The Warning in the Dark

Riven stood over the lifeless body of the scout, his mind racing even as his expression remained unreadable. The corpse had gone unnaturally stiff, its shadow frozen in place—as if whatever force had claimed the man had left an imprint.

But the scout's final words lingered.

It wasn't human. It moved like smoke. A shadow… but not like yours.

Riven had spent weeks refining his control over the abyss, molding his shadows to his will. Never had he encountered something similar—until now.

The rogue faction was making its move, and worse, they were mocking him. They wanted him to know they could reach him.

His fingers twitched at his sides, an old instinct from years of battle. If they were watching, then he'd make sure they had a show worth remembering.

For the next several days, Riven operated in silence. He scoured the outskirts of faction territories, following whispers, tracking movements that didn't belong. The rogue faction had erased a leader without a trace—an act that required precision, power, and an understanding of the abyss that rivaled his own.

That meant one thing: They weren't just killers. They were something more.

And Riven needed to know what.

To provoke a response, he escalated his attacks.

He targeted faction strongholds, wiping out their elites, cutting through their forces like a shadowed blade. He wasn't just absorbing fallen warriors anymore—he was sending a message. If the rogue faction was watching, they'd be forced to respond.

Days passed. No response.

Then, on the seventh night, Riven felt it.

A distortion in the air. A presence that slithered through the battlefield like a wraith.

He was being watched.

The ruins of an old war zone stretched before him—blackened stone, shattered weapons, the remnants of battles long forgotten. Riven stepped forward, scanning the area. Something was here.

A voice drifted from the darkness. "You're getting reckless, Riven Graves."

His muscles tensed. The voice was smooth, controlled, but it carried an edge of amusement. It wasn't a warning.

It was an invitation.

He turned sharply, his eyes locking onto the figures emerging from the shadows. Not one. Not two. But three.

They wore masks, each marked with a different symbol—intricate, ancient, like the script of a forgotten language. Their bodies barely seemed real, cloaked in shifting darkness that pulsed and flickered.

Not assassins.

Something else entirely.

One of them tilted their head. "The way you wield your shadows… crude, yet effective. But you lack understanding."

Riven's grip tightened. His shadows coiled around him, rising like living tendrils. "And you think you can teach me?"

The tallest of the three chuckled. "No. We're here to see if you're worth eliminating."

The first strike came from the left. Riven barely had time to react before a tendril of pure abyss lashed toward him. He twisted, vanishing into his own darkness, but something pulled at him mid-teleport.

He reappeared off-balance.

His eyes widened. They disrupted his movement.

No one had ever been able to do that before.

A second strike—this time from above. Riven threw his hand up, commanding his shadows to form a shield. The impact sent a jolt through him, pushing him back several steps.

The third masked figure had yet to move. They were watching. Studying.

Riven exhaled slowly. This wasn't just a fight. It was a test.

And he refused to fail.

He retaliated. His shadows erupted from beneath him, surging forward like a tidal wave. He directed them toward the two attackers, splitting their focus. If he could break their rhythm—

Pain.

It wasn't physical, but something gripped at his mind. A pressure, a weight. His vision blurred for a fraction of a second.

Then he heard them.

Whispers.

Faint, layered voices overlapping, speaking in a language he didn't understand. The same voices he'd heard since absorbing his first shadow.

Only now, they weren't distant. They were answering someone else.

Riven staggered.

A mistake.

The first masked figure appeared before him in an instant, a blade of condensed darkness pressed against his throat. The second flanked him, their fingers raised as if ready to sever his very connection to the abyss.

The third figure—the one who had yet to act—finally spoke. "You hear them, don't you?"

Riven gritted his teeth. "What do you know?"

A pause. Then, a single answer.

"More than you."

The blade against his throat didn't move. The whispers still clawed at the edges of his mind. Yet, Riven didn't falter.

"You think I fear you?" His voice was steady, sharp.

"No," the third figure replied. "And that is what makes you dangerous."

The pressure around him eased. The two attackers stepped back. Riven didn't let his guard down, but he knew—this fight was already over.

The third figure turned slightly, as if listening to something he couldn't hear. Then, they spoke one last time.

"We will see you again, Riven Graves."

And then—

They vanished.

No traces. No lingering shadows. Just silence.

Riven remained standing in the empty ruins, his heart pounding against his ribs.

They hadn't come to kill him. They had come to judge him.

And somehow, he knew—he had only just passed the first test.