Shadows of Obsidia

Chapter 1

Forged in Shadows

“Survival doesn’t come from strength—it comes from knowing when to strike, and when to fade into the dark.”

Ryn

The air hung thick with the stench of blood and rot. Every breath burned Ryn’s lungs, as if the world itself rejected her existence.

She sat on the edge of a splintered crate, sharpening her blade with slow, deliberate strokes. The whetstone hissed as it kissed steel, a rhythm as steady as her pulse. Around her, chaos ruled.

Two men brawled near the campfire, their fists cracking against bone with wet, meaty sounds. No one intervened. The others watched with mild interest, chewing on dried meat or adjusting their weapons, their laughter harsh and unkind.

Violence was expected here. It wasn’t entertainment—it was survival. The weak got culled. That was the rule.

The firelight flickered across her team’s faces, casting shadows that made them look more like beasts than humans.

Malk, the largest of the group, leaned against a rusted vehicle frame, his muscles taut under his torn shirt as he barked a crude joke to Drayen. The wiry man grinned, his yellowed teeth glinting, but his fingers twitched near his pistol, always on edge. Elra, perched on a low rock, ran her fingers through her dark, matted hair. Her sharp eyes darted between the brawlers and Ryn, a silent question lingering in her gaze.

Karn was closest. He stood a few paces from Ryn, sharpening his own weapon—a jagged machete that had seen too many throats. His presence was a weight she couldn’t ignore, even when he was silent. Especially when he was silent.

“You’re too quiet tonight,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, cutting through the din of the camp.

Ryn didn’t look up from her blade. “And you’re too loud.”

Karn chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that carried a hint of something dangerous. He crouched beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body. His hand brushed hers briefly—not an accident, but not enough to provoke. He liked to play these games, testing her boundaries, always seeing how far he could push before she snapped.

“Maybe you’re thinking too much,” he said, his tone teasing but his gaze sharp. “That’s not like you, Ryn.”

She met his eyes then, her blade pausing mid-stroke. His face was rough, scarred, but there was a fire in his eyes that matched her own. A reminder of the nights they’d spent together, tangled in anger and something rawer, more primal. He tilted his head slightly, waiting for her to say something, to react. She didn’t.

Instead, she slid the whetstone into her belt and stood. The campfire crackled, the wood popping as embers spiraled into the dark sky. The others glanced her way, their conversations faltering for a brief moment. Ryn ignored them. She scanned the camp—what passed for home in a world that had none.

The rebel camp was a scar on the land. Tents made from stitched-together tarps flapped in the sour wind, their edges fraying like the lives within them. Weapons were propped against rocks or stacked haphazardly near supply crates. The air buzzed with the hum of insects, their sound almost as oppressive as the metallic tang of rust and decay that clung to everything.

Beyond the camp’s flickering perimeter, the wilderness stretched into shadows. The Forgotten Ones roamed out there—twisted remnants of humanity, their forms warped by generations of exposure to the regime’s poison. Ryn had killed enough of them to know their guttural screams would haunt her dreams if she ever dared to sleep deeply.

She didn’t.

A sharp laugh cut through the air, pulling her attention back to the campfire. One of the brawlers—Laz, the youngest of the group—had just planted his knee into the other’s gut, sending the man sprawling into the dirt. He raised his arms in mock triumph, blood dripping from his split knuckles.

“Pathetic,” Malk rumbled, his voice as heavy as his frame. “Can’t even knock a kid out clean.”

The defeated man spat blood onto the ground and stumbled to his feet, his glare promising retaliation later. But for now, the fight was over.

“Enough,” Serya’s voice sliced through the noise like a blade.

The camp fell silent.

Ryn turned to see her leader stepping into the firelight, her presence commanding despite her slight frame. AV-10. That was how the regime had labeled her, a designation that now carried whispers of fear across the sectors.

To the rebels, she was more than human. To Ryn, she was both savior and tormentor.

“Get your shit together,” Serya growled, her dark eyes sweeping over the group. “We move at dawn. No mistakes this time.”

Ryn felt the weight of those words settle in her chest. No mistakes. It wasn’t a warning—it was a death sentence.

