Shadows Unveiled, page 1
Shadows Unveiled
The League of Shadows & Roses Saga
Book Three
Isadora Brown
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Newsletter Information
Did You Like Shadows Unveiled?
Acknowledgments
One
Don’t die.
That was all Jeremy said to me before he disappeared into the mist.
No speech. No pep talk. Just two words.
It was Initiation Day. Or as the upper ranks liked to call it—The Culling.
Didn’t matter what name they slapped on it. The meaning was the same.
Make it up the mountain… or don’t come back down.
This wasn’t like the warrior training I’d done as a kid. That had rules. Structure. Teachers who didn’t actively hope you failed. This—this was designed to break you. To make you bleed before it made you better.
Or bury you where you stood.
I had no backup plan.
No way out.
So I stood at the foot of the mountain, rain slicing down like knives from a gray, unforgiving sky. My clothes were soaked through, heavy on my skin. Water dripped from my lashes, but I didn’t blink it away.
Around me, hundreds of recruits waited in tense silence—bodies close, but minds far from comfort. Some were built like soldiers, all bulk and brute strength. Others were shadows in human skin, lean and wiry, probably fast enough to vanish before you ever saw the blade.
But we all wanted the same thing.
To survive.
My boots squelched in the churned mud as I shifted my stance. Every inch of me was tense—ready, but not really. How could anyone be ready for this?
I looked down at my soaked gear; the straps digging into my shoulders and tried to slow my breathing. My heart wasn’t listening.
It was hammering against my ribs like it wanted out.
I had trained for this. Or something close to this. But nothing—not the hours of drills, the pain, the lectures—could prepare you for a mountain that wanted to kill you. For an exam designed by people who enjoyed watching you fail.
The fog curled over the cliffs above like claws.
They said only the strongest made it to the top.
They said the mountain didn’t care who you were—only who you became on the way up.
I wasn’t sure who I’d be by the time I reached it.
If I reached it.
The rain didn’t stop. It only made the silence louder.
No signal. No whistle. No speech.
Just the tension—coiled and trembling—waiting to snap.
And I knew, deep in my bones, that when it did—
Everything would change.
“Is that her?” one of them whispered, voice barely louder than the rain hammering down around us.
“Where?”
“Don’t look, dumbass.”
A beat.
“Oh yeah,” the second one breathed, a flicker of awe in his tone. “You could spot that hair anywhere. Bright as the damn sun.”
“Why the hell is she here?”
The second recruit scoffed, low and smug. “Doesn’t matter why. She’s going to be my first kill.”
A chill raced down my spine—one that had nothing to do with the cold. I kept my face blank, adjusting my backpack like I hadn’t heard a word.
But I had.
Every syllable.
“You’re not actually serious,” the first one muttered, sounding more cautious now. “Right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? First week of initiation is fair game. They want us thinning the herd. You take out someone early, it just saves the instructors the trouble.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, hard. This wasn’t the time. Not yet.
“And she’s a weak link,” the second continued. “She shouldn’t be here. Everyone knows she only made it this far because of her name. Her story.”
A pause.
“You do know who trained her, right?” the first one asked, his voice dropping. “Takashi Okami.”
The second one hesitated. “S-so?”
That little hitch in his voice said everything.
The first recruit snorted. “Exactly. You’re already stuttering.”
“I heard he hated her,” the second said, recovering his edge. “Word is, when she killed the Harbinger and ran away like the fucking coward she is, his wife died and he blamed her for it. Some people say it broke him.”
“That’s a reach,” the first muttered. “Even if he does blame her, it doesn’t make it true. And if she’s the one who took out the Harbinger, what do you think she’ll do to a recruit with something to prove?”
Their voices faded as they moved ahead, but the weight of their words stayed behind, pressing against my chest like a blade against skin.
I’d known my past would follow me here.
I just didn’t think it would be aimed at my back this soon.
The mention of Okami and the Harbinger cracked something in me. The memories surged before I could stop them—blood, fire, his hands on mine, that final look in his eyes.
They didn’t know the truth.
They only knew the myth.
And that made me dangerous.
But it also made me a target.
I shook my head hard, banishing the ghosts clawing at the edges of my mind.
Not now.
Survival was the only thing that mattered. And if someone was going to kill me during Initiation, it wouldn’t be some half-trained recruit with shaky hands and something to prove.
It’d be him.
Okami.
He probably hated that he was back here—hated even more that he was stuck as my sensei again. He hadn’t taken on a student since Bastian. Not since the fire. Not since the blood.
