《Tales From The Beyond》


 The Night Lounge

    The Night Lounge


    Ting!


    Riddian tapped his glass impatiently, ringing off a high pitched chime as he did. He raised an eyebrow, what a curiously perfect sound. The glass seemed unusually clear and pristine sounding compared to those he was accustomed to. Look at the way it manipulated the light, what was this made of?


    Ting!


    He raised the glass to his face, studying it and rotating the stem slowly between his fingers before placing it down with a sigh. He was nervous.


    Riddian had hosted multiple meetings like this, in much more¡­ questionable settings, and yet this time something felt different. Most likely it was due to the curt responses he had received to his invitations.


    The Xu Shi ambassador, Yomei¡¯Saash Yomei was always present for these meetings. A man who, Riddian was sure, memorised quotes before their meetings, simply to seem the wisest at the table.


    During their previous meeting, Yomei had chastised Riddian, saying ¡°information should be exchanged directly, lest we dally with needless chicanery¡±.


    Riddian grimaced, recalling the memory. Who spoke like that?


    Yomei would usually take a back seat during the meetings and allow others to speak instead. He tended to make Riddian uneasy, others were easier to read, but there was something about the Shi¡¯an man that would make you keep talking just to fill the silence, or until you finally say something he wanted to hear, incriminating yourself in the process. One could never be too certain where they stood with Yomei, and at the end of a meeting with him, Riddian often felt exhausted.


    The Loom, fluid as always, were to be represented by their latest emissary, a stout tan skinned man by the name of Bahadri.


    Bahadri was brash, impatient and oftentimes plain rude. Riddian couldn¡¯t stand his meetings with him, but it couldn¡¯t be helped. In the three years since The Loom had contacted Riddian, they had sent multiple emissaries. Bahadri currently wore the crown for being the most insufferable of them, without contest.


    The Night Lounge was the height of exclusivity. You didn¡¯t just need connections to gain membership, your connections needed connections, and your pockets needed to be lined with more than gold. It had been said that The Lounge had once refused membership to His Majesty, The King himself, though Riddian wasn¡¯t sure how much he believed that.


    However, if ever one found themselves in the city needing to conduct business of a sensitive nature - and they filled the correct prerequisites - then The Night Lounge would be more than happy to accommodate, for a fee of course.


    You can¡¯t put a price on being too cautious, but evidently The Night Lounge can, and seventh hell if it isn''t a hefty one.


    Riddian was seated in a secluded part of the Lounge, toward the back. Several head-sized orbs floated soundlessly in the air, like taciturn observers providing dim lighting across the Lounge. Their light was warm and of a tone that encouraged relaxation and anonymity. If one wanted to be clearly seen, they could beckon the orbs over with a gesture, and they would silently hover toward the table. If more privacy was needed, then the orbs could be dismissed, returning to their muted vigil at the edges of the room.


    He inhaled deeply, allowing his nostrils to gorge on the sweet sickleberry aromas that permeated in the air, filling his mind with non-existent memories of a childhood spent frolicking in a vineyard.


    Occupying the Lounge was a thick cloud of purple hued smoke that hung lazily at around chest height, edging along like a slow winding serpent, skulking lazily through the room.


    The walls were adorned with long purple drapes that seemed to call out to you, inviting you to melt within their soft silky folds, which sat underneath a tessellated ceiling of warped mirrors, meticulously placed so that no matter which angle you looked at them, a table¡¯s contents would remain a mystery to any prying eyes.


    There was music playing, but nothing of the sort that might distract you from your conversations. Riddian smiled inwardly, his Thord referred to it as ¡®furniture music¡¯, which was an oddly apt description from the usually bumbling youth.


    As his eyes wandered around the room, Riddian¡¯s gaze inevitably fell upon the serving woman. She was breathtaking, most women of The Night Lounge were, but this one, she was something else entirely.


    Yomei was the first to arrive, the Shi¡¯an being punctual as always. His dark yellow robes hung begrudgingly onto his thin frame, as if they resented how hard they had to work to stay clung to the body. Riddian often thought Yomei looked older than he was, mainly due to how gaunt his appearance made him seem. His long silver hair, smooth and shiny like silk, was tied up by two thin sticks into a neat bun. A rare sight in the modern society of Xu Shi, the hairstyle was intrinsically tied to Shi¡¯an monks of generations past, however Yomei adopting this style would have reason, as he was no monk. If Riddian had to guess, it was likely an attempt to exude authority.


    Yomei stood by the door, his hands together in front of him, obscured by the long sleeves of his robes, bowed toward the serving woman. She escorted him into the large room then politely gestured toward where Riddian was sitting.


    Riddian stood to greet Yomei and spotted Bahadri being directed to the corner by the same serving woman.


    Bahadri was wearing his usual ridiculous attire. His outfit seemed to be a mix between Western naval uniform and a flamboyant headpiece. For this meeting, Bahadri was sporting a large white tricorn, adorned with an absurd pink feather jutting out the side with about as much grace as a pregnant Snarltusk.


    Riddian reached out, extending his hand.


    ¡°Ah, Lord Yomei.¡± He said, with a short bow of his head. ¡°Such a pleasure as always. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting on such short notice.¡±


    Yomei looked Riddian over with a non-commital gaze. ¡°Good evening Riddian, may Ji-Quah bless you.¡±


    Riddian getsured in front of himself, ¡°Please take a seat, I have not long arrived myself, I am yet to call upon the servers.¡±


    As the two sat, Bahadri ambled his way over clumsily. The serving woman¡¯s eyes followed him. Third hell, what had the blubbering fool said to her. Riddian would have to apologise for his oafish behaviour.