Serya’s gaze landed on her, lingering for a fraction too long. “Ryn, with me.”

The others glanced between them, their curiosity poorly hidden. Ryn ignored Karn’s smirk as she stepped forward, following Serya toward the edge of the camp. The darkness swallowed them quickly, the campfire’s warmth replaced by the biting chill of the wilderness.

Serya stopped near a cluster of boulders, her silhouette sharp against the pale glow of the moon. She didn’t turn around as she spoke. “Do you trust me, Ryn?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication.

Ryn’s jaw tightened. “You made me what I am.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Ryn hesitated, her mind racing with memories she wished she could forget. The training. The blood. The endless nights of clawing her way to survival while Serya watched with cold detachment. Trust wasn’t a word she understood anymore.

“I trust that you’ll do whatever it takes to win,” Ryn said finally, her voice flat.

Serya turned then, her lips curving into a faint, humorless smile. “Good. That’s all I need.”

She stepped closer, her voice lowering. “The convoy tomorrow is critical. The regime’s been moving supplies faster than we can intercept. If we don’t take this one, the whole sector falls out of our hands.”

Ryn nodded. She didn’t need the reminder. She’d seen what happened to sectors that lost rebel control—whole cities razed, their populations slaughtered or worse.

“You and your team are the spear,” Serya continued. “I don’t care how many of you come back, as long as the convoy doesn’t.”

Ryn’s stomach twisted, though her expression remained stone. She knew better than to argue. Serya’s word was final.

“Yes, Commander,” she said, the title tasting bitter on her tongue.

Serya studied her for a moment longer, then stepped back into the shadows. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

Ryn stood there long after Serya was gone, the cold biting at her skin. The wilderness seemed to close in around her, the trees whispering secrets she didn’t want to hear. Trust. The word echoed in her mind, a foreign concept in a world where betrayal was currency.

She clenched her fists, the scarred leather of her gloves creaking. No mistakes.

The firelight flickered in the distance, a beacon of warmth she didn’t feel. Ryn turned and walked back to the camp, her blade gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

Ryn returned to the campfire, the heat licking at her chilled skin. The others had resumed their usual bickering, the fight already forgotten. It was always like this—arguments were flashes of violence, quick and brutal, but no one held grudges for long. Holding onto anger was a luxury none of them could afford.

Karn was still waiting for her. He’d settled onto the crate she’d abandoned, his machete balanced across his knees. When she stopped a few feet away, he tilted his head, studying her with that smug, familiar smirk.

“Did she tell you how many of us she expects to die tomorrow?” he asked, his voice laced with dry humor.

Ryn dropped onto the rock beside him, her blade resting across her lap. “She doesn’t care, as long as the convoy burns.”

He nodded, unsurprised. “Thought so.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the crackling fire the only sound between them. The camp’s shadows stretched long and thin, licking at the edges of the wilderness.

“You think we’ll make it back this time?” he asked quietly, his tone losing its usual sharpness.

Ryn didn’t answer immediately. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her gaze fixed on the fire. It wasn’t fear that made her hesitate—she’d stopped fearing death years ago. But there was something about the weight of his question that made her chest tighten.

“I don’t think about it,” she said finally.

Karn chuckled softly. “Of course you don’t.”

He shifted closer, his knee brushing against hers. The contact was subtle, almost accidental, but it was enough to make her glance at him. There was something in his expression—a quiet intensity that she rarely saw. Karn, for all his bravado, wasn’t afraid to face the reality of what they were.

“You and I,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “we’ve been through worse, haven’t we?”

Ryn nodded. It wasn’t an empty reassurance. It was the truth. She and Karn had fought side by side for years, through ambushes, raids, and massacres. They’d watched each other bleed, break, and survive. Whatever strange bond they shared, it had been forged in fire and blood.

“We’ll get it done,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze.

Karn smiled—a small, fleeting thing. He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment. Then he stood, his machete swinging back into its sheath.

“Get some sleep, Ryn,” he said, his tone lighter now. “I’d hate to see you lose your edge.”

She smirked faintly. “I’d hate to see you slow me down.”

