The Warehouse of Silent Shadows was, if anything, even more silent and shadow-filled than Zero remembered. And colder. He'd arrived a full hour before midnight, his cheap lantern casting a feeble, flickering glow that seemed only to deepen the oppressive darkness of the vast, cavernous space. The single corner he had "prepared" – his "Sanctum" – looked pitifully small and insignificant under the towering, web-draped rafters. The crate he'd designated the "Throne of Whispers" was just a dusty box.
He paced the slightly-less-grimy patch of floor, his new (old) cloak swishing inadequately around his ankles. He ran through his memorized pronouncements, his voice a nervous murmur that echoed unnervingly in the emptiness.
"You have answered the call of the shade…" No, too cliché.
"The Path has chosen you, as it chooses all who are truly lost to the mundane light…" Better, more enigmatic.
He kept wiping his sweaty palms on the rough fabric of his cloak. His stomach churned. What if she didn't come? What if she did come, took one look at him, and laughed? Or worse, drew that terrifyingly sharp sword?
A faint scuffling sound from the far end of the warehouse made him jump, his heart leaping into his throat. He spun around, trying to peer into the inky blackness beyond his lantern's meagre reach. Was it rats? Or… her?
He scrambled behind his "throne," attempting to arrange himself into a posture of seated, mysterious authority. He pulled his hood so low it practically covered his eyes, hoping it projected enigma rather than extreme nervousness. He held his breath, listening.
Silence. Just the drip-drip-drip of water from a leaky patch in the roof and the frantic thumping of his own heart.
***
Anya entered the warehouse like a phantom. She hadn't used the main loading doors, which creaked ominously, but a smaller, partially collapsed personnel entrance on the leeward side she'd discovered during her reconnaissance. She moved with utter silence, her dark cloak blending seamlessly with the deeper shadows, her senses hyper-alert.
The air within was thick with the smell of decay, old brine, and something else… a faint, recent scent of disturbed dust. She scanned the vast interior, her eyes, already accustomed to the dim light filtering through grime-caked upper windows, picking out details the average person would miss. Most of the warehouse was a ruin.
Then she saw it. A faint, flickering light in a distant corner. A small, defined space. And a figure, cloaked and hooded, seated upon what appeared to be a simple crate. Motionless. Waiting.
The Master, Anya concluded, a sliver of cold anticipation running through her. The setup was… austere. Minimalist. No grand displays, no ostentatious trappings of power. It spoke of a confidence that had no need for such things. Or perhaps it was a test – to see if she would be swayed by superficialities.
She approached with measured, silent steps, her hand resting near the hilt of her sword, not as a threat, but as a familiar comfort. As she drew closer, she could make out more details. The figure was not large, but the way they sat – still, focused, seemingly oblivious to the cold and decay – projected an aura of deep contemplation. The faint light from a single, cheap lantern cast long, dancing shadows, making the figure seem both more and less substantial, a being of shadow itself.
She stopped a respectful ten paces from the seated figure. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant sounds of the city and the drip of water. Was she supposed to speak first? The scroll had said, "The Master awaits."
***
Zero saw her emerge from the darkness, a silhouette against the deeper black, moving with a grace that was both beautiful and terrifying. He hadn't heard a thing. One moment there was nothing, the next, she was there. His carefully rehearsed opening lines evaporated from his mind. His throat felt like sandpaper.
She was just standing there, watching him. He could feel her gaze even through his low hood. Intense. Analytical. This was it. The point of no return.
He had to say something. Something profound.
"The… uh… shadows welcome you," he managed, his voice emerging as a slightly strangled croak. He cringed internally. Smooth, Zero. Very masterly.
Anya inclined her head slightly. "Master." Her voice was low, devoid of inflection, yet it carried clearly in the vast space.
Master! She'd called him Master! A jolt of something that might have been terrified elation shot through Zero. She believed it!
He cleared his throat, trying again for that deep, resonant tone. "You… perceived the signs. You found the Path. Or, perhaps… the Path found you." Yes, that sounded better. More mysterious.
"The instructions were clear," Anya stated simply.
Clear? Zero thought. My rambling, ink-smudged scroll was clear? This woman was incredible. Or he was an even better shadow mastermind than he'd given himself credit for. He decided to go with the latter.
"Clarity," Zero intoned, nodding slowly as if pondering a great truth, "is often found in the deepest… uh… obscurities. For those with the eyes to see." He gestured vaguely around the dilapidated warehouse. "This Sanctum… is but a reflection. The true Path lies within." He tapped his chest, a gesture he hoped looked profound rather than like he was checking for a heartbeat. Which he was, a little.
