Read Obsidian Bloom free: the opening chapter

Ashes and Whispers: The Executioner's Block | Shadows in the Market

The chill wasn't from the autumn air. It clung to the stone of the Executioner’s Block, seeped into the cobblestones, resided in the faces of the onlookers. I could taste it, a metallic tang beneath the usual market smells of rot and spice. I adjusted the weight of the steel against my back, the familiar balance a small comfort. It wasn’t a beautiful sword. Practical. Functional. Like me.

Old Man Hemlock knelt, head bowed. A thief, they said. Petty pilfering, mostly from stalls too proud to report it to the Guard. But Hemlock had argued with a merchant favored by Councilor Morian. A slight, a perceived insult. Morian didn't tolerate disrespect, even from those he'd bleed dry.

The crowd was thin. Not a spectacle, this. Just a warning. A demonstration. I scanned their faces. Mostly apathy. A few gawkers. A handful of those who’d come to judge me, not Hemlock. They always came. Whispering about the Inquisitor who enjoyed his duty too much. They didn’t understand. It wasn’t enjoyment. It was… precision. The satisfying click of a problem solved. A corrupted piece removed from the mechanism.

I didn’t look at Hemlock. Didn’t offer platitudes or false comfort. He wouldn’t want them. I doubted anyone did, when facing the blade. Just a swift severance. A clean end. That was the least I could offer.

“Begin,” Councilor Morian’s voice cut through the muted murmurs. He stood on the small platform erected near the block, a smug expression fixed on his face. He wasn’t looking at Hemlock. He was looking at me. Assessing. Evaluating. Wondering if I was still a useful tool.

I nodded to Sergeant Varrick, the Guard captain overseeing the execution. Varrick, a thick-necked man with perpetually bloodshot eyes, gave a curt signal. Two guards hauled Hemlock upright. He didn't resist. His eyes were closed. Perhaps he was praying. Perhaps he’d already accepted it.

---

The steel felt cold against my palm as I drew it. Not ceremonial. No flourish. Just the smooth, efficient motion of years of training. I positioned Hemlock’s neck on the block. The wood was worn, stained with the ghosts of countless others. I ignored it. Ghosts didn't matter. Only the present. The angle. The pressure.

Hemlock didn’t flinch. Good. Makes it cleaner.

I brought the blade down.

The sound was… muted. Less dramatic than the stories. A wet thud. A brief spray. Then silence, broken only by the ragged breathing of the guards and the quiet shuffling of the crowd.

I lowered the sword, wiped the blade on a cloth handed to me by Varrick. The crimson smeared across the grey steel, then vanished. I returned the sword to its sheath, the weight settling back against my spine.

Morian applauded. A single, sharp clap. The crowd followed suit, hesitant, perfunctory. It wasn’t genuine. It was a performance. And I was part of it.

“Efficient, Inquisitor Kaelen,” Morian said, descending from the platform. “A clear message sent. Disobedience will not be tolerated.”

I kept my gaze fixed on the blood pooling on the cobblestones. “It was a simple matter, Councilor.”

“Simple matters are often the most important. They demonstrate strength. They maintain order.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Though I hear whispers. About your… methods. About your detachment.”

“I ensure justice is served,” I replied, keeping my voice level. “Sentimentality has no place in it.”

“Sentimentality is a weakness,” Morian agreed, a hint of approval in his voice. “But even a tool must be maintained. We can’t afford for you to become… dull.”

He was testing me. Seeing if I’d react. If the accusations stung. They didn’t. Not anymore. I’d long ago built walls around whatever remained of my own feelings.

“I am at your service, Councilor.”

“Good.” Morian’s gaze swept over the scene. “See to it that the market returns to normalcy. And Kaelen…” He hesitated. “Investigate the rumors. About the Shadow Traders. They've been active lately. More brazen. I want to know who they are and what they’re planning.”

Shadow Traders. Smugglers. Dealers in forbidden goods. And, more often, in forbidden knowledge. A nuisance, mostly. But Morian taking an interest meant they were becoming a threat. Or that Morian saw something in them he could exploit.

“I will, Councilor.”

