Phantoms Beneath Silver City
Not loud enough to shatter windows or wake the sleeping masses of Silver City. But it was there. Undeniable.
A sound that didn’t belong.
A muffled blast—quiet, but sharp. Focused. Too neat to be some accident. Too pointed to be chance.
Not random. Not careless.
It came from deep inside a narrow alley off a silent street. The ground gave a brief shudder—just a twitch, just enough to be felt.
A sharp crack split the stillness, echoing through the stone, as if something beneath had snapped. A chunk of weathered rock loosened. Fell. Dust puffed up, swirling in the quiet. A soft thud as fragments kicked upward, then scattered back down with dull rolls across the cobbles.
Then a new sound— Metal.
Like some old gear being unlocked beneath the surface. Not loud, but full of warning. Ancient. Mechanical. Something was opening.
Not fast. Not flashy. Subtle. Intentional. The alley shifted, like it was breathing... and then, from below, a head emerged.
No fanfare. No noise. Just a silent rise. Like a phantom slipping into this world.
A head surfaced, a masked face. A face concealed behind dark fabric, revealing only a pair of sharp, calculating eyes that flicked across the darkness like blades. Cold. Unreadable. Dangerous. He didn’t speak. He didn’t rush. Not a rat dared to move. The alley was dead silent. The figure lingered, half-exposed, his instincts honed like a hunter’s.
Then, He lingered, half-exposed. Waiting. Sensing. A hunter in his element. Then, quiet as a breath, his fingers found the tunnel’s edge. His grip was firm, smooth. Arms tensed, lifting himself with clean, fluid strength. No grunts. No wasted effort. Just movement. Practiced. Deadly.
Dust curled around him as he stepped onto the street. His black robes clung to his solid frame, reinforced with fine layers of steel that caught a faint gleam in the dimness. Twin curved blades crossed his back—sheaths aged but clean. Not ornamental. Used. Respected.
His whole body was built for one thing—
He rose, slow and steady, rolling his shoulders as he exhaled through the cloth.
When he finally spoke, his voice came low, coarse, edged with gravel and weight.
"Clear. Come out. No one’s here."
And the world froze again.
The ground stirred as more shadows climbed free from the earth—one after another.
Two. Three. Four. More.
Figures rising like specters.
Two. Four. Six. Eight.
Each clad in the same black armor—tight robes, steel plates, blades strapped in a mirrored pattern. Faces wrapped in cloth. But their eyes—those gave them away.
Eyes that watched everything.
Eyes with a job to do.
None of them spoke. None fumbled. They moved like they’d done this a thousand times—silent precision. A ritual. Each one falling into formation without a single command.
They didn’t belong here. And they all knew it.
The first man—the one who spoke—folded his arms. Scanned the alley. Eyes flicked left.
"Where are the others?" His voice stayed quiet. But the weight behind it didn’t lessen.
A slimmer figure stepped forward from shadow. Calm. Confident. Matching the chill in his leader’s stance. "General," he said, respectful. "The others already gathered in the underground basement of the Iron Mug Tavern."
The man—The General—nodded once.
No face to read. Just those black eyes. Cold and sure.
"Good. Then we won’t waste time." he said, sharp and simple. "We join them now. The plan begins tonight."
No resistance. No delay. All nine gave small nods.
But just as they started to move—
The General lifted a hand.
"Stay alert," he muttered, voice lowered even more. "Since the Duke came back... patrols are tight. Too tight. Silver City’s security is thicker than we anticipated. We can’t afford mistakes."."
A small stir ran through the ranks.
"Understood, General," someone whispered.
And then they moved—graceful, ghostly. One by one, they scaled the wall. Hands found holds like second nature. Feet landed soft on tile. A rooftop summit.
Above it all now. The city stretched beneath a moonless sky. Their bodies blurred into shadow, vanishing into the night like smoke.
Clouds hung low. Heavy. No stars. No moon.
Their target was close:
Old. Cracked. Just another dive for drunks and liars.
But beneath the floorboards... secrets. The kind that fester.
From above, they move on roof to roof and watched down in street also.
Lanterns burned in timed rhythms. Gold flickers bouncing off the shine of patrol armor. Silver-plated. Clean.
Two by two, the guards walked.
Torches upright. Eyes sharp.
No slouching tonight. Not under Duke Leon’s command.
He’d made it clear: not a single shadow reamain unchecked..
The General crouched low, peering from behind a chimney’s crumbling edge.
A scoff behind the mask.
"So... the Duke caught a whiff of something is off."
He studied the street.
