The Blackened Blade

The first thing Arden Shadowborne registered when he woke was the cold.

The fire in the hearth had long since died, leaving only the faintest embers smoldering in the obsidian hearth. Heavy velvet drapes billowed slightly from a breeze seeping through the cracks in the stone, carrying the familiar scent of Tenebralis—smoke, rain, and something darker beneath.

His muscles ached, though not unpleasantly. The events of the night before settled over him like the lingering warmth of a blade fresh from the forge, though his mind was already sharpening, cutting away the distraction. Pleasure was fleeting. Survival was not.

And survival had always been his first instinct.