And I hadn’t seen him for days. Thank the stars.
Okami was a storm wrapped in silence. Unreadable. Unforgiving. Every time he looked at me, it felt like I was made of glass—like he was deciding whether to shatter me or not. Every encounter with him left me raw, shaken, questioning things I couldn’t afford to question.
I couldn’t afford him.
The mountain ahead loomed like a judge, its jagged spine vanishing into mist. The rain hadn’t let up—cold needles slicing through my clothes, mixing with the mud, the blood, the quiet panic vibrating under everyone’s skin. The air smelled of wet stone and fear.
I rocked back and forth to stay warm, my arms wrapped tight around my torso. Kiri’s winter had come early this year, and it was already biting.
I inhaled. Held it. Released it slow.
Focus.
The horn sounded—low and brutal—ripping through the quiet like a war cry.
The climb had begun.
A rush of movement followed. No speeches. No starting gun. Just bodies surging forward, boots slipping in the mud, eyes on the path ahead.
I moved with them.
Not fast. Not slow.
Controlled.
I kept my eyes sharp, watching how the terrain shifted, how the rocks slicked under pressure, how recruits stumbled, hesitated, fell. One misstep could take you out before you ever saw the top.
I didn’t have the luxury of careless mistakes.
Up ahead, the incline worsened. The path narrowed, forcing people into single-file lines. Some pushed. Others fell back. I scanned the ridge.
To the right—a ledge.
Thinner. More dangerous. But faster.
I hesitated. Just long enough to know it was stupid.
Then I veered off the main path, boots crunching into gravel as I balanced along the edge.
My heart pounded. One wrong move and I’d be another body swallowed by the mist.
But I didn’t falter.
This was what I was trained for.
Halfway up, the ledge cut off under a jagged overhang. The others ahead were scrambling, clawing their way up with shaky limbs and panicked breath.
I didn’t follow.
I crouched low, scanned the rock face, and found it—a narrow crevice. Barely a handhold, but enough.
I slipped my fingers in, braced, and swung my body out over the drop.
The mountain held its breath.
And then I landed clean on the other side.
A sharp inhale. A quiet exhale.
Graceful. Clean. Precise.
I allowed myself the smallest smirk.
Let them chase shadows.
I’d already started climbing through them.
The closer I got to the summit, the louder the wind screamed—howling through the peaks like it wanted to drag me off the mountain and rip me apart midair.
I crouched lower, center of gravity tight, moving with the gusts instead of fighting them. I studied how the wind tunneled through the ridges, how it twisted around the rocks like a living thing. It was less climbing now and more surviving—timing each movement like a breath, syncing my body to the rhythm of the storm.
It was instinct.
It was war.
And I refused to lose.
The rain picked up—merciless now. Sheets of water turned the path to sludge, a treacherous river of mud beneath my boots. Each step sank deeper. Slower. Riskier. The incline sharpened, and my balance slipped with it.
Then—suddenly—my foot skidded out from under me.
The world tilted.
I fell.
“Fuck!”
The curse vanished into a thunderclap, swallowed whole by the sky.
I hit hard, my body sliding, hands clawing at nothing. Cold panic spiked through me as the edge neared, rushing closer like an open mouth ready to swallow me whole.
At the last second, my fingers caught a jagged outcrop. Barely.
The rain made it slick. My grip wobbled.
Below me—nothing but fog and death.
I froze.
Just for a second.
Heart hammering. Muscles locked.
So close.
But fear would kill me faster than gravity.
I clenched my teeth and pulled. My arms screamed in protest, my shoulders burning as I fought my way up inch by inch, digging into the stone like it owed me a second chance.
Slipping wasn’t an option.
Falling wasn’t an option.
With a final surge, I threw myself over the edge and collapsed onto the path, back pressed to the cold mud, gasping for air like it had been stolen from my lungs.
The rain pelted my face. The sky above was nothing but black and storm and fury.
I didn’t cry.
Didn’t shake.
I just breathed.
Slowly, I pushed myself upright, arms trembling. Bruises bloomed beneath my clothes. My palms were scraped raw.
But I was still here.
I looked up at the path ahead—slick rock, steep incline, shadowed summit—and I didn’t let it win. Not even for a second.
One deep breath.
And I started moving again.
Every step burned. Every breath hurt.
But I climbed.
And climbed.
And climbed.
Then—
A scream ripped through the storm.
Not a stumble.
