Jacob stood in a world of black, walls, floor, ceiling, even the couch and chairs that seemed to exist more out of habit than function were the same unbroken shade, absorbing what little suggestion of light there might have been.

It was the place Belemir spent most of his time: Jacob's shadow. This was far from his first visit, and the experience was no longer strange to him. Travelling this way had become something he not only accepted but preferred; it was faster, quieter, and most importantly allowed him to pass unnoticed.

The journey to the Barchend District was brief, the kind of effortless movement only shadow travel could provide. When Jacob emerged, it was at the entrance to a broad brick building whose high roof was crowded with chimneys, their dark mouths angled like sentinels against the sky. He lingered for a moment, letting his gaze drift over the district around him.

Barchend was unlike the more uniform quarters of the city; it had no singular purpose or identity, no clean lines of trade or craft. Instead, it was a place where the miscellaneous gathered, blacksmiths working beside cobblers, mercenaries sharing the street with bakers, scribes, and brewers. Here you could find almost anything if you knew where to look, though whether it was worth finding was another matter entirely.

Eventually he turned back to the blacksmith's shop and stepped inside. The air was heavy with the faint scent of oil and metal, the walls crowded with racks of weapons and pieces of armour. The room was quiet except for the soft clink of steel as the few customers present shifted swords from one hand to another, weighing their balance or testing a grip.

Jacob moved along the racks, his hand brushing over the cold steel of blades in a dozen shapes and sizes. He tried several, drawing them and feeling the weight, but nothing in the collection seemed quite right, either too heavy, too light, or simply lacking something he could not name.

"Young master," Belemir's voice murmured in his mind, calm and almost conversational, "these swords are not good enough for you. Master Isaac said you should buy a weapon from the second store in this place"

Jacob hummed quietly to himself as he began to search for the second store Isaac had mentioned, moving first through the most obvious places, a narrow passage at the back, a side door half-hidden by a rack of polearms, even a few sections of wall that he tapped and pressed against as though expecting them to swing inward.

He stepped outside briefly, scanning the exterior for any secondary entrance, but the unbroken brick gave him nothing. Eventually, with no better ideas, he approached the shop's attendant, a slight man with narrow shoulders and the kind of unhurried manner that suggested he had no interest in the urgency of others. His name, as offered in a flat tone, was Fred.

Jacob's question was met with polite refusal; Fred explained that he was not permitted to reveal the location of the second store's entrance, and his tone was so matter-of-fact that it left no room for persuasion. With no other lead, Jacob found himself simply walking the room in slow circles, letting his eyes linger on every beam, every shadow, hoping the answer would reveal itself if he stared long enough.

It was then he noticed that the other customers, the same few he had seen upon entering were not browsing in the casual manner of buyers but prowling with intent. Judging by their restless movements and the faint scowls etched into their faces, they had been searching for quite some time.

The group was made up of two heavily built men dressed in well-worn leather and a woman in the plain but practical robes of a mage. Mercenaries, Jacob decided, though perhaps the kind who had more patience for contracts than for riddles.

Their search was far from subtle. They began lifting weapons from their hooks, stacking armour pieces on the floor, and knocking on wall panels as though the right one might answer. The sound of boots thudding across the wooden floor grew louder, punctuated by the scrape of steel on rack as they cleared another row. At one point, one of the men even tested a section of wall with a heavy kick, splintering the edge of the panel, and Jacob noted with some curiosity that Fred did not so much as raise an eyebrow.

It seemed the mercenaries had noticed that same indifference, because rather than continuing to tear through the racks, one of the men broke away from the others and walked toward the attendant with the deliberate stride of someone about to demand something directly.

"Fred, was it?" the man asked, his tone attempting politeness but carrying the weight of expectation, as though the answer were already owed to him. "It would be really nice if you could tell me where the entrance is. I'll make it worth your while."

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He pulled an old leather pouch from his belt and let it drop onto the counter with a dull thud, the coins inside shifting with that muted, metallic chime that spoke of a decent sum.

Fred gave the pouch a single glance before looking back at the man, his expression unchanged. "I'm sorry," he said evenly, "but I cannot give you that information. You are, however, free to continue your search, no matter how destructive it becomes. If you happen to have a letter of recommendation, I can take you directly to the main store."

"Belemir," Jacob murmured under his breath, "did Isaac give me a letter of recommendation?"

"No, sir. He did not."

