Shadow Slave: The Four Horseman of Deviants

Andrew's boots pounded against the uneven cobblestone, every step echoing through the narrow streets. His breath came quick, ragged, and shallow as his gaze darted between shadows and lamplight, his mind spinning. The faint clang of the patrol station's bell reached his ears, a reminder of how close—and yet how far—his destination still was.

The patrol station loomed ahead, its brick walls washed in the dim glow of a flickering lamppost. Two officers stood just outside, their conversation halted mid-sentence as Andrew bolted past them without stopping.

"Hey! Slow down—" one of them called out, his voice cutting through the air like a bark. But Andrew didn't break stride. His shoulder brushed theirs, the impact barely registering over the thundering of his pulse.

Inside, the station was suffused with muted life. Low voices mingled with the scratch of quills on parchment, and the acrid bite of spilled spirits lingered in the air. Andrew's eyes darted from desk to desk, scanning for the familiar silhouette of the man he needed to find.

There he was—Knight Guard Stallone. Towering near the far wall, his uniform crisp and posture unyielding, the man exuded a calm authority that made him seem untouchable. A neatly folded report occupied his hands, but as Andrew approached, Stallone's head lifted. His sharp gaze locked onto the boy like a predator spotting prey.

"Well," Stallone said, voice cutting through the room's quiet like the crack of a whip. "What's the meaning of this?"

Andrew stumbled to a halt in front of him, his chest heaving. He gripped the edge of the nearest desk for support. "It's Demitra," he managed between gulps of air. "I overheard him."

Stallone's face hardened, the name striking like a hammer blow. He set the report down with deliberate care, crossing his arms. "Go on."

Andrew swallowed the lump in his throat. "He was at an underground market," he started, his words tumbling out in uneven bursts. "Talking to two guys. Sounded like… some kind of deal. Illegal, definitely illegal. But he saw me. I—I barely got away."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Stallone's jaw tightened, his expression carved from stone. "And now he knows you know." His words were more statement than question.

Andrew nodded, the weight of it dragging his gaze to the floor. "If I'd been a second slower—"

"You wouldn't be here," Stallone finished, his voice low. He turned toward the weapons rack, his boots clicking softly against the stone. He selected a longsword, running a gloved thumb along the edge as though testing its sharpness. "This changes things."

Andrew straightened, his hands clenching into fists. "What do we do? You can stop him, right? You're the Knight Guard."

Stallone turned back to him, the sword resting in one hand, his face shadowed by the room's dim light. "Stopping him isn't the problem. Proving it is. If what you're saying is true, Demitra's not working alone. This won't end with one arrest."

Andrew's stomach twisted. "So, you don't believe me."

Stallone stepped closer, his towering presence forcing Andrew to tilt his head back. "I believe you're scared. But I don't make moves based on fear alone. Without evidence, any action I take puts my men—and this station—at risk."

Andrew's jaw tightened. His shoulders rose as frustration flared. But he held his tongue. Stallone was right. They needed more.

The Knight Guard tapped the pommel of his sword against the floor, the sharp clang silencing Andrew's unspoken thoughts. "I'll look into this underground market. If your story checks out, we'll take the next step. But for now, no more sneaking around. No more getting into trouble."

Andrew's gaze dropped to his feet, anger bubbling under his skin. 

"I wasn't looking for trouble," he muttered. 

"I didn't expect to get caught off guard by that bastard. Let me help out, I know how to handle myself." 

Stallone didn't respond immediately. Instead, he walked back to the wall, returning the sword and pulling a crossbow from a rack. He turned, holding the weapon out to Andrew. 

"You say you can handle yourself? Prove it. I'll let you help from a distance. Safer that way."

Andrew inspected the weapon, looking at the machinations of the crossbow. 

'It ain't a gun but I guess can use this'. Andrew thought. 

"Yeah, I can use this."

Stallone's lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but the moment passed. "Good. Keep up, and you'll be more help than trouble. But one mistake..." He left the threat hanging in the air, heavy and undeniable.

Andrew nodded, gripping the crossbow tightly. He wasn't just going to sit this one out.

…..

The streets were quieter now, the heavy tension hanging in the air. Andrew followed Stallone through the winding alleys leading to Demitra's supposed hideout. His muscles tensed with every step, the weight of the crossbow slung over his shoulder feeling heavier than it should.

The small hut came into view, a modest structure tucked between shadowed alleys. Stallone raised a hand, signaling Andrew to stop.

"Is this it?" Stallone whispered. His eyes scanned the area, calculating. 