    Bahadri didn¡¯t bother with formalities, instead seating himself between Riddian and Yomei.


    ¡°Mah-tuluq, I look forward to hearing why a meeting was called with such urgency, apcha.¡±


    Bahadri¡¯s voice was heavily accented with a dialect Riddian was unfamiliar with, and he inserted native words into his sentences that didn''t always feel like they were entirely necessary.


    ¡°Master Bahadri, good evening.¡± Riddian said, his face contorting reluctantly into a welcoming smile.


    ¡°I was just explaining to Master Yomei that I have not long arrived myself. The serving staff will see to us shortly.¡±


    Yomei did not acknowledge Bahadri, his gaze had stayed trained on Riddian like a hound watching a slab of meat.


    While Bahardi shuffled around in his seat, Riddian waited for Yomei to speak.


    ¡°Riddian, my masters on the Shi¡¯an council did not care for the manner in which your message was delivered. We must remind you to pursue subtlety in these matters.¡± His voice quietly hissing the last words.


    Riddian raised his hands slightly in subservience. ¡°Of course My Lord, I can only apologise.¡± He then leaned forward, lacing his fingers together on the table. ¡° I have come directly from The Peninsula, having to cut through The Strangeways itself to be here.¡± He punctuated this with a wide gesture of his hand. ¡°Please understand my Lords, an Epistle Knight was all that was available to me to get the message to you in time.¡±


    Bahadri almost jumped out of his seat. ¡°An Epistle Knight?! Eighth Hell, why didn¡¯t you just bellow from the town hall for all the privacy it would ensure.¡± The stocky man¡¯s face was beginning to redden.


    Riddian tensed slightly. ¡°Master Bahadri, I can assure you I had no choice. In any case, do not forget, Epistle Knights are sworn to duty and upholding secrecy is one of their primary tenets.¡± He shouldn¡¯t have to explain himself to this brash fool. Bahadri was too unpredictable. Why would The Loom choose a man such as this to represent their interests?


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    Yomei waved a hand dismissively. ¡°Let us hear him out, Bahadri.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Lord Yomei.¡± Riddian inhaled deeply. ¡°I shall keep this brief so you can return to your masters. Last night, I received word from two different spies based in The Peninsula, that The Guardian is residing there.¡±


    The mood around the table changed immediately.


    ¡°You are certain?!¡± Yomei¡¯s composed demeanour dissipating almost instantly.


    ¡°I am.¡± Riddian nodded.


    Yomei had leaned so close to the table he looked as if he was about to clamber over the thing. His voice coming out in a raspy whisper. ¡°Where?¡±


    ¡°Along the southern border. A small village by the name of Wendrell.¡±


    Bahadri looked up in thought. ¡°Wendrell? Like the explorer, apcha?¡±


    ¡°Like the explorer.¡± Riddian confirmed. He could feel his control over the conversation starting to seep through. This was where he excelled. This was the political force that could verbally spar with any opponent.


    ¡°Yes, I am familiar with it.¡± Yomei sat back, regaining the majority of his composure. He gestured for Riddian to continue.


    He had them now. Both men¡¯s eyes were transfixed upon him, holding onto his every movement. He drank it in for a moment.


    In the corner of his eye, Riddian spotted the serving woman standing patiently beside a long, expensive looking bar. It was crafted from some type of dark stone, laced with golden trimmings. The craftsmanship seemed almost too perfect. He made brief eye contact with the serving woman, keenly observing for any time of signal, and she approached.


    Riddian used this inevitable interruption to continue. ¡°Wendrell is surrounded by steep mountai- Aah, hello there.¡± He cut off, sitting back in his chair and greeting the serving woman.


    ¡°Welcome to The Night Lounge, gentlemen.¡± She said in a voice just as sweet as her. ¡°Are there any drinks or other delights I can arrange for you tonight?¡±


    Yomei inhaled slowly, visibly annoyed by the interruption. ¡°Spirit Bloom, if you please.¡±


    Riddian smiled at the serving woman. ¡°No, thank you. I¡¯m fine.¡±


    ¡°Fireside. But leave out the ice. You people don¡¯t drink it properly here.¡± Bahadri barked, causing Riddian to swallow his frustration. He just couldn¡¯t resist making a show of it.


    ¡°Of course. I shall be right back with your drinks.¡± The serving woman bowed her head slightly and weaved away gracefully, her hips moving with a fluidity to them that reminded Riddian of ocean waves. His eyes remained fixed on her as she withdrew.


    ¡°Please, Riddian. As you were.¡± Yomei said, snapping Riddian¡¯s attention back to the table.


    ¡°Wendrell.¡± He started. ¡°Wendrell is surrounded by a range of steep mountains that have made exploration and settling in them near enough impossible. However,¡± He raised a pointed finger upward, ¡°there is a monastery up there. A monastery which is only visible when there is no moon and the stars are at their brightest.¡±


    ¡°Come now.¡± Yomei sighed, rolling his eyes back ever so slightly.


    ¡°Think Yomei. Think of all we know of The Guardian¡¯s monasteries. We know he travels between them, rotating during different periods of the year. We know he is at this monastery right now! Both my spies have witnessed it with their own eyes.¡± Riddian jabbed the table with a finger, emphasising the last two words.


    ¡°But¡­ you haven¡¯t, apcha?¡± Bahadri said quietly. Riddian was almost taken back by the sudden intensity painted on the man¡¯s face. He had never seen Bahadri take anything seriously before.


    He was close. They were invested, but still doubted. He just needed one more move to complete his play.