He laughed, a genuine sound that caught the attention of the others. Laz and Drayen exchanged a look, their curiosity plain, but neither dared to say anything. Karn gave her one last glance before retreating to his tent, leaving Ryn alone with her thoughts.

She stayed by the fire, staring into the embers as the camp settled into uneasy quiet. The sounds of the wilderness grew louder—branches creaking in the wind, distant howls that could’ve been Forgotten Ones or something worse.

Elra approached, her footsteps soft. She crouched beside Ryn, her sharp eyes glinting in the firelight.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” Elra asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Ryn didn’t look at her. “Does it matter?”

Elra sighed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It should.”

Ryn glanced at her then, noting the tightness around her mouth, the faint tremor in her hands. Elra had always been the most stable of the group, the one who held the team together when everything else fell apart. Seeing doubt in her was unsettling.

“It’s what we do,” Ryn said simply.

Elra’s gaze dropped to the ground, her fingers tracing patterns in the dirt. “Sometimes I think about Aylin,” she murmured. “About what it was like when she was still here.”

Ryn’s stomach tightened. Aylin. The fallen leader of the rebels, the one who had once been everything Serya wasn’t—compassionate, fair, human. Ryn had never known her well, but her absence was a wound the camp still carried.

“She’s not coming back,” Ryn said, her voice harder than she intended.

“I know,” Elra said softly. She looked up, her expression weary but determined. “But that doesn’t mean we have to lose everything she stood for.”

Ryn didn’t reply. She didn’t know how.

The fire crackled, sending another plume of sparks into the night. Elra rose, brushing the dirt from her knees. She hesitated, glancing back at Ryn.

“Try to remember who you are, Ryn,” she said quietly. “Not who they made you.”

Ryn watched her retreat, her words lingering like smoke in the air. She clenched her fists, the leather of her gloves creaking.

Who she was? That person had been burned away long ago, replaced by something harder, sharper. A blade honed for killing, nothing more.

As the night deepened, the camp fell silent. The others disappeared into their tents or collapsed near the fire, their weapons always within reach. Ryn stayed where she was, her blade resting against her thigh.

Sleep wouldn’t come. It never did.

Ryn stayed awake as the fire dwindled, her body taut with restless energy. The camp had fallen silent save for the occasional murmur of someone shifting in their sleep.

In the distance, the wilderness stirred—the low groans of bending trees, the faint hum of the toxic winds that curled through the poisoned air. The smell of damp earth mingled with the sharp tang of the surrounding metallic haze.

Her gaze drifted toward the outer edge of the camp, where shadows lingered at the edge of her vision. She knew the wilderlings were out there, watching, waiting. They always were.

Ryn’s grip tightened on her blade as a flicker of movement caught her eye. For a moment, she thought it was one of them, but the figure that emerged from the darkness was too familiar. Karn.

He walked with deliberate steps, quiet but unhurried, and settled himself on the same crate he’d occupied earlier. He didn’t speak at first, letting the silence stretch. His broad shoulders slumped slightly, his usual confidence muted in the dim light.

“You’re still awake,” he said finally, his voice low.

Ryn didn’t look at him. “So are you.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers lingering against the scar that ran across his jaw. “Too quiet tonight.”

She glanced at him, arching a brow. “You think this is quiet?”

He smirked faintly. “Compared to what’s out there?” His gaze flicked toward the forest’s edge. “Yeah, it’s quiet.”

Ryn followed his gaze, her stomach tightening. The Forgotten Ones weren’t killers by nature—never where—but desperation had made them dangerous. The rebels had been hunting wilderlings for years, labeling them threats, but Ryn knew the truth. They were prey, nothing more.

The memory of their last encounter lingered like a bitter taste in her mouth. A village torn apart, its inhabitants scattered into the woods. Serya had called it a “cleansing operation.” Ryn had done her part, as always, her blades cutting through flesh with practiced efficiency. She didn’t think about their faces. She couldn’t afford to.

Karn shifted beside her, his voice breaking the silence. “You think they’ll come tonight?”

She shook her head. “Not after what we did last time. They’re smarter than that.”

