The air in the Rusty Pike remained heavy with tension as Valen and Trask locked eyes. The gang leader's smirk hadn't faded, but it had taken on an edge of wariness. Valen could see the gears turning in his mind, weighing the risks and benefits of trusting this stranger with a power he couldn't comprehend.
"You've got my attention," Trask repeated, this time with measured curiosity. "But if you're looking for loyalty, you're in the wrong place. My men follow strength, not promises."
Valen's lips curved into a cold smile. "Then I'll give them strength to follow."
The gang members exchanged uncertain glances, their bravado wavering in the face of the shadows still lingering in the room. Trask studied Valen for a moment longer, then motioned toward the back door.
"Let's talk," he said.
In the dimly lit back room, Trask leaned against a rickety table, his arms crossed. A few of his trusted lieutenants stood behind him, their hands resting on their weapons. Valen remained standing, his posture relaxed but his dark magic coiling faintly around his fingers, a constant reminder of the power he wielded.
"So, let's say I entertain your offer," Trask began. "What exactly do you want from me?"
Valen stepped forward, his voice calm and deliberate. "Your influence in the lower districts. Your network of informants, smugglers, and enforcers. In return, I'll give you what you need to dominate the streets and crush your rivals."
Trask's brow furrowed. "You talk big, but words don't mean squat in this business. What do you actually bring to the table?"
Valen extended his hand, and the shadows surged forward, spreading across the floor like a living tide. They snaked around the room, extinguishing the dim lanterns one by one until only darkness remained.
A cold chill filled the air as Valen's voice echoed through the shadows. "I bring fear. The kind that breaks men before they can even draw their blades. The kind that makes enemies too terrified to act."
As he spoke, the darkness coalesced into shapes—phantoms of twisted, monstrous forms that loomed over the gang members. One of Trask's lieutenants let out a strangled cry, stumbling back against the wall.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the shadows retreated, the lanterns flaring back to life. Valen lowered his hand, his expression impassive.
Trask stared at him, his smirk finally gone. "You've got a flair for the dramatic, I'll give you that. But fear alone won't keep the streets in line. You'll need more than parlor tricks to earn my trust."
Valen met his gaze, his tone unyielding. "Then give me a chance to prove it. Tell me your biggest problem, and I'll solve it. No questions asked."
Trask hesitated, then glanced at one of his lieutenants. The man stepped forward, his voice gruff. "There's a rival gang encroaching on our territory. Calls themselves the Black Hounds. They've been taking over our trade routes, and we've lost three men trying to push them back."
Valen nodded. "Where are they based?"
"An old warehouse near the docks," the lieutenant replied. "Heavily guarded. You'll need an army to take them out."
Valen's smile returned, sharp and predatory. "I don't need an army."
The docks were shrouded in mist as Valen approached the warehouse. The Black Hounds had chosen their base well—isolated, with limited access points. But they hadn't accounted for someone like him.
He crouched in the shadows, observing the guards patrolling the perimeter. There were at least a dozen of them, armed and alert. A lesser man might have hesitated, but Valen felt no fear. The dark magic pulsing through him was a part of him now, and it craved release.
He closed his eyes, reaching out with his power. The shadows around him thickened, spreading like a living fog. One by one, the lanterns along the perimeter flickered out, plunging the area into darkness.
The guards muttered uneasily, their voices carrying through the mist. Valen moved silently, his steps masked by the unnatural stillness of the air.
The first guard didn't even have time to scream. The shadows coiled around his throat, silencing him as they dragged him into the void. The second fell moments later, his blade clattering to the ground.
By the time the remaining guards realized what was happening, it was too late. Valen stepped into the warehouse, his presence announced by the wail of the last guard falling to his knees, his mind shattered by the phantoms Valen had conjured.
Inside, the Black Hounds scrambled to prepare for an attack, their leader barking orders. But their weapons and numbers meant nothing against the tide of darkness that swept through the room.
Valen moved with precision, his shadows striking down his enemies one by one. When the last man fell, he stood alone in the center of the warehouse, surrounded by the lifeless bodies of his foes.
The Black Hounds' leader, a burly man with a cruel sneer, staggered to his feet, clutching a shattered blade. "W-what are you?" he stammered.
Valen's eyes glowed with a faint, eerie light. "Your reckoning."
With a flick of his wrist, the shadows surged forward, engulfing the man and silencing his screams.
By the time Valen returned to the Rusty Pike, dawn was breaking over the city. Trask was waiting for him, his expression guarded.
"It's done," Valen said simply, tossing a bloodstained pendant onto the table—a token he had taken from the Black Hounds' leader.
Trask picked it up, studying it for a moment before looking back at Valen. "I'll admit, I wasn't expecting you to come back. Let alone to succeed."
Valen leaned closer, his voice low and commanding. "This is what I bring to the table, Trask. Power. Fear. Results. Now, do we have an alliance?"
Trask's smirk returned, but there was a hint of respect in his eyes now. He extended his hand. "You've got yourself a deal."
Valen shook his hand, a sense of grim satisfaction settling over him. This was only the first step, but it was a step in the right direction.
As he left the tavern, the shadows at his feet seemed to whisper, urging him onward. His journey was just beginning, and the world would soon learn the name Valen Ravin.