    Riddian sighed loudly, throwing up his shoulders. ¡°No. I¡­ No, I haven¡¯t yet. In my haste to act on the information I contacted you both straight away. Think on this though, we know where The Guardian is, right now. Right now!¡±


    ¡°We know this how, Riddian?¡± Yomei said flatly. ¡°Your spies you speak of, how have they confirmed this and what makes you so quick to believe them?¡±


    Perfect! There it was.


    Riddian painted on an innocent face as he leaned underneath the table, retrieving an object cupped within both hands, wrapped carefully in a heavy brown leather. The faintest of golden glows emanated from the object, like a tiny sunrise fighting to be freed.


    ¡°This.¡± He said, peeling open the sack, allowing bright golden light to burst free from its restraints. Within was a small rock, no bigger than Riddian¡¯s fist. It glowed with a gentle golden aura, pulsing waves of radiance over Riddian¡¯s clutching fingers.


    ¡°Take a look.¡± He said, presenting it to the centre of the table. ¡°This was chipped from the walls of the monastery itself. Gentlemen¡­ this is what they call Suncore.¡±


    ¡°Seventh Hell. It¡¯s¡­ it''s so beautiful.¡± Bahadri whispered in awe.


    Yomei sat in stunned silence, eyes wide at the beautiful object before him, golden rays reflecting playfully off his sunken eyes. The Riddian fought with the intensity of a man on a battlefield not to plaster his face with his biggest, smuggest, grin. Spying the serving woman across the room making her way back toward the table, Riddian snapped the Suncore back into its pouch.


    ¡°Gentlemen, this is what we have been waiting for. We must act now.¡±


    ¡°What do-¡± Bahardi started.


    ¡°Heeeere we go, one Fireside. One Spirit Bloom, and a jug of water for the table.¡± She placed the drinks down on the table and wiggled her fingers, ¡°Wave if you need me.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, thank you.¡± Bahadri gruffed, frustrated by the interruption. Yomei¡¯s eyes followed the serving woman before turning back to Riddian, raising an eyebrow.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry,¡± He said, shaking his head. ¡°We do not need to concern ourselves with the staff here. I should imagine they have seen secrets that we could only conjure up in stories and dreams.¡±


    Yomei relaxed slightly. ¡°What are you proposing we do?¡±


    ¡°Well, The Guardian always needs rest after his travels. We know this. Sources in Wendrell say that he arrived within the last few days to recover. This may be the best opportunity we get, I reiterate, we have to act now.¡±


    The table fell silent.


    ¡°No.¡± Bahadri murmured, breaking the silence. ¡°We will not act in haste on this, like an impatient child. That is not how The Loom operates, and you know this. We need information, apcha, we need details. Suncore is good, but it''s only a start.¡±


    Riddian took a moment. Was everything he knew about Bahadri an act? He had never seen the man so composed and, most concerning of all, intense.


    ¡°Very well.¡± Riddian said, weighing his words. ¡°Might I suggest we arrange a joint scouting effort within the next few hours. I assume you can both arrange for parties to meet in Wendrell and conduct reconnaissance with my spies?¡±


    ¡°Yes, I will send some of my Renegades there as soon as we finish here.¡± Yomei said nodding and bringing the glass of Spirit Bloom to his lips.


    ¡°I will require maps of Wendrell. How far is the region from here?¡± Bahadri asked, narrowing his eyes in thought.


    Riddian turned to him, gesturing with his hands. ¡°It depends, Master Bahadri. If you take The Strangeways, you will be there by the time the sun is at its highest. If you do not, I should imagine late evening. There is still no moon, so we should be able to operate around the monastery with it being visible.¡±


    ¡°I have means of travel beyond your world¡¯s primitive measures! Do not worry.¡± Bahadri replied dismissively.


    The men were silent for a moment, before Yomei finally rose to his feet. ¡°Riddian, I have heard all I need to. You have indeed brought us fortuitous news and we shall seek to act on it. I must commend you on thinking creatively in this matter, as it has clearly yielded some excellent results. Do remember however, sloppy measures such as the use of Epistle Knights for contact will no longer be tolerated. You have risen to a great position of power and your influence across this continent is second to none, but Riddian, I would be remiss not to remind you that your place within this committee can and will be revoked if you do not adhere to simple procedure. Good evening.¡± Riddian had been waiting for that. No matter what he brought to the table, Yomei would find a way to remind Riddian of his position.


    ¡°I understand, Lord Yomei.¡± Riddian said, standing up himself. The two men exchanged a formal bow. ¡°You have my apologies. I shall liaise with you once my men reach Wendrell.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡± Yomei turned and stalked away from the table. The serving woman smiled at him and gestured towards the door.


    Bahadri then stood, collecting his glass as he did. He raised it to his lips and threw back the contents in one gulp, before placing the glass back on the table and exhaling sharply, his face twisted in disgust.


    ¡°Second hell, you people can not make a Fireside.¡± He looked to Riddian, ¡° I shall take this information back to my superiors. If they deem it worthy, we shall be in contact, apcha.¡±


    He then turned on his heel and slumped toward the exit without waiting for a response.


    Riddian let out a long sigh as he sank back down into his seat. If he let his mind rest on the implications of what he was doing for too long he became uncomfortable. Oftentimes Riddian found himself laying in bed at night, sleep eluding his feeble clutches toward it. Then it would start, deep within his stomach, festering like a tumour and spreading throughout his body, before he found himself shaking. The guilt. The guilt of his actions and plans toward his own people. Plotting their downfall for promises of power and wealth beyond comprehension. The guilt of working with The Loom and the Xu Shi nation to find and eradicate The Guardian. No. He shook his head aggressively, ejecting the thoughts from his mind, he would not dwell on it¡­ Not now.


    He replayed the meeting in his mind. Yomei had been right, Riddian had risen to a position of great power, and in a very short amount of time. He was considered some kind of political prodigy within his peers, so of course subterfuge came to him as naturally as breathing.