Andrew nodded.

"Then, stay behind me." 

Andrew gripped the crossbow tighter. He stayed low, his heartbeat loud in his ears as Stallone approached the hut's door. The faint glow of a lantern inside cast jagged shadows through the gaps in the wooden planks.

Stallone tapped on the door with deliberate force. "Knight Guard. Open up."

Silence.

A bead of sweat rolled down Andrew's temple as he readied himself, he remained stern, his finger hovering near the trigger. Stallone tapped again, harder this time.

When no answer came, Stallone glanced at Andrew and nodded. With a swift kick, the door flew open.

Inside, the room was bare, save for a cot in the corner and a table littered with mundane items—a half-empty bottle of ale, a rusted dagger, and a stack of what looked like harmless merchant records.

Andrew stepped in cautiously, his gaze darting around. 

"He's not here," he muttered.

Stallone bent down, inspecting the papers. 

"No sign of a struggle. He cleared out fast."

Andrew clenched his jaw, frustration simmering beneath the surface. This wasn't just a lead gone cold—this was Demitra staying two steps ahead.

…..

The air in the tunnels was stifling, the damp stone walls glowing faintly under flickering torches. The merchants had set up their stalls with precision—each space organized, filled with clean, mundane wares. 

Andrew's eyes scanned the rows of tools, trinkets, and standard weapons. It was all too neat. Too normal. 

"This place has been cleaned," Stallone said, his tone low and measured. His gaze swept across the market, catching every glance that lingered too long on them. "They knew we were coming." 

Andrew didn't reply immediately, his mind focused elsewhere. He noticed the way some stalls seemed deliberately sparse, spaces where larger items might have been hastily removed. His fingers brushed the hilt of his crossbow as he moved past a merchant selling ordinary-looking swords. 

His voice came out sharper than intended. "They're hiding something." 

The merchant, a wiry man with sunken cheeks, looked up from polishing a blade.

"Hiding something?" He laughed nervously, his accent thick. "Don't know what you're on about. Just a simple man selling simple goods." 

Andrew's dark eyes locked onto the man, who immediately stopped laughing. 

"Lad..." Stallone's warning tone made him glance sideways. The Knight Guard's face was impassive, but there was steel behind his words. "Not now." 

Andrew straightened, taking a step back without a word. His gaze swept across the dimly lit market again. His instincts whispered that the real filth wasn't gone—it was just out of sight. 

Stallone leaned closer, speaking quietly enough that only Andrew could hear. 

"You're tense. Focus. Our objective is Demitra, not the market. Don't waste energy on distractions." 

Andrew's jaw tightened, but he gave a short nod. 

They pressed deeper into the market, moving past the more active stalls. Most merchants avoided eye contact, their movements stiff, feigned. A man selling rope glanced their way, his hand twitching toward the edge of his table. Andrew didn't miss the barely visible rune etched into the wood—an emergency signal, no doubt. 

He shot Stallone a sidelong look. "They're nervous." 

"They should be," Stallone replied. His expression didn't waver, but Andrew noticed the subtle shift in his posture—his hand hovering closer to his sword. "But they're not going to give us Demitra unless we press harder. If we don't move fast, we'll lose him." 

Andrew didn't respond, his focus narrowing. His eyes landed briefly on a hidden passageway partially concealed by a stack of crates. The sound of muffled voices echoed faintly, just barely audible over the hum of the market. 

"We're running out of time," Stallone muttered. 

Andrew exhaled slowly, forcing his frustration down. He knew Stallone was right. They weren't here to clean up the market or rescue slaves or whatever else had been hidden away.

...

They eventually stumbled upon a tip from one of the more nervous sellers—a name whispered with fear.

"Gallagher," the seller said, glancing around as if expecting someone to slit his throat for speaking. "He's been running things for Governor Mayers. If you're looking for Demitra, that's your trail."

Andrew exchanged a look with Stallone. The connection was too perfect to ignore. Mayers and Demitra, tied together through Demitra?

Stallone's brow furrowed, his voice low. "This goes deeper than I thought, the governor operating in the darkness—he must be plotting something big." 

Andrew's jaw tightened. His mind raced—not with fear, but with the beginnings of a plan. Gallagher was part of Mayers' operation. Taking him out would cripple them both.

But Stallone was still a problem. How was Andrew supposed to act with the Knight Guard breathing down his neck?

Stallone spoke again, his tone laced with authority.

"If Gallagher and the governor are involved, then, we must make haste."