His smirk widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Smart enough to stay out of sight, but not smart enough to stay alive.”

Ryn didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. They both knew what tomorrow would bring—more blood, more fire, more bodies left to rot in the poisoned dirt.

A sharp rustling broke the stillness, and both of them froze, hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. The sound came from the direction of the camp’s perimeter, where the makeshift barriers of scrap metal and salvaged wire marked the boundary between safety and chaos.

Ryn rose to her feet, her blade glinting in the faint light. Karn followed, his machete already drawn.

“Wildlings?” he murmured, his tone half-joking but laced with tension.

“Or something worse,” Ryn muttered.

They moved in sync, their steps silent as they approached the perimeter. The others stirred at the movement, murmuring groggily as they reached for their weapons.

Drayen was the first to join them, his rifle slung over his shoulder. “What is it?” he asked, his voice hushed.

Ryn gestured toward the shadows beyond the barriers. “Something’s out there.”

Drayen squinted, his sharp eyes scanning the darkness. “Could be wilderlings. Or the regime.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Karn said, his voice firm. “We take care of it now, or it takes care of us later.”

The three of them moved as a unit, slipping through the gaps in the perimeter and into the woods beyond. The air grew heavier, the toxic mist clinging to their skin like an invisible weight. Ryn’s breath came shallow, her senses sharp as she scanned the underbrush.

The sound came again—a faint, shuffling noise, like dry leaves caught in a gust of wind. Ryn’s grip tightened on her blade, her muscles coiled like a spring.

They found the source near a cluster of gnarled trees, their twisted branches reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. A figure crouched in the shadows, its back to them.

Karn raised his machete, his voice low but commanding. “Step into the light. Now.”

The figure didn’t move.

Drayen leveled his rifle, his finger hovering over the trigger. “Last warning.”

Ryn stepped forward, her blade angled toward the ground. “Wait,” she said, her voice cutting through the tension.

The figure shifted, turning toward them slowly. The moonlight filtered through the trees, illuminating a gaunt face streaked with dirt. It was a Forgotten One—a woman, her hollow eyes wide with fear. She clutched something to her chest, something small and fragile.

A child.

Ryn’s stomach clenched as she took in the sight. The woman’s arms trembled as she held the child close, her body shielding it from the rebels’ weapons.

“Please,” the woman whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t hurt us.”

Karn sneered, his machete lowering slightly. “They always say that. Doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous.”

“She’s not a threat,” Ryn said, her tone sharper than she intended.

Karn shot her a look, his expression unreadable. “You don’t know that.”

Drayen’s rifle didn’t waver, his eyes narrowing. “Orders are orders, Ryn. Serya doesn’t want them anywhere near the camp.”

Ryn felt the weight of their gazes, the unspoken expectation that she would do what needed to be done. She met the woman’s eyes, seeing the fear and desperation etched into her features.

The child whimpered, its tiny hands clutching at the woman’s tattered clothing.

Ryn exhaled slowly, lowering her blade. “We let them go.”

Karn frowned. “That’s not how this works.”

“Then make it work,” Ryn snapped, her voice icy.

Drayen hesitated, his finger twitching on the trigger. “Serya’s not going to like this.”

“She doesn’t have to know,” Ryn said, her gaze never leaving the woman. “Just let them go.”

Karn muttered a curse under his breath but stepped back, his machete returning to his belt. Drayen followed suit, though his expression remained tense.

The woman stared at them, her breath hitching. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

Ryn didn’t respond. She turned away, leading the others back toward the camp.

When they reached the perimeter, Karn grabbed her arm, his grip firm but not aggressive. “You know that’s going to come back to bite us,” he said quietly.

Ryn pulled her arm free, her expression cold. “Maybe. But it’s not biting us tonight.”

Karn watched her for a moment, his jaw tightening. Then he nodded, letting her go.

As they re-entered the camp, Ryn felt the weight of what she’d done settle heavily on her shoulders. The others wouldn’t say anything—not tonight—but she knew the memory of that moment would linger.

She returned to her place by the fire, her blade resting against her knee. Sleep still wouldn’t come, but this time, she didn’t mind.