    Let the Shi¡¯ans think they were above Riddian and his people.


    Let The Loom keep their secrets, let them think he was an over ambitious fool.


    Once he received the power he was promised, he would betray them, he knew this and they probably did too. However, Riddian would not show his hand, he would outmanoeuvre them like he always did, a swordmaster dancing gracefully around a drunken opponent.


    Riddian nodded to the serving woman, his eyes washing over her figure as she meandered her way slowly to his table. As she approached, he pulled the Suncore from its pouch.


    ¡°What did you think?¡± He asked her, leaning back in his seat.


    ¡°You were right about the Shi¡¯an. Bloated sense of self importance. He shall be easy to dispose of.¡± She replied, vacantly scooping up the drinks on the table. ¡°Bahadri¡­¡± She continued with a pause. ¡°He is not the fool you claim him to be, I saw a formidable intelligence behind his eyes. He was not watching you Riddian, he was reading you.¡±


    After this meeting, Riddian was inclined to agree with her. He had not behaved like this before, and this development definitely caused Riddian to consider a pivot in his plans.


    The serving woman placed the glasses onto a tray and turned to leave, looking back at Riddian as she did so.


    ¡°What did they make of the Suncore?¡± She asked.


    ¡°Honestly, I think that was what sold it¡±, Riddian said, spinning the shining stone round in his hand, admiring it. ¡°The whole monastery was made of this?¡±


    She nodded.


    ¡°But master, it''s so bright. I have little doubt you could see this from even the city¡¯s walls. In fact, how haven¡¯t we? How does this not light up like a beacon?¡± He asked.


    ¡°Oh sweetness¡±, she said, walking away. ¡°You haven¡¯t seen a thing yet.¡±


    She left him there to his thoughts.

 The Dragonblood Conclave

    The Dragonblood Conclave


    The morning sun shone brightly on Ixtin¡¯s face, forcing him begrudgingly from his slumber.


    He groaned, labouring into a sitting position. Blood of The Merciful One, he felt old.


    ¡°Asher!¡± Ixtin called. ¡°Asher!¡± His scratchy voice rasping across his sleeping chambers like a pile of dried leaves. He cursed. His voice was once so powerful, so commanding, it held weight like an anvil. Ixtin had once ordered his servants about with such thunderous authority that he had caused one in particular to release their bladder before him. He smiled to himself at the memory.


    ¡°Asher!¡± He called again.


    A small portly man appeared beside the door, huffing slightly. His figure was defined by a small hunch of his shoulders, causing him to remain in a constant bent forward position.


    ¡°Good morning, Master.¡± The man said, bowing his head. ¡°Apologies, I was tending to the harvest.¡± He walked across the room carrying a golden tray which had a steaming mug of Toahasca Tea sitting carefully in the middle. Asher placed the tray on a small table and picked up the tea, beginning to walk toward the bed.


    ¡°Leave it where it is.¡± Ixtin said gruffly, casting his blankets aside. He started shuffling to the corner of his bed causing Asher to tense visibly.


    ¡°Umm Master, do you think it wise to leave your bed in your condition?¡± Asher asked tentatively, placing the tea back on the tray. Ixtin dismissed this with a wave of his hand. However, by the time he had reached the side of his bed his chest felt tight, as if his body was too small for his organs. Testing the sensation, Ixtin inhaled deeply causing him to cough violently. Bringing withered fingers up to his face he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Blood.


    He cursed to himself, flicking it away. This caused Asher to gasp slightly and scurry to clean the spatter from the floor.


    Within his mind, Ixtin felt no different than before. He still regularly cast his eyes over plans and communications, was able to speak whilst maintaining the same grace and cohesion he had always exuded. It was his body that was failing him. Day by day Ixtin grew weaker, and despite seeking counsel from the finest medical minds he could, there was, laughably, no diagnosis.


    No one could tell him why he was dying.


    ¡°Asher, fetch me my robes. I wish to walk the grounds.¡±


    The man looked up from scrubbing the floor. ¡°Master¡­ I¡­¡± he sputtered.


    ¡°Just do as I say.¡± Ixtin replied, sighing. ¡°I am in no mood to spar with you on this matter.¡±


    Wordlessly, Asher stood up and walked over to a large mirror that consumed an entire wall. He pressed firmly on the mirror¡¯s frame causing it to open on a hinge with a satisfying pop sound. Asher disappeared from view momentarily as he strode inside the newly revealed wardrobe.


    Ixtin reached over to the table and retrieved the tea, blowing the contents gently as he brought it to his mouth.


    He stared blankly at a wall as he sipped. He was going to miss his morning tea¡­


    Asher reappeared a moment later, carrying a fine green robe with intricate white patterns imprinted across it. Ixtin raised an eyebrow at his selection.


    ¡°An interesting choice.¡± He said, a faint hint of a smile drawing his lips apart.


    ~


    Ixtin held onto a post, steadying himself, cursing between staggered breaths. He could feel his legs protesting violently at their load.


    ¡°Chair.¡± He rasped to Asher who was already fetching one. Ixtin looked at his outstretched hand clutching feebly at the post, his knuckles white with strain. He snorted to himself in amusement. The end was close, he could feel it.


    Asher¡¯s return was announced with the sound of his slow, shuffling gait. He dragged a fine woven chair in tow.


    ¡°Please, Master.¡± He said, guiding Ixtin into the seat. ¡°Rest. Look over the pastures while I fetch you some tea.¡±


    Ixtin gazed out across his fields with a yearning. He wouldn¡¯t see another harvest.


