Chapter 3 The Shadow
THE SHADOW
The fighting ring reeked of blood and sweat, a nauseating blend that clung to my nostrils.
I stood in the shadows, my form obscured by the ever-present veil of darkness I kept around me.
The crowd knew I was here—how could they not?
My presence alone sent ripples of unease through the air, and I could sense their eyes flickering nervously in my direction, but no one dared to look too long.
Good. Let them fear the shadows.
Let them fear me.
I crossed my arms and leaned back against the cold stone wall, watching the final moments of the fight.
It was the same brutal spectacle as always: two men—battered, bruised, practically feral at this point—trying to beat each other to death for the entertainment of these bloodthirsty sycophants.
My gaze followed the action lazily, my mind drifting elsewhere.
I didn’t know why I still bothered coming to these events.
It was all an endless, bloody loop, the same mindless violence dressed up as sport.
Appearances were everything in The Below. If I weren’t here, they’d start whispering. They’d start questioning whether The Shadow was losing his grip, losing interest. And in our world, where power was everything, perception could turn the tide faster than any blade.
The crowd roared as one of the fighters crumpled to the ground, his skull splitting against the floor with a sickening crack.
Blood pooled around him, dark and viscous, glistening under the harsh lights.
The other fighter raised his hands triumphantly, teeth bared in a savage grin, while the crowd erupted into cheers and jeers.
Bets were settled with curses or triumphant laughter, gold exchanging hands as quickly as the life that had drained from the corpse on the floor.
The referee—a fae with glittering, soulless eyes—stepped forward, nudging the body with his boot.
When there was no reaction, he shrugged.
“Dead,” he boomed. The announcement was met with a renewed frenzy, the bloodlust in the crowd reaching a fever pitch.
The roar of excitement was almost deafening.
I let out a tired breath. Another poor bastard dead, another night of chaos. The crowd would feast on this for hours, drunk on the bloodshed and the high of placing their wagers. But the fighting was merely the warm-up, the appetizer for tonight’s true entertainment.
The referee called for a brief intermission as the handlers came forward and dragged the bodies away. “We’ll begin the main event shortly.”
The crowd shifted restlessly, eager for the next act of this grotesque carnival.
I turned my gaze toward the section reserved for this year’s contestants.
Poor, na?ve fools. Every year, it was the same thing: desperate men and women, strays scraping together whatever they had for the entry fee into a game they’d never win.
They came from all corners of The Below and the human world beyond, thinking they could solve the impossible riddle and earn their way into the mafia’s graces.
Idiots.
They never understood the true nature of this game.
The riddles were crafted by the finest minds in The Below, warlocks and wizards who delighted in twisting logic into impossible knots.
The rules were simple—get it right, and you’re given a coveted spot under a mafia lord, with power and protection beyond your wildest dreams. Get it wrong?
Well, that was the real prize, wasn’t it?
They’d seen too much by then. The faces of the lords, the secrets of our world.
It was easier to kill them all off. A neat, bloody end to a messy affair.
I scanned the crowd, my eyes narrowing as I took in the nervous faces of the contestants.
Some of them were already sweating through their suits, their fear tainting the air.
They had no idea what they’d truly signed up for.
By the end of the night, most of them would be dead, their dreams of power and glory shattered along with their skulls.
Just another night in The Below.
My mind drifted to the bargain I’d made with Altair. Where was I going to find a wife? I certainly didn’t want there to be any feelings attached to this arrangement. It would be completely transactional. But how would I find someone I trusted to be in it for the right reasons?
I ran a hand through my hair. The whole damn idea sounded like an impossible feat. Desperate times called for desperate measures, though.
And I was fucking desperate.
Movement on the stage pulled me from my thoughts. Tonight would play out like all the others. I’d watch them dance, I’d watch them die, and in the end, I’d walk away, my reputation intact, The Shadow still feared and untouchable.
The Wraith Lord, Ciro Rossi, stepped up to the podium, his skeletal form draped in shadowy robes that clung to his gaunt frame like a funeral shroud.
His thin lips curved into a grin as he tapped the microphone, the sound crackling through the speakers and echoing across the massive hall.