Anya watched him, her expression unreadable in the dim light. She noticed the slight tremble in the hand that gestured, the way his hood shifted as if he were unused to it. She didn't see ineptitude. She saw a Master testing her, perhaps deliberately appearing unassuming, forcing her to look beyond the surface. The humble surroundings, the simple crate for a throne – it all pointed to a disdain for material wealth, a focus on inner strength. The Path was clearly not about riches or comfort. It was about something more fundamental.
"You sought power?" Zero asked, improvising wildly now, a bead of sweat trickling down his back. "Or… truth? Or perhaps… merely an escape from the… the mundane glare of the… sun?" He was definitely losing the thread.
"I seek the means to an end," Anya replied, her voice still level. "A just end. The Path, I believe, can provide those means."
A just end? Zero had no idea what that meant, but it sounded suitably grim and determined. He nodded sagely. "The Path provides… what is needed. For those who are… worthy." He leaned forward slightly, trying to project intensity. "But worthiness must be proven. The first step is acceptance. Do you… accept the shadows? Do you embrace the Crimson Path, with all its… inherent… shadiness?" Shadiness? Really, Zero?
Anya met his hooded gaze directly, or at least where she presumed his gaze was. "I do." No hesitation.
Zero's mind blanked. She'd actually said yes. Now what? He'd vaguely planned a first task, and the 'Mark of the Path.' Right. The Mark.
"Then… you shall bear the Mark," he announced, trying to sound solemn. He fumbled in his cloak for the charcoal stick. Finding it, he stood, a little unsteadily, and approached her. This was the riskiest part. Up close, she might see through his charade.
Anya remained perfectly still as the cloaked figure drew nearer. She could smell the faint scent of old paper, cheap ink, and… was that fear-sweat? No, it must be the scent of ancient knowledge, of countless hours spent in shadowed archives. The Master was smaller than she'd initially thought, but his presence felt… compressed, like a coiled spring of hidden energy.
Zero hesitated a foot away from her. "Extend… your hand, aspirant."
Anya did so, palm upwards. Her hand was steady, her gaze unwavering.
With a hand that trembled far more than he would have liked, Zero took her wrist. Her skin was cool. He awkwardly uncapped the charcoal and, with fumbling concentration, attempted to draw the Bleeding Eye symbol on the back of her hand. It came out even smudgier and more lopsided than his practice attempts. A blob with a jagged tear.
He stepped back, holding his breath.
Anya looked at the crude black mark on her hand. It was… unexpectedly simple. Primitive, even. Not a complex arcane sigil, but a stark, almost brutalist emblem. Perhaps its simplicity was its strength, a rejection of elaborate magical constructs in favour of raw, focused intent. Or perhaps the true Mark would manifest later, this being merely a symbolic first step. She closed her fist, the charcoal cool against her skin.
"It is done," Zero managed, his voice still a bit shaky. "You are now… an Acolyte of the Crimson Shadow. Your first task…" He paused dramatically, searching his mind for the vague instruction he'd half-formed earlier. "The city… Veridia… it bleeds. Not just with the obvious wounds of crime and corruption, but with a deeper malaise. Observe its heart. Find where the true shadow festers, where silence screams the loudest. Report your findings… when the Path next calls you."
He had no idea what any of that meant. He just hoped it sounded profound.
Anya nodded slowly, absorbing the words. "Observe its heart. Find where the true shadow festers." It was a reconnaissance mission, then. Broad, but focused. She was to use her perception, her understanding of the Path's subtle language, to identify a key area of spiritual or societal decay. It was a fitting first task for an Acolyte.
"I understand, Master," she said. "I will not fail."
Zero let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He'd done it. He'd actually done it. He quickly retreated to his crate-throne, sinking onto it, trying to regain his composure.
"Go now, Acolyte," he said, waving a dismissive, hopefully masterly, hand. "The shadows… have business with you."
Anya bowed her head slightly, a gesture of respect towards the seated figure. Then, as silently as she had arrived, she turned and melded back into the oppressive darkness of the warehouse, leaving Zero alone in his dusty, makeshift Sanctum.
He remained frozen for a long moment after she was gone. Then, he let out a shuddering sigh and promptly slid off the crate onto the filthy floor, his legs suddenly unable to support him. He'd survived. And he had his first, terrifyingly real, disciple.