    He sat on a balcony overlooking his plantation. Several workers dotted the fields, their heads appearing briefly above the tall plants, before disappearing again, returning to their work.


    Asher returned, handing Ixtin another warm cup of tea. Ixtin leaned back in his chair in thought. ¡°Asher, fetch me my writing equipment, I wish to send correspondence.¡±


    The short man bowed his head before hobbling off toward the study.


    Ixtin continued his observation of the workers across the fields; how diligently they toiled about their duties. Harvesting Pa¡¯Uala was lucrative work, and every single individual under Ixtin¡¯s employ had been meticulously selected through a rigorous and extensive process. There could be absolutely no stealing of product and no selling of their unique horticultural secrets. Pa¡¯Uala plants, when disturbed, secreted a sap that was an essential ingredient for creating bonding essences. He didn¡¯t really understand the science behind it, and he didn¡¯t need to, the money made from his fields over the years had made Ixtin one of the wealthiest men in the Southern Region.


    The plantation had been inherited from his father many years ago. Ixtin had never had any interest in being a farmer, but understood the necessity of it for the illusion. The real reward lay beneath the extensive harvesting fields.


    Asher returned dragging in a compact wooden writing table with a curved groove carved into its centre, fitting perfectly around Ixtin in his chair.


    Placed neatly on the table was a small stack of rolled parchment, a decorated inkpot filled just over halfway with obsidian ink, and a quill of Asher¡¯s choosing - an unsightly bright white monstrosity.


    Ixtin unrolled the parchment, being welcomed by the smell of warm leather as he did. He tested the slight roughness of it, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.


    He dipped the quill lightly into the inkpot, letting the ink lap hungrily onto its point. With routined movement, Ixtin tapped the quill on the side of the inkpot three times then began scratching his letter, reapplying the ink every few words:


    Inoch,


    This will be my final contact.


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    The time we have spoken about is now upon us. You are to return to my plantation with immediate effect. My illness blights me to the point of damnation and I fear the days I have of existence left on this world are drawing to a close.


    You are my heir in all things.


    You are to return so that we may anoint you in my place. You will take control of my lands, and oversee all of my interests.


    Pertaining to my interests, you shall not be alone in this matter. I will be sending word to Katarangi for him to return and guide you. He was there to steer me when my father passed, and shall now in turn aid you, as you lead The Conclave.


    Inoch, I know I have been somewhat distant these last few years. I suppose only when staring at death do we consider the time we have wasted in life. I regret deeply that we have not spoke in so long, my work has required day and night attention, eating into every moment of free time I can muster. If this cursed illness did not kill me, then my work very well may have. I only pray that you make it here in time for me to meet my grandchildren.


    In the event that I pass before you arrive here, I have set up a contingency for your ritual coronation into The Conclave as my successor.


    You will be a good leader, I am proud of you Inoch. I always have been.


    Your father,


    Ixtin.


    Ixtin placed the quill to one side, holding the parchment up to read it back. A tear formed in his eye. Inoch had been a good son. Ixtin had not been a good father.


    He gestured Asher over. Asher hobbled toward him, producing a large spoon and candle from his robe before placing them on the table. He lit the candle then reached into his pocket again, this time withdrawing a wax cylinder about the size of his index finger. The wax was decorated in a deep green colour with flecks of brilliant white, Ixtin¡¯s house colours.


    Ixtin folded the parchment and slid it cleanly into an envelope. As he did so, Asher placed the spoon in a perch above the candle and deposited the waxy cylinder into it.


    Ixtin slid open a draw that was built into the desk¡¯s groove. Within it lay a single item, a small wooden stamp with Ixtin¡¯s crest carved into the bottom.


    Once the wax had melted, Asher lifted the spoon and gently blew out the candle. The wax sloshed lazily around the spoon¡¯s deep recess before being poured onto the envelope¡¯s seal.


    Ixtin brought the stamp down onto the wax, pressing as firmly as his feeble body would allow him. It was not firm enough to seal the letter.


    He felt a heavy hand pressing down on his own, assisting him with the imprint. Ixtin looked up at Asher, the man¡¯s eyes were filled with pity as he smiled at Ixtin.


    ¡°Allow me to help you with that, Master.¡± He said.


    Ixtin would usually have scowled and called the man every name under the Merciful One¡¯s sun. But this was important, and Ixtin was appreciative of the assistance.


    He let out a rare smile. ¡°Thank you, my friend.¡±


    Ixtin passed the now sealed envelope to Asher with reverent hands. ¡°You don¡¯t have to say a word, Master. This will be attached to a carrier bird as soon as you settle down for your afternoon rest.¡± Asher smiled, tucking the letter into the folds of his robes. ¡°Will you be requiring further use of the writing equipment?¡±.


    Ixtin gestured with his hand, signalling he had finished with it. ¡°No, take it away. I shall write Katarangi tomorrow, I don¡¯t think I have the strength left today.¡±


    ¡°Very well, Master. A wise decision.¡± Asher replied. He clicked his fingers toward the balcony doors where two unseen servants stood ready. They moved diligently, deconstructing the temporary writing station in seconds and removing each piece of equipment back to their respective homes. Ixtin snorted, he hadn¡¯t noticed them. How long had they been there? He stared at them as they worked, he didn¡¯t even recognise them.


    If he was being truthful with himself, he hardly recognised any of his close servants these days. Though, he supposed, he had no real need to know them anymore, Asher saw to the employ of the servants now. He saw to most needs now. That was enough.


    ~


    Ixtin spent the next few hours reminiscing within his mind whilst staring out across the fields. He had passed the stage of self pity, he knew there was nothing to save him now. He cast his mind back to his letter to Inoch. He hadn¡¯t realised it, but he did want to meet his grandchildren. It wasn¡¯t something he had given much thought prior to today, but Sixth Hell, he was determined to stay alive long enough to meet them, the stubborn old fool he was. Ixtin felt something deep within him, a warmth he had not experienced since first he became ill. Purpose.


