The sun hung low in the sky as a warm haze settled over Greyrest. The clang of metal on stone echoed in steady rhythm, a soundtrack to the slow but determined progress of the new wall rising along the eastern edge of the settlement. Ethan stood at the top of the half-built scaffolding, arms folded, eyes scanning the far tree line. He didn't say anything. He rarely did during these moments, he was measuring.
Every stone laid, every timber braced, told him something about the people beneath him: their skill, their pace, their patience or their lack of it. The wall mattered, yes. Greyrest needed it. But what he truly watched was how they built it.
A boy with more brawn than brains nearly dropped a loaded crate on a woman's foot. She barked at him, not out of anger, but precision. "Your left's not her left, you dolt!"
Ethan allowed the faintest curl at the edge of his lips. They were learning.
Still, stone walls and sharpened spears wouldn't be enough. Greyrest was growing and with it, the interest of dangerous eyes. Raids from smaller bands were increasing, and though they had beaten back the last attack with minimal losses, it was only a matter of time before something bigger came for them. Something organized.
He needed a blade hidden in the dark. A unit that could slip between shadows, strike unseen, and vanish like mist. Not soldiers, not even scouts. Ghosts.
He climbed down the scaffolding, the leather of his gloves squeaking faintly against the wood. The wind carried with it the scent of freshly worked lumber, fire-smoke, and meat roasting somewhere in the market. His boots hit the ground with a soft thud, and he turned toward the narrow alleys near the trading stalls.
He had seen her there, barefoot, quick, vanishing into gaps even children hesitated to slip through. Not stealing, not exactly. But always watching. Always moving.
She appeared again today, just at the edge of his vision. A blur of movement across the busy street as a merchant shouted about saltfish and copper nails. She ducked behind a stall stacked with rolled cloth, then reappeared near the fountain, only to vanish again.
Ethan kept walking. He didn't chase. That would be a mistake.
He stopped near an empty stall and pretended to check a crate of apples that weren't his. He let his eyes drift, just slightly.
There.
On a rooftop across the street, crouched low behind a chimney stack, the girl watched him. Her face was thin, eyes sharp like cracked glass. She moved like smoke, smooth, directionless until she wanted to be seen.
He placed an apple on the edge of the stall and walked away.
Later that evening, as torches flickered to life and the clang of hammers gave way to the hush of supper fires, Ethan sat with Elen and Jorah at the central table inside the meeting tent.
"The wall's reached the third quadrant," Elen reported. "If the masons stay healthy, we'll have the east side closed before next month."
"Good," Ethan said absently. He stirred a cup of broth but didn't drink.
Jorah narrowed his eyes. "You're thinking about something else."
Ethan didn't deny it. "Walls keep people out. But they also slow us down. If they breach it once, we're trapped behind our own pride."
"So what, then? Tunnels?" Jorah asked, half-joking.
Ethan leaned forward, his voice quiet. "No. Shadows."
Elen blinked. "You mean spies?"
"No. Fighters. Ghosts. People who move without being seen. Strike without being heard."
"Assassins."
"No," Ethan said again, sharper. "Defenders. Guardians of the unseen."
They didn't understand yet. But they would.
The next morning, Ethan stood in the alley between the old tannery and the broken smithy. He leaned against the wall and waited.
A soft rustle of fabric, barely audible.
"You've been watching me," he said to the empty space.
Silence.
He reached into his pocket and dropped a folded cloth onto the ground. Inside was a single silver button, old and worn, engraved with a symbol no one used anymore. And beneath it, a note.
"I've seen you move. I've seen how you notice the world. If you're tired of being chased by shadows, maybe it's time to become one. Meet me again in three nights. Alone."
He left.
Three nights later, just after moonrise, Ethan waited near the far edge of Greyrest, where the wall was only ankle-high and the woods grew close. A crow called once. Then silence.
She stepped from the trees like a thought becoming real. No shoes. No words.
Ethan didn't speak right away. He watched her as he had before. No nervous shifting. No scanning eyes. She stood perfectly still, waiting.
He nodded.
"I need people who see the world like you do. Who understand that most fights are won before a blade is ever drawn."
Her expression didn't change.
"I won't promise you riches," he continued. "But I'll give you something rarer: purpose. A family, forged in silence. We'll be the line no enemy expects."
Still she said nothing.
He turned to leave.
"You'll need to train," he said over his shoulder. "You'll have to trust me. And disappear from the world you knew."
When he looked back, she was gone.
But the silver button lay in the dirt where she had stood.
And beside it, a single feather.