---

I left the execution grounds, ignoring the lingering stares. The market was slowly returning to life. Vendors were rearranging their stalls, shouting their wares. The smell of roasted meat mingled with the scent of decay. It was a grim place, Veridia. Always had been. Built on the ruins of something older, something… darker.

Eira was waiting for me near the apothecary. She didn’t look at the bloodstains on my boots. She never did. She simply offered me a small pouch of herbs.

“For the nightmares,” she said, her voice soft. “They’ve been worse lately.”

I took the pouch, the rough cloth warm against my fingers. “You shouldn’t waste your herbs on me, Eira. They’re needed for those who truly suffer.”

“Everyone suffers, Kaelen. Some just hide it better.” She studied my face, her brow furrowed with concern. “You’re walking a dangerous path. I can see it in your eyes.”

“The path is always dangerous,” I said, turning away. “Especially for those who walk it alone.”

“You don’t have to be alone.”

I didn’t respond. What was there to say? She didn’t understand. She couldn’t. She hadn’t seen what I’d seen. Done what I’d done.

“I need to meet with my informant,” I said, forcing myself to sound neutral. “Regarding the Shadow Traders.”

“Be careful,” Eira said, her voice barely a whisper. “They say those who deal in shadows have a way of pulling you in with them.”

I offered her a curt nod and walked away, leaving her standing amidst the bustle of the market. The pouch of herbs felt heavy in my hand. A useless gesture. A futile attempt to soothe a darkness that couldn’t be healed.

My informant was a fence named Jorek. A weasel of a man who knew every back alley and hidden corner of the city. I found him in the Crooked Tankard, a dive where the ale was watered down and the company was even worse.

Jorek was huddled in a corner booth, nursing a drink. He looked up as I approached, his eyes darting around nervously.

“Inquisitor,” he said, his voice raspy. “Not expecting to see you in a place like this.”

“I go where the information leads me,” I replied, sliding into the booth opposite him. “I need to know about the Shadow Traders.”

Jorek’s eyes narrowed. “Dangerous question.”

“Dangerous answers are often the most valuable.”

He hesitated, then signaled the barmaid for another drink. “They’re different. Not like the usual smugglers. They deal in more than just goods. Rumor says they trade in Umbral artifacts. Things best left forgotten.”

Umbral artifacts. Relics infused with the dark energy that fueled magic in Veridia. Powerful. Unstable. And incredibly dangerous.

“Who leads them?” I asked.

“A woman. They call her Lysandra. Said to be a Weaver of exceptional skill. Ruthless. Ambitious. And… connected.”

Lysandra. The name felt… familiar. Like a half-forgotten echo.

“Connected to whom?”

Jorek shrugged. “That’s where the rumors end. Some say she’s backed by a rogue noble. Others claim she has ties to the Black Order. The whispers are endless.”

The Black Order. A secret society rumored to worship the ancient darkness that predated Veridia. If they were involved, this was more than just smuggling. This was something far more sinister.

“And what about her operations?” I pressed. “Where does she trade? Who are her clients?”

Jorek leaned closer, lowering his voice. “She has a hidden warehouse down by the docks. Old Blacksail Wharf. And her clients… they're the kind of people who prefer to remain unseen. Nobles with dark secrets. Collectors of forbidden knowledge. Those who crave power, no matter the cost.”

Blacksail Wharf. A desolate, forgotten corner of the city. Perfect for clandestine meetings.

“I want everything you know about her, Jorek,” I said, my voice hardening. “Every detail, no matter how insignificant.”

Jorek swallowed nervously. “That will cost you, Inquisitor.”

“Name your price.”

“Fifty silvers.”

A pittance. But I paid it without hesitation. Information was a valuable commodity. And I had a feeling this information was going to be very valuable indeed.

As I left the Crooked Tankard, the chill seemed to have deepened. The market was shrouded in shadow, the flickering lamplights casting long, distorted shapes. I could feel eyes on me. Watching. Waiting.

I was walking into the darkness. And I had a feeling the darkness was waiting to walk back with me.

I was walking into the darkness. And I had a feeling the darkness was waiting to walk back with me.

The information Jorek provided was thin, mostly gossip and speculation. Still, it was a starting point. I directed my steps towards Blacksail Wharf, the rain beginning to fall in earnest, slicking the cobblestones and turning the air heavy with the scent of salt and decay.