    In slow, contorted movements, Ixtin pulled himself from his chair, smiling widely as he did. ¡°Ha!¡± he exclaimed loudly.


    Dragging his feet in an excruciating shuffle, he began his march to his bed. He would make it unassisted. He would fight this. Today he would fight this!


    After an eternity of gruelling agony, every muscle, every bone in Ixtin¡¯s body screaming for precious rest, he rounded the door to his bed chambers.


    Inside a young servant was leaning over his bed, placing the blankets neatly into a folded pile. Several candles had been placed around the room in anticipation of Ixtin¡¯s daily afternoon rest. She gasped upon seeing him.


    ¡°Lord Ixtin! Please, let me help you!¡± She blustered, spinning toward him.


    ¡°No, it''s¡­ it''s quite alright.¡± He wheezed. Pressing his hands to the door frame. ¡°I.. I just need my bed, and a cup of tea, if you will.¡±


    She nodded violently before scurrying out the door. Another new one, he thought to himself. His servants knew not to make eye contact. Ixtin  huffed, straining himself forward, one pained step at a time. He would speak to Asher about servant protocol this evening, he did not have the energy to chastise this young woman.


    He sat down on the side of his bed and exhaled deeply. He had done it. Ixtin took a moment to consider the achievement he had just managed. It had been nearly two complete moons since he had been able to move that far. He smiled a haggard grin, maybe it would be worth looking into alternative treatments, he had tried everything else, what did he have left to lose?


    The same servant returned a short time later carrying the same golden tray as before, with a mug of Toahasca Tea, placed identically as it had been this morning.


    Asher had taught the servants well at least.


    She placed the tray on the table and passed the tea to Ixtin with two hands. He took it, blew the steaming mug as before and drank deeply. Merciful One, was he thirsty, he had only just noticed.


    He stood up slowly, the servant watching him warily, unsure whether to help and cause offence. So she watched as he rose to his feet, grunting and moaning as he did.


    ¡°I wish to use the privy, please leave me.¡± Ixtin said, not looking toward the servant as he passed her back the mug.


    She turned to the table and moved toward the tray, falling to the floor as she did. Ixtin had not noticed he had been standing on her robes and the girl¡¯s sudden movement caused him to be upended as well. He fell beside her with a thud that caused him to see stars. Pain washed over his body like a violent tide crashing into rocks. As he lay there whimpering, he spotted a small vial on the floor having fallen from within the servant¡¯s robes. A green, viscous liquid dripped out in quick successive drips. The smell of the liquid attacked his senses almost immediately, Ninth Hell it smelled like death itself. Was this¡­ poison? Was he being poisoned? Was this his illness?


    The servant began rising to her feet clumsily. There was no chance that someone had not heard multiple loud thumps from his chambers.


    ¡°Asher¡­¡± He croaked. Did he? Or was that in his head?


    The servant - no, the assassin, passed through the door frame turning out of the room as if headed to the balcony.


    Ixtin felt his body swimming. His weight becoming one with the floor, his vision becoming black and spotty.


    Mercifully, Asher entered the room a moment later, his face immediately flashing terror.


    ¡°Ixtin!¡± He shouted. The hunched man hobbled over to his master as fast as he could. All sense of formality gone from his voice.


    Ixti¡¯s vision was filled with Asher¡¯s concerned face, his hands grasping him by the shoulders. Asher was saying something frantically, but all sound was fading, everything was starting to turn black.


    ¡°Inoch¡­¡± Ixtin wheezed. ¡°Letter.¡±


    ¡°Yes, Master, of course!¡± Asher was shouting, cradling Ixtin in his arms. ¡°I will send the letter!¡±.


    Ixtin let out a long rattled sigh before falling limp.


    Sweet release.


    Asher watched Ixtin, his Master of so many years, slip quietly beside him. He paused, taking in the scene before him.


    His Master was gone.


    Asher¡¯s contorted, mourning face became expressionless with a blink. Wordlessly, he dropped Ixtin¡¯s body to the floor with a thonk. He stood, rising to his full height, the hunch disappearing from his form. Standing tall, Asher¡¯s loose robes fell across his body, revealing a long and well muscled physique. He had spent the majority of his days for the past six years hunched and draped in clothes that hung off of him.


    He walked over to the bedside table and produced Ixtin¡¯s letter to Inoch. Then without hesitation, he held it over one of the candles allowing it to ignite, then threw it onto the golden tray, where it burned with a quiet crackling sound.


    He put one hand to his shoulder, rotating it, stretching out the muscles, before rolling his neck and letting out a deep satisfied sigh.


    Asher took one last look at Ixtin¡¯s body then strode out of the room.


    He had plans to make.

 The Epistle Knight

    The Epistle Knight


    Knight Tessier stared silently at the small campfire in front of her. She had removed her boots, placing them neatly beside her bedroll and was allowing the flames to warm her toes.


    Vacantly, she brought an arm to her shoulder, massaging it gently. Her travelsack had been particularly heavy this rotation, and her broad shoulders now bore small grooves in them from the weight.


    She wouldn¡¯t complain, of course. The life of an Epistle Knight was arduous, lonely, and sometimes fatal.


    But the pay was extraordinary, few services could offer that which Epistle Knights could. A promise that your letters or packages would be delivered with the highest order of secrecy, safety, and certainty. For this reason before becoming a full fledged Epistle Knight, apprentices spent years undergoing study of combat, strength training, mental fortitude, and social etiquette.


