The shadows judgement
The moon hung like a fractured blade above the Eldrath Kingdom, its silver light glinting off the rooftops of the capital.
The streets were quieter than usual—an unease had settled over the city ever since rumors spread about missing nobles and sudden disappearances of guards near the western district.
But in the darkest corner of the kingdom, where light dared not linger, stood the slave market of Eldrath.
It was a place hidden under the guise of a “trading quarter,” but Voltaro knew the truth. Beneath the surface—beneath the laughter, music, and painted smiles—lay chains, blood, and misery.
The last time he passed through this area, he’d seen faces of despair behind iron bars—faces of his own people from Ashenveil. That memory still burned in his chest like an ember refusing to die.
Tonight, that ember would ignite into vengeance.
Voltaro and Raven moved like shadows across the rooftops. Their dark cloaks fluttered soundlessly as they glided from building to building. The air carried the faint stench of wine and sweat—the scent of the wicked place below.
“Raven,” Voltaro whispered, his voice barely audible. “You remember the plan?”
Raven nodded, eyes sharp with quiet fury. “Yes, Master. I’ll handle the eastern gate and the cages near the cellar. You’ll take the main hall.”
Voltaro’s gaze was fixed on the large building ahead, where torches flickered and guards laughed carelessly. “Good. No survivors among the slavers. But spare the innocents. Anyone bound… anyone crying for mercy—free them.”
Raven’s flame aura flickered faintly, its crimson glow hidden beneath the cloth wrapped around his arm. “Understood.”
Then Voltaro drew the Mask of the Veil, a dark, rune-inscribed mask that covered his face entirely. When he slid it on, his aura vanished completely, leaving no trace of mana, no warmth, no life.
To the world, he was now nothing but a shadow.
The first guard at the gate barely had time to draw his sword before his throat opened in silence. Voltaro’s blade shimmered briefly in the moonlight, then disappeared again into the dark. He dragged the body behind a crate and moved onward.
Two more slavers stood near a cart full of chained elves, laughing crudely.
“Another one from the Ashen ruins, eh? Fetch a high price, this one will!” one of them jeered.
Voltaro’s step was soundless as a wraith. By the time the laughter died, so did they.
Blood pooled quietly beneath their boots, unseen by anyone but the night.
He broke the lock on the cart with a flick of his hand—metal melted away like wax beneath a hidden flame. The slaves inside gasped softly, afraid to believe what they saw.
A tall man with hollow eyes looked up at the masked figure. “Who… who are you?”
Voltaro’s voice came low and cold. “A shadow sent by your freedom.”
Before they could reply, he vanished again into the market.
Meanwhile, Raven had already infiltrated the eastern quarter. He ducked behind a pile of hay as two guards passed, their torches painting streaks of orange across the night.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, he summoned a thin wisp of flame—barely visible, dancing like a serpent. He guided it along the ground until it slithered beneath the men’s feet and exploded in a burst of silent heat.
They fell without a sound.
He moved quickly to the cages, breaking locks, cutting bonds. The freed captives trembled in disbelief. Among them were children, beaten mercilessly and left to starve.
“Go,” Raven whispered urgently. “Run to the northern forest. Someone will meet you there.”
“But who—” a woman began, before she saw his eyes—burning red with both rage and resolve. She nodded quickly and fled.
Raven watched them vanish into the shadows before turning his gaze back to the main hall. “Your move, Master.”
The grand slave hall was a grotesque sight. Dozens of cages lined the walls, each holding men and women from every race—humans, elves, dwarves, and even beastkin. Chains rattled with every faint movement.
At the center, a man in lavish silks sat on a throne of gold and bone—the Market Overseer, one of the king’s secret financiers.
He raised a goblet, unaware of the silent storm closing in. “To profits, gentlemen! The next shipment from Ashenveil will make us rich beyond reason!”
Laughter echoed through the hall.
Then—
The lights went out.
One by one, torches snuffed themselves as if an unseen wind swept through the room. The Overseer stood abruptly, voice trembling. “Who dares?!”
A whisper answered from the dark.
“A name you buried beneath your greed.”
The slavers drew their weapons, spinning toward the sound. But before they could even shout, black fire erupted across the hall—flames that devoured light instead of giving it.
Voltaro stepped through the swirling shadows, his cloak fluttering like smoke. His masked face glinted for a brief instant, reflecting the chaos he unleashed.
The Overseer screamed, “Kill him!”
Dozens of guards charged—but they might as well have been walking into death’s embrace. Voltaro moved through them like a ghost, blade flashing in impossible arcs. Every strike was silent; every life taken in a whisper.
His flames crawled along the floor, wrapping around the slavers like serpents of void. The black fire didn’t burn the slaves—it passed harmlessly by them, licking only at the chains and locks until they melted away.
Screams filled the hall.
“What are you?!” cried one slaver as he fell to his knees.
Voltaro’s voice was calm, detached. “The shadow you created.”
He thrust his blade downward, ending the man’s final breath.
In the chaos, the Overseer tried to flee, stumbling toward a hidden passage. But before he could reach it, a figure stepped from the dark—Raven, eyes glowing like twin rubies.
“Going somewhere?”
The Overseer froze, trembling. “Wait, wait—please! I’m just a servant! It was the king’s right hand, Lord Karel! He ordered it! He wanted vengeance against the Ashenveil bloodline!”
Raven’s jaw tightened. “You think that saves you?”
Voltaro appeared behind him, the air rippling with silent heat. He reached out, grabbing the Overseer by the collar. “Where is the ledger? The one that lists the buyers.”
“In… in my chamber!” the man stammered. “Please—don’t kill me—”
Voltaro tossed him aside like a ragdoll. “You’ll live long enough to face judgment.”
He turned to Raven. “Gather everyone. Get them to the safe zone.”
Raven bowed slightly. “Understood.”
Minutes later, the once-grand hall of Eldrath’s slave market burned. Flames of deep gray and crimson rose into the night sky, swallowing the corruption that had thrived there for years.
From the forest ridge miles away, freed slaves turned and watched the inferno in silence. Some wept. Some clasped their hands in prayer.
“Who did this?” a young boy asked, his small voice trembling.
An older elf smiled faintly. “The Shadow of Ashenveil,” he said. “A ghost who avenges the fallen.”
Back in the city, Voltaro and Raven stood on a deserted rooftop, watching the smoke rise. The mask still hid Voltaro’s face, but his eyes gleamed with quiet resolve.
“Do you think this will draw their attention?” Raven asked.
Voltaro nodded. “It will. The king’s right hand will know it was me.”
“Then what’s next?”
Voltaro turned toward the royal castle in the distance, its towers piercing the clouds. “Next, we drag him out of his throne—and make him answer for what he did to our people.”
Raven’s flame flickered at his side. “Then the shadow will strike again.”
Voltaro’s cloak fluttered as the night wind rose. “Not as a shadow this time. When the dawn comes… Eldrath will see the true flame of Ashenveil.”
The two disappeared into the darkness once more, leaving only whispers behind.
That night, the Slave Market of Eldrath ceased to exist.
And the legend of the Shadow Liberator began.
Too be continue...