who dragged its reputation through the mud. What was once feared and respected became a joke.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the warehouse doors, stepping inside the dim, dust-choked room.

Several members eyed me with hunger, predators testing their prey. Their eyes gleamed with bloodlust and competition, all trying to prove who was the bigger wolf. It was always like this.

I was small and young-looking—an easy target. I hid beneath loose, practical clothes, my hair cut just above my shoulders to avoid attention. A woman alone was a rarity. Typically, women traveled with their families or husbands. Alone, they were cattle, nothing more than breeders and cleaners to be owned.

I paused to glance at some contract postings nailed to the wall, earning a few sneers and chuckles, which I ignored. Finally, I made my way to the bar.

I waved at the bartender, signaling I was ready.

He finished with the customer, then approached. “What’ll it be?”

“A moon cake and a shot of Raven,” I said, voice low, just enough for him to hear.

“The usual, then. Give me a minute,” he said, turning to call the cook.

I watched as he served drinks to several members before bringing me my order. The moon cake was sickly sweet, cold, and gooey. The Raven shot was bitter and burned going down—a signature order among the elite of the Order.

I paid quietly, then stood, took the shot, and grabbed the cake before slipping out of the bar.