"He’s got them pushing hard down south. Smart. Wolf of Moonstone, huh?"
A soldier beside him whispered, "We underestimated him. This pressure... and it’s vigilance is no rumor. Even the air’s tense."
The General gave a faint laugh.
"Leon Moonwalker. War hero. Sleeping wolf of moonstone. Just like the stories said..."
His voice dipped lower, dark with something twisted. Makes the game more thrilling." His voice dropped, laced with quiet malice. "Shame. After tonight, he’ll be just another bedtime myth."
And without another word, he took off.
No sound. No signal. Just instinct.
They continue leapt across rooftops—one after another—drifting through beams and shadows, navigating chimney stacks like creatures bred in the dark.
Below, the city felt off-balance.
Bootsteps clanged along cobblestone. Patrols. Rigid. Synchronized. Flames bobbing in formation—wide arcs of light moving in patterns meant to catch what doesn’t want to be seen.
Another squad marched by. The General crouched lower, cloak tight around his shape, watching.
"He knows," he murmured. "Southern district’s blanketed in patrols tonight."
A man behind him leaned close. "Breaching the tavern won’t be easy with this many eyes."
Someone else added, "What’s the move, General? How do we get in without lighting a signal flare?"
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he reached into his cloak and pulled something small.
A vial. Glass. Thin as a finger.
Inside—liquid, dark purple, catching just a thread of light.
"What’s that?" came a whisper.
He turned it slowly in his glove.
"Sleeping gas," he said. "Distilled from the blood of a purple sleeping bear. Potent. One drop’s enough to drop a man in seconds. The scent spreads up to fifty meters. Anyone not prepared will drop like stones. Even trained soldiers."
"And us?" someone asked, wary.
"Cover your noses," the General said.
Immediately, the soldiers pulled black cloth strips from their cloaks, fixing them tight over their mouths.
The General’s voice dropped to a whisper. "Hold your breath for the next sixty seconds. We move when I say."
He crouched again, this time positioning himself carefully—scanning below for the perfect point of release.
Two guards were approaching, paths set to cross within seconds.
The vial left his hand. Arced softly through the air. No sound—just a gleam. Then—
Glass exploded on stone.
A slow-spreading purple pool of blood bled across the cobbles.
The smell hit quick. Thick. Sweet, like honey—twisted by something darker. Musky. Heavy.
Sniffed. Brow tightened.
The other lifted his lantern, frowning. "What was that?"
He sniffed once, lips curling. "What the hell...?" he murmured, then dipped again, studying it with suspicion. "What kind of—"
He never got the chance to finish.
The moment he raised the liquid to his nose again, his eyes widened in shock. His entire body jerked.
With a short gasp, he stumbled back—then dropped like a sack of stone. His helmet clattered, echoing off the street.
"Captain?!" the second guard yelled, rushing over. "Wha—?"
The scent took him, too.
Armor hit stone. Steel clattered. Bodies dropped, one by one—out cold before they even knew they were in danger.
On the roof, ten cloaked figures stood still. Watching.
The General gave a single nod.
They descended—quiet as a dying breeze.
Boots touched ground.
No words. Just motion.
They crossed the street in a perfect line.
Ahead: The Iron Mug. Old. Warped. Its sign dangled, swinging.
The General reached for the door. Opened it.
Inside—dust. Silence. One lantern, barely alive.
Behind the bar sat alone figure—a young man with pale skin and disheveled black hair, hunched over a ledger. He scribbled quickly, unaware.
Until the creaking door betrayed them.
His head snapped up. Panic surged into his eyes.
"W-Who the hell are you?!" he stammered, clutching the ledger with trembling fingers.
The General stepped in. Heavy steps. Deliberate.
Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed in the silence. His eyes locked onto the boy with unflinching intensity. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"When the red moon hides, and the wolves sleep... the crow remembers the scent of iron."
"...So it’s you," he whispered. "Thought maybe the Duke’s dogs had come dressed in masks."
He stepped back, almost relaxed now.
"Doesn’t matter. You’re expected. They’re waiting below."
He turned, pressed a hand against a wood panel.
Stone groaned. A hidden wall shifted open, revealing a stairwell. Tight. Steep. Dark.
"They’re already inside," the boy murmured. "The others await you."
One by one, the soldiers slipped into the opening, vanishing into the stairwell.
Saw the guards, collapsed across the street like discarded dolls.
His voice came soft, almost amused.
"Tonight... the Wolf sleeps."
Silence returned to the Iron Mug.
But far beneath the cobblestone...
In the dirt and dark...
The real game had just begun.