    Being selected to be trained was a great honour, one of the highest a noble family could receive. As such, Tessier had been supplied on her ninth breathday to study under the grand Epistle Knights of the Western Region.


    She was now approaching her thirty eighth breathday. Her hair, cut just below the neckline was a deep, dark brown with several grey strands threatening to claim dominance. Her thick, vascular legs showed signs of a lifetime hiking every type of terrain, whilst her muscular arms bore the scars of numerous foes that had attempted to steal her cargo over the years.


    Tessier had placed the travelsack slightly offset from her makeshift camp, disguising it with branches and placing it in a small hole she had dug.


    The sun was beginning its slow exchange with the moon, kissing the horizon in the distance. Mountains towered either side of her, stretching as far as the eye could see. A humble reminder of Tessier¡¯s insignificance within the world, yet the looming slopes also provided a sense of safety and security, like a gargantuan refuge from whatever was going on beyond them.


    Beside the campfire lay a small collection of items, neatly placed in a line. Epistle Knights were paid to carry other people¡¯s possessions, not their own, so their personal belongings were often very little. However, Tessier had laid out her food for the evening, a loaf of bread with assorted seeds baked into it, alongside a small wooden carving of The Merciful One, a water pouch containing a fine wine she had been gifted in the last village she passed through, a small knife for cutting food, and finally, her weapons. Screamer and Disdain.


    Epistle Knights crafted their own weapon upon successful completion of their training. They could choose from a selection of traditional weapons, or newer, more varied ones that would have undergone extreme scrutiny beforehand.


    Tessier had chosen an obscure weapon used by a far off, long forgotten sect of Epistle Knights found exclusively in the jungles of Tanaquocli.


    It had been late one night when Tessier, trawling the Epistle Knight¡¯s endless library during her studies, had come across an old, worn and beaten book. The book was a journal of sorts, written by a man called Teldium. Any Knight - or Knight in training for that matter - worth their salt knew who Teldium was; the elusive first assistant to Wendrell himself. The stories say that Teldium and Wendrell would often butt heads on accurate mapping of valleys, classifications of newly discovered species, the age of freshly dug fossils, the list went on. The two would probably argue as to whether the sun itself would rise each day if they could.


    Eventually Teldium split off from Wendrell and a lifelong rivalry between the two was formed. Teldium never enjoyed the fame and heights that Wendrell did, even though his discoveries were, arguably, just as important. They were certainly documented with greater accuracy.


    As it was, the majority of his books had found their way to one of the darkest reaches of the library, stored alongside other readings from significantly less important figures throughout history.


    Blessedly, Teldium had conducted extensive research on the people of the Tanaquocli. Their culture fascinated Tessier and by the end of her training she had frequented the library in any free moment she had.


    Through her learnings, she came across a particular Tanaquocli weapon that was built like a club, but had the functionality of a sword. They called them Wooden Fangblades.


    Tessier had known in that instant that a Fangblade was to be her weapon of choice, and had taken it to the elders for approval. There had been much deliberation. Several elders claimed she was being fanciful, romanticising a useless weapon from a bygone era. Others mocked her for attempting to be different for the sake of being different.


    It was settled that Tessier was to craft this Fangblade of hers and if she could beat an elder of her choosing with it, she would complete her training.


    She recalled her bloody victory within the elder¡¯s sparring grounds. She had made not one, but two Fangblades, and had wielded them with deadly efficiency.


    She stared for a long contemplative moment at Screamer and Disdain, they still worked flawlessly, they had been made lovingly in preparation for a lifetime of use.


    The weapons were crafted from Glintpine; harvested deep within the Evergrove, the forest surrounding the Epistle Knight compounds. The wood was fashioned into a long club with flat sides, about the same length as a smallsword, then placed meticulously along either side of the club were several jagged chunks of obsidian. That was the part that caught the eye the most. Obsidian was dark as the midnight sky and Tessier always kept hers polished to a gleaming finish. Over the years, the weapons had become intricately carved with runes and symbols, telling tales of Tessier¡¯s victories. The handles were wrapped in supple leather now worn by use, the once bright red fading to a moody brown.


    Fangblades didn¡¯t cut like a sword or axe would, administering clean, sharp slices or stabs. Fangblades ripped and tore. They clung onto skin like a beggar to a coin, then they either hack a jagged, uneven line of death, or pull their way back violently, tearing any mass they can grasp in the process.


    She had been admonished by the elders for choosing such a violent weapon, seen by them as too barbaric for the likes of an Epistle Knight, but she didn¡¯t dwell on it. Even now, decades later, she was still met with hostility by them.


    Luckily, Tessier only returned to the compound every few months to collect a new load of deliveries before heading out again. She could suffer the glares and mutterings that her presence brought.


    No, she was perfectly content with how her life had turned out, moments like this reassured her of that. The air was silent, save for the quiet crackling of her campfire, and during her daydreaming the sun had continued to submit to the growing moon.


    Tessier picked herself up, walking toward a small clearing she had set out earlier, not too far from the fire. She would let the flames die out before falling asleep beneath the stars. Just like every night.


    ¡°Knight Tessier?¡± A voice came from behind her.


    Tessier spun around toward the source of the voice in confusion, her body tensing, suddenly on alert.


    A thin, bald man stood before her. His head was laced with intricate tattoo patterns that extended down his face, encircling his eyes. He wore a robe in a style Tessier was unfamiliar with. It was blood red and appeared to be formed of three pieces, draping loosely over his left arm, covering it from view entirely. A crest had been woven into the breast of the robe in a glaring yellow, it appeared to be several vertical lines, evenly spaced.


    Flanking the man were two hulking figures, one brandishing a broadsword, the other holding a spear.