Not a grunt.
A scream—raw and high and full of terror.
I stopped.
Turned.
And felt my blood run cold.
Someone had gone over the edge.
Or been pushed.
My stomach twisted, bile rising before I could stop it.
I turned and threw up into the mud.
The sound was swallowed by the storm, but the shame sat heavy in my chest, anyway. Not because I was weak—but because I was human. And this place… this process—it was anything but.
How many bodies were already littering the base of the mountain? How many names would never be remembered because they slipped on a rock or were pushed by someone eager to climb faster?
I wiped my mouth, wiped my thoughts, and forced myself upright.
Keep moving.
Don’t look back.
But then—
A scream.
Not the kind from a fall. This was different. It was reaching, desperate.
Someone calling for help.
I froze.
Logic said keep going. Don’t draw attention. Don’t give them a reason to remember your face.
So far, no one had tried to take me out. I was a myth in the fog—better that way.
Another cry—sharper this time. Pleading.
I clenched my jaw. Every instinct screamed at me to leave it. But the sound of it… I couldn’t ignore it.
“Shit,” I muttered, already turning back.
The path twisted into a sharp bend, slick with rain and runoff. As I crept around it, I slowed—quiet steps, low center, eyes sharp.
Then I saw them.
Three of them—boys, older maybe, or just bigger. Circling a girl like wolves. Her dark hair clung to her face; her clothes soaked through. One of them had her by the collar, holding her out over the ledge like she was nothing.
She dangled, trembling from more than just cold.
They were laughing.
Taunting.
He was going to drop her.
“Pull her back,” I said, my voice clear. Stronger than I felt.
None of them even flinched. They just kept laughing—oblivious or indifferent.
I stepped forward, louder now. “I said pull her back.”
This time they stopped.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward me, and I felt it—the shift in the air.
The one holding the girl sneered. “Well, well, well… look what we have here, boys.”
He hauled the girl closer, like a trophy.
“It’s the Sunflower Widow herself.”
The nickname hit like a slap, but I didn’t flinch.
His eyes raked over me, slow and deliberate, trying to intimidate.
“Didn’t expect you to be so… delicate up close.”
I didn’t blink. “Didn’t expect you to be so small.”
That wiped the smirk off his face.
“Pull her back,” I said for the third time, my tone flat, refusing to bite at his smug little game.
He smiled.
Smirked, really.
But then—to my surprise—he obeyed.
The girl’s boots hit the ground with a squelch. She stumbled, breathing hard, and for a heartbeat I thought it was over.
Then he leaned in and kissed her cheek.
“You good, Liv?” he asked casually. Like they were old friends sharing a joke.
I blinked. What?
The girl straightened slowly, dark hair plastered to her face, and turned that smirk on me.
“See?” she said sweetly. “Told you it would work. She hears a cry, and her bleeding heart just has to play hero.” She took a step forward. “Now we can get rid of her.”
The chill that ran down my spine had nothing to do with the cold.
It was a trap.
I’d walked into it.
No—I’d run straight into it, sword sheathed and heart wide open.
My eyes flicked to the side, scanning.
Two options.
A narrow ledge to the right—barely wide enough for a foot and slick with rain. Dangerous, but winding. Could buy me time.
Or the steep incline above—crumbling rock, loose footing, but a chance to gain higher ground if I moved fast enough.
Behind me: four predators.
In front of me: two risks.
But staying here?
Death.
The leader took a step forward, dragging a blade from his belt like he was unsheathing a promise.
“Don’t even think about running, Sunflower Widow,” he said, voice oily with contempt. “You’re not stupid. You can see it—we’ve got you boxed in.”
I didn’t answer.
I just let the nickname hang in the air between us, bitter and heavy like blood on the tongue.
He thought I was trapped.
Good.
Let him.
Because if they were smart, they wouldn’t be cornering me.
Two
With nowhere left to run, I squared my shoulders and faced him head-on.
He was stronger. More experienced. His Dojo crackled in the air like a storm waiting to snap. Mine? Barely a spark on its best day.
But I had something he didn’t.
I didn’t know how to quit.
He lunged.
I ducked left—barely avoiding his grip—and felt the static charge of his power singe the space I’d just occupied. My own Dojo flared weakly in response, trying to form a barrier.
It fizzled.
He laughed—short, cruel.
“Pathetic.”
I shifted tactics. Dojo wasn’t going to save me.
But my fists might.
I feinted left again, then pivoted and drove my fist into his jaw.
