Echo Shadows

Morning fog still clung to the edges of the village, and a sleepy stillness hung in the air. The world had yet to wake. Through the silence came the soft thud of hooves, as the Echo Shadow's steed carried him through the village's main road, heading for its center—the request board.

Two days prior, he had arrived in this forgotten corner of the land, drawn by a task pinned to the red panel of the board. On the surface, it seemed simple enough: escort a shipment of goods through dangerous roads while ensuring protection from monsters. But the pay—unnaturally generous—carried a shadow of its own. Too generous for such a simple task.

His instincts, sharpened by over a century of battle, whispered caution. Something about the request felt… off. Still, the Echo Shadow had never been the kind to shy away from mystery. He accepted the job without hesitation. Today was the day he would meet the client—perhaps unearth the truth behind the generous offer.

As he passed the board, he glanced at it once more—no new requests. He didn't pause long. His course was already set, leading him to the village's rear gate.

Not far from there stood the stables, and behind them, a cottage—a bit larger than the others, yet similar in its humble design. A small stone path led to its door, flanked by shrubs and scattered wildflowers. A quiet place, yet something about it hummed with purpose.

At the door stood an old man, hair silver and eyes full of quiet wisdom. His posture was straight, his aura one of measured grace. As the Echo Shadow approached, the man smiled and said:

"You're right on time, sir."

The Echo Shadow dismounted with equal poise, returning the smile. "So are you, old one."

He took a step closer. "Shall we discuss the job now?"

The old man nodded. "Of course. But my master prefers to speak with you himself."

The Echo Shadow narrowed his eyes. "Your master?"

In a village like this—barely surviving, barely clinging to order—the idea of masters and servants was… foreign. Most who could afford such things lived in cities far away, where gold could buy convenience. Here, survival came with mud and bruises. A man with a servant? That was like seeing a shadow walk in sunlight. Unnatural.

"Come inside and rest while we wait," the old man said warmly. "Allow me to serve you some hot tea. I hear you're fond of it."

The Echo Shadow gave a quiet laugh and followed him. "You've heard of me?"

"Of course," the man replied as he lit a fire. "'The Echo Shadow Who Loves Tea.' Doesn't quite suit a man in your line of work, but I find it… charming."

The Echo Shadow gave no reply. Only the faintest of smirks.

"Sit, sit," the old man said as he moved about. "Let me brew something to your taste."

The Echo Shadow sat. His eyes followed the old man's every movement, calculating. Then he asked, "You mentioned a master. In a place like this, that's not… common."

The man didn't turn. "It has little to do with the task you were hired for, does it?"

The Echo Shadow chuckled. "No, it doesn't."

The man let out a belly laugh and finally joined him at the table. "Forgive me," he said. "I'm just an old man who enjoys a bit of fun. Truth is simple—I'm at the end of my years. If it weren't for my children, I'd have welcomed death by now. But…"

He looked down, voice softening. "My daughter is ill. Working is the only way I can provide for her. At my age, it's no easy task. But the village merchant took pity on me. Offered me a job. I'm grateful."

But with over a century of experience, the Echo Shadow saw right through him.

The lie didn't matter.

He didn't flinch. Didn't react. Sympathy? Perhaps. But it was distant. Detached.

Everyone lies. Everyone chases their own gain, whether dressed in virtue or cloaked in sin. That was the world. That was its truth. He had accepted it long ago. All he needed was one moment of honesty—one truth that led him closer to his goal. The rest? Noise.

To him, the world was a chessboard. Lies, emotions, distractions—they were wind. And he had learned to breathe in storms.

"This tea is good," he said at last, sipping from the cup. "It's been a while since I had something decent."

"Unfortunately, there isn't much of it around here," the old man sighed.

"Of course, you can't blame people for not loving tea. After a long, tiring day, most would rather drink wine or spend the night with a companion."

"That's... quite the perspective," the Echo Shadow replied with a faint smile, though his thoughts had drifted elsewhere.

"For a moment," the old man said, breaking the silence, "I thought your mind had wandered off completely."

The Echo Shadow smiled again, his gaze flicking subtly toward the door.

He had sensed it—footsteps approaching.

"Your master," the old man said, "he must be near."

"He's already here," the Echo Shadow replied calmly.

And as the words left his lips, the wooden door creaked open, letting in a sudden gust of cold air that sliced through the warmth of the modest cottage like a sharp blade.

Standing at the threshold was a man of short stature, with a rounded belly that seemed to sag toward the earth, and a long white beard that danced in the wind like threads of fabric. His features leaned more toward a dwarf than a human, but his finely tailored silver garments—woven with meticulous craftsmanship—spoke of a status far beyond anything commoners could approach.

The Echo Shadow remained still, his black eyes quiet and unreadable, though within, a flicker of curiosity stirred at the sight of this enigmatic merchant.

"Welcome back, sir," the old man said with a respectful bow, hurrying to his master.

With a practiced motion, he removed the thick silver coat—a garment more suited to braving northern storms than a chilly village morning—and stood ready, awaiting silent instruction.

Without looking back, the man hung his hat on its usual hook and spoke in a voice calm but commanding:

"So, you're the Echo Shadow who accepted our request."

"I haven't accepted anything yet," the Echo Shadow replied, his tone as steady as the years behind him.

Though over a century old, the Echo Shadow had spent most of his life wandering between forsaken villages and the lairs of beasts. From the fine fabrics of the man's clothes to the size of the cottage and the dignified behavior of his servant—every detail screamed of power and influence. Most would have chosen their words carefully before speaking. Some might have bowed.

But not him.