The wharf was as dilapidated as Jorek described. Broken pilings jutted from the water like skeletal fingers, and the warehouses lining the docks were crumbling and abandoned. Most were, but one showed recent signs of activity. Freshly patched timbers, a newly reinforced door. Lysandra's likely base of operations.

I didn't bother with subtlety. I had a warrant, signed with the Obsidian Seal, granting me authority to investigate any and all suspected dealings with Umbral energies. It wasn’t a license to kill, not precisely, but it afforded a significant degree of latitude.

The door splintered under the force of a single, well-aimed kick. Inside, the warehouse was surprisingly organized. Not opulent, but functional. Crates filled with mundane goods, silks, spices, wines, were stacked neatly against the walls, obscuring more questionable contents further within. A handful of men, burly and armed, turned to face me, their expressions shifting from surprise to hostility.

“Inquisitorial warrant,” I announced, holding up the Seal. “By order of the Citadel, you are all under arrest.”

They reacted predictably. Swords were drawn, curses muttered. They were skilled enough, but they lacked discipline. They fought like mercenaries, relying on brute force rather than technique. I moved through them with a practiced efficiency, my own blade a blur of silver. I didn’t relish the violence, but I was not sentimental. Each strike was precise, aimed to disable rather than kill. Mostly.

One man, bolder than the rest, lunged for me, his blade arcing towards my throat. I parried, disarmed him, and drove the pommel of my sword into his sternum. He crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. A warning, more than a fatal blow.

“Where is Lysandra?” I demanded, my voice cold.

They remained silent, stubbornly defiant. I sighed. Prolonged interrogation was time-consuming and yielded unreliable results. Sometimes, a swift example was the most effective method.

I selected one of the men, a wiry fellow with a scar across his cheek. He was clearly the leader, or at least a lieutenant. I dragged him outside, into the rain. A small crowd had gathered, drawn by the sounds of the struggle. They watched with morbid curiosity, their faces illuminated by the flickering lamplight.

I secured him to one of the crumbling pilings, leaving him suspended over the cold, churning water. Not fully submerged, not yet.

“Tell me where Lysandra is,” I said, my voice carrying over the sounds of the storm. “And I might reconsider his current predicament.”

The remaining men exchanged panicked glances. One of them, a young, gaunt man, finally broke.

“She’s not here! She was… she was at the Sunstone Estate. Meeting with Lord Valerius.”

Lord Valerius. A member of the Crimson Council, one of the most powerful men in Veridia. The connection was becoming clearer. This wasn't merely a smuggling operation; it was a political maneuver.

“The Sunstone Estate?” I repeated, my gaze fixed on the man. “When?”

“Just hours ago. She left with a sealed missive. Said it was… important.”

I nodded, satisfied. The information was enough. I signaled to my guard, a grim-faced veteran named Kaelen, who had been silently observing the proceedings. Kaelen was a man of few words, his face etched with the scars of countless battles. He moved with a quiet, deadly efficiency, a perfect complement to my own methods.

“See to the prisoners,” I instructed. “And ensure our… informant remains comfortable.”

Kaelen merely inclined his head, his expression unchanging. He understood the unspoken implications. The man on the piling would remain there until he provided further corroborating details. A slow, agonizing lesson in the consequences of defiance.

As Kaelen attended to the prisoners, I turned my attention back to the warehouse. A thorough search revealed the true nature of Lysandra's operation. Hidden beneath the layers of legitimate goods were crates filled with Umbral shards, corrupted crystals radiating a sickly green glow. Enough to power a small army of Shadowmancers. And among them, a single, exquisitely crafted amulet, pulsing with a dark, malevolent energy.

This was far more than just ambition. This was a deliberate attempt to destabilize Veridia. And Lord Valerius was at the heart of it.

The rain continued to fall, washing away the blood and grime. I stood amidst the wreckage, the weight of steel and responsibility pressing down on me. Justice, in Veridia, was rarely clean. It was often brutal, politically motivated, and profoundly unsatisfying. But it was a necessary evil. A darkness that kept the darkness at bay. And I, as an Inquisitor of the Obsidian Citadel, was tasked with wielding it.

The sample ends here.