Jacob exhaled quietly and turned his attention back to the exchange, but in the few seconds he had looked away, the tone of the scene had shifted entirely, the man now had Fred lifted by the throat, his arm rigid with the effort, and was leaning forward with the kind of focused anger that left little doubt about his intentions.

The other two mercenaries stood apart, watching. The second man had a look of faint relief on his face, as though the frustration of their search had finally found an outlet, and he edged forward slowly, almost eager to participate. The woman, by contrast, observed with open disdain, her eyes narrowing but her hands remaining firmly at her sides, making no move to intervene.

Fred's voice came out ragged, the words broken by the tightening of the grip on his neck. "I… I cannot tell you… anything."

"You said we could use destructive means, didn't you?" the man replied, his voice low and deliberate. "Let's see how many it takes before you decide to change your mind." By then, his companion had reached the counter, producing a short, well-used knife from his pocket and turning it lazily in his fingers until the tip hovered just beside Fred's eye.

"Better start talking," the man growled.

Jacob considered the situation in quiet detachment, weighing the options with the same methodical thought he might give to any tactical decision. He could simply stand by and let them do what they intended to Fred; if they managed to force an answer from him, Jacob could make use of the information without having lifted a finger, a distasteful method perhaps, but one with the highest probability of yielding results and one that would leave his own hands entirely clean.

The other option was to intervene, to pull Fred out of the mess and hope that gratitude might loosen his tongue, but from the man's behaviour so far Jacob suspected such hope was misplaced. In the end, the question was less about strategy and more about whether he was willing to watch an innocent man be tortured in front of him.

He exhaled, not so much out of frustration as finality, and spoke in a calm voice that carried across the room, "Belemir, deal with the two of them."

All three mercenaries turned towards him at once, and the one holding the knife stepped forward with a slow, deliberate motion, a faint shimmer of aura already beginning to trace its way along the length of the blade. Then, without warning, his shadow shifted.

At first it seemed to ripple against the floor as though resisting some unseen force, but within moments it tore itself free, rising in a sudden surge before winding tightly around its owner. The man fought to break free, muscles straining and voice raised in a raw, frustrated roar, but the shadow's grip only tightened, dragging him down until he was forced to the ground.

The other man released Fred immediately and backed away a step, his gaze fixed warily on the dark shape beneath him, a sharp yellow aura flaring over his arms as he prepared himself. The air grew taut with stillness, the tension drawing every eye, even the restrained man pausing his struggles to see what would follow.

It was not the yellow-aura man's shadow that struck first, but Fred's. It began to rise, stretching upwards with unsettling fluidity, its head distorting as its mouth widened, the teeth lengthening and sharpening until they looked made for nothing but rending flesh.

In the space of a breath it had grown large enough to engulf a man entirely, and that was exactly what it did, before the mercenary could react, Fred's shadow fell upon him, closing over his head and shoulders before swallowing him whole.

The restrained man renewed his thrashing in panic, but it was futile; his own shadow was already moving, climbing up his legs like black water, then lunging forward with the same terrible hunger.

Both shadows, as if in perfect accord, opened their mouths moments later, spilling the mangled remains of the two mercenaries onto the floor, what lay there was unrecognizable in form, yet left no doubt that both men were dead.

The store settled into silence again, the only sound the faint scrape of a chair as Fred, having caught his breath and gathered whatever composure he could, walked back to his place and lowered himself into it with the same casualness one might expect from a man returning to finish a drink.

The shadows, their brief display over, receded without ceremony, flattening and fading back into their ordinary shapes as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. The woman, however, remained rooted where she stood, her gaze fixed on Jacob, her posture tense in a way that suggested she was ready to move the instant he gave her reason.

When Jacob met her eyes, he noticed the faint tremor in her shoulders, a subtle but unmistakable sign that unsettled him, not because fear was unfamiliar, but because in this case it was directed at him for a strength that was not even his own. "This," he said evenly, without raising his voice, "is the part where you leave."

She gave a single quick nod, said nothing, and left without turning her head, her pace brisk enough to make it clear she had no interest in lingering.

Jacob then turned to Fred, allowing a faint smile to touch his face. "I don't suppose," he began, the tone almost conversational, "you'd consider letting me into the second store, seeing as I just saved your life?"

He had expected a refusal, or at best a noncommittal answer, but Fred surprised him. Without hesitation, and with the kind of sincerity that suggested he saw the matter as already decided, he replied, "Yes. That's the least I can do for someone who saved my life."

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