Riven moved through the night like a phantom, his steps soundless, his presence undetectable. The air was thick with the scent of iron and the quiet hum of death. Another faction outpost lay in ruins behind him, its warriors nothing more than fading shadows now. He had struck fast, precise—taking only the strongest into his growing army and leaving no trace of his involvement. The world would whisper of a ghost that stole the lives of warriors in the dead of night, but no one would know the truth.
Except something was wrong.
His connection to his shadows, normally fluid and absolute, faltered for a fraction of a second during the fight. The hesitation had been so brief that most would have ignored it. But Riven didn't ignore things. That flicker of uncertainty in his power was enough to make his instincts scream.
Someone was watching him. Someone was interfering.
He stood in the middle of the battlefield, his breath slow and measured, listening. The wind howled through the shattered remains of the outpost, carrying the dying embers of torches and the scent of scorched earth. His shadows whispered to him, slithering across the ground, searching. There was nothing—no movement, no life.
But he knew better.
Then, from the darkness, a sound—a slow, deliberate clap.
Riven turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as a figure stepped forward from the ruined outskirts of the outpost. Cloaked in black, their face was concealed behind an intricately carved mask, marked with an ancient symbol Riven didn't recognize. Their presence was eerily calm, as if they had been here the entire time, watching his massacre unfold.
"You move well for a ghost," the masked figure said, their voice smooth, amused. "But even ghosts leave traces."
Riven didn't reply immediately. He studied the stranger, noting their posture, the way their weight shifted—balanced, prepared. A fighter. But they weren't tense, which meant they weren't here to strike first. Not yet.
"Who are you?" Riven's voice was low, steady.
The masked figure tilted their head slightly. "Names mean little in the shadows. What matters is that you've caught our attention."
Riven's fingers twitched at his sides, his power coiling at his command. He was ready to strike the moment they moved. "Who is 'we'?"
The figure chuckled softly. "The ones who see the world as it is. The ones who know the truth about factions, about power… about you."
Riven's patience thinned. "You're from the rogue faction."
A slow nod. "Ah, so you've heard of us. Good. That makes this easier."
Riven remained silent, waiting. His shadows continued slithering outward, searching for hidden enemies, but the space around them remained untouched. Just this one figure, standing there as if they belonged in the aftermath of death.
"You've been… busy," the stranger continued, glancing at the battlefield. "Erasing factions one by one. Efficient. Methodical. We respect that."
Riven clenched his jaw. "I don't care about your respect."
"No. But you should care about what comes next."
Before Riven could react, his own shadow twitched unnaturally beneath him, shifting without his command. He stiffened as a foreign energy pulsed through the darkness around him. His control faltered again—not fully, but enough for him to notice. Enough for the stranger to notice.
The masked figure took a single step forward. "We don't just watch, Shadowborn. We touch. We mark."
Riven's blood turned cold.
His connection to his own power—his absolute dominion over his shadows—had been tampered with. That had never happened before. No force had ever been able to interfere with his control.
Until now.
He exhaled slowly, focusing, regaining his grip on his power. His shadow settled, but the unsettling sensation of something lurking beneath its surface remained. It wasn't just an illusion. It wasn't a trick.
They had already marked him.
Riven lifted his gaze, meeting the hollow eye sockets of the mask. "Whatever you did… undo it."
The stranger chuckled, shaking their head. "It doesn't work that way. You've stepped into something bigger than yourself. And now, whether you like it or not, we are watching."
Riven's instincts screamed at him to strike, to erase this presence from existence. But even as his power surged, something in the air held him back. The rogue faction wasn't here for a battle—not yet. They wanted him to know they had him in their sights. That they could reach him whenever they pleased.
"Sleep lightly, Shadowborn," the masked figure said, turning away. "The world is watching. But we are the ones who see."
With that, the figure dissolved into the darkness, vanishing as if they had never been there.
Riven remained still, listening, waiting—his heart pounding despite his outward calm. His shadows returned fully to his command, but the disturbance in them lingered, a subtle stain on his power that refused to be wiped clean.
Marked.
His teeth clenched. The rogue faction had just made their first move.
And Riven would be ready when they made their next.