The crowd fell silent, every eye fixed on him.
“Good evening, my esteemed friends,” Ciro drawled, his voice smooth as silk yet dripping with that hint of mockery he was known for. “What an honor it is to host the lunar convention once again.”
The expectation in the air was thick enough to choke on. The scent of sweat, alcohol, and anticipation mixed with the metallic tang of blood still lingering from the fight.
“Ah,” Ciro continued, his tone light, almost jovial. “I must say, it’s quite a sight to see everyone cleaned up so nicely. Who knew this many murderers, thieves, and cutthroats could be so presentable?”
Those who appreciated the Wraith Lord’s dark humor chuckled, though most remained wary, unwilling to let down their guard even for a moment.
Ciro’s voice cut through the ambient murmurs. “Let’s not waste any more time,” he said with a flourish, turning to face the contestants seated at the edge of the stage. His eyes, dark pits of unspoken malice, glittered as he beckoned them forward. “I know exactly what you’ve all been waiting for.”
The contestants moved hesitantly. Only two of them this year—a pathetic turnout compared to previous years.
I watched them closely as they shuffled onto the stage, shoulders hunched, eyes wide with fear.
Two men. Neither of them looked like they had a chance.
They both had that desperate gleam in their eyes of someone who thought this was their one ticket out of whatever hellhole they’d crawled from.
A gaunt, lifeless creature handed Ciro an envelope, then scuttled back into the shadows. The Wraith Lord held up the envelope, savoring the tension crackling through the air.
“Now,” he said in a hushed whisper that somehow carried through the hall, “let’s see what cruel game we’ve devised for our contestants this year.”
He tore open the envelope with a dramatic flair, his skeletal fingers moving with surprising grace. The entire room seemed to hold its breath as he extracted a single piece of parchment. He unfolded it slowly, relishing every second of the anticipation. Finally, he began to read:
“I am light in the dark, and dark in the light,
I thrive in the chaos between day and night.
Seek me not, for I cannot be held,
Yet all who find me have stories to tell.
What am I?”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. I could practically taste their excitement and curiosity. The contestants, however, were a different story.
The Wraith Lord turned back to the contestants, a malicious smile spreading across his lips. “For those of you who haven’t fainted just yet,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement, “let me remind you of what’s at stake.”
He turned to the crowd, gesturing grandly with one skeletal arm.
“Should anyone manage to solve this riddle, they will walk away not only with the combined entry fees—a tidy sum of over a million dollars—but also with an exclusive position, serving directly under one of the mafia lords of The Below.”
The crowd cheered, and I could see the contestants’ eyes widen at the reminder of such a prize. The fools. Did they truly think it was that simple? That they could buy their way into power with a riddle and a handful of gold?
Ciro’s voice grew colder, sharper, as he turned back to the two trembling contestants.
“But if you fail... if you dare submit an incorrect answer...” His grin widened, showing teeth that were unnaturally white.
“Well, you all know the rules by now. The penalty is death. Immediate. No appeals. No second chances.”
I watched as the contestants squirmed, eyes darting to the exits as if they were only now realizing the severity of the game they’d entered. I could see the panic setting in, their breaths coming faster, sweat beading on their brows.
“The contestants turned in their final guesses yesterday,” Ciro explained. “Now, all that’s left to do is read the answer and determine who, if any, will win this year.”
Ciro turned the slip of parchment in his bony fingers with a dramatic flourish, his skeletal grin spreading wider as he addressed the audience.
“And now, the answer you’ve all been waiting for…
” His voice dropped to a hushed whisper, drawing the crowd in like moths to a flame.
Even the usual cacophony of drunken voices and raucous laughter had stilled into an eager silence.
“The answer is,” Ciro continued, “The Phoenix Talisman.”
The crowd erupted into murmurs and gasps, a ripple of excitement coursing through the sea of onlookers.
The Phoenix Talisman. A powerful amulet said to be able to resurrect the dead, but only at the cost of another life.
I had heard of it, of course. Who in The Below hadn’t?
It was coveted, feared, and whispered about in dark corners.
That kind of artifact could tip the balance of power.
.. if one was willing to pay its bloody price.