    Tessier frowned deeply in confusion, the big ones had appeared as if from thin air. She was certain the small man had been alone just a moment ago.


    ¡°Knight Tessier.¡± The man repeated. ¡°I need to know that you are Epistle Knight Tessier.¡± There was a sense of urgency in his voice that unsettled her.


    ¡°It''s her.¡± One of the hulking figures said, his voice deep and rumbling. ¡°Look at the swords.¡±


    She glanced toward Screamer and Disdain. She could make it to them in two¡­. Three steps?


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t.¡± The man said following her gaze.


    Tessier dug her heels into the ground. The man tensed.


    Kicking off from the mud, Tessier lurched toward her swords, the robed man however, did not move. Instead it was his companions that ran forward, their footsteps thudding heavily on the ground. Sixth Hell, they were faster than they looked. Tessier stooped low, grabbing Screamer and sweeping her leg in a wide arc, catching the first attacker around the knees, knocking him to the ground. In the same motion she snatched Disdain and spun to her feet, adopting a defensive stance, standing sideways to her attackers.


    Tessier barely had time to exhale as the second hulking man bore down upon her with his broadsword. She pivoted to one side and thrust Screamer forward, connecting with the man¡¯s thigh. She felt slight nocks of resistance as each of Screamer¡¯s teeth caught and tore through flesh.


    The man didn¡¯t scream out. He didn¡¯t even flinch.


    Tessier pulled Screamer back and swung Disdain out to the side, connecting with his shoulder. Completing the movement, Disdain began to shake, grinding across bone.


    The man simply grunted, swinging his broadsword round to Tessier¡¯s exposed side. She stared, completely perplexed. She had just executed a flawless counter, one that should at the very least have left the man recoiling, but he pressed his attack as if  uninterrupted.


    She twisted her body just as his broadsword heaved across her side, catching Tessier in a glancing slice just beneath her ribs. A scream escaped her lips before her mind could register what had happened. Pain burst from the wound threatening to incapacitate her.


    Focus Tessier.


    The man regained his balance. The size of the broadsword meant his movements were slow, which she could use to her advantage. However, the second hulking man had now recovered and was also advancing upon her, spear thrust forward in front of him.


    As he lunged forward, Tessier crossed her fangblades in front of her, blocking the spear. She pushed them downward forcing the spear to the ground, its wielder along with it.


    They were reckless, they attacked with impatience. She could use this.


    Tessier kicked forward with as much force as she could muster. The bottom of her still bare foot connected with the downed man¡¯s face, making a satisfying crunch sound and causing blood to burst from his nose. He yelled out wildly. So this one feels pain.


    Before she could capitalise on this, she heard the whistling of the broadsword again. Tessier hopped backward, ready for it.


    The sword swung clumsily in front of her in a downward arc. She relaxed a little. They had caught her off guard but these two men were not as skilled as she, Tessier had fought her way out of worse situations.


    Flicking her hair from her face, she risked a glance at the small, bald man. He was scowling at her, teeth bared like an animal, however he didn¡¯t join his companions which concerned her.


    Tessier switched to water stance and pressed forward. Water stance, said by some as too reckless and aggressive to be efficient, was often compared to a dance, with the combatant switching from each foot gracefully with wide arcing movements, before jabbing forward in unexpected attacks.


    She matched her breathing to her movements. The spearman was nearly to his feet, but the swordbearer swung a second sideways swipe at her chest. Tessier bowed forward, rolling her neck around the attack, spinning on her toe and thrusting both Screamer and Disdain into the man¡¯s stomach, the motion of her movement propelling them forward. She felt the familiar vibration in her hands as her fangblades chewed viciously through bone and flesh, catching onto body parts before wrenching themselves free.


    Tessier kicked back off the man, leaping into the air. Screamer and Disdain came begrudgingly with her, grabbing onto anything they could upon their exit.


    Before she could twist back around to land, she felt agony coursing through her body, washing over every other sense. The spearman had pierced her midriff in midair, his dull spearhead extruding bloodily from her abdomen.


    Before Tessier even had time to react, the spear was thrust downward, sending her crashing to the floor with it.


    She lay on her stomach gasping, letting out a scream as the spear was pulled back through her.


    Eyes blurry with tears, Tessier caught sight of the swordbearer. Thank The Merciful One, he hadn¡¯t moved. He was slumped to his knees, one hand holding his sword, the other supporting him on the ground. Blood flowed from his stomach like deep red ribbons. He breathed in short breaths, still silent.


    She glanced down at her own torso. A dark patch had formed menacingly below her left breast where she had been sliced. She could still feel in that area, so blessedly the cut might not be as deep as she had first considered.


    The spear wound to the right of her stomach however¡­


    The spearman stood over her, placing the spear butt on her back.


    ¡°Talahet, she is ready.¡± He called to the bald man.


    ¡°Take the pendant.¡± He replied, turning away. ¡°He will require proof.¡±


    The spearman bent over, placing a hand on Tessier¡¯s shoulder. As he turned her over she swung Disdain round, striking his face and latching onto his cheek. His eyes flared in terror at the realisation. She pulled downward, twisting her body with the pull to add momentum.


    Disdain began pulling flesh from the man¡¯s face. He jerked his head back reflexively but this only caused more damage as teeth now started to be yanked out as well. Disdain caught on the remains of his lower jaw, pulling him to the floor with a pitiful crunch.


    As she pulled down, Tessier rolled into a crouch, her knee resting atop the spearman¡¯s back. He lashed around beneath her, guttural howls coming from his open face.


    She drove Screamer onto the crown of his head and carved downward until he stopped moving, his body flopping to a still.


    Tessier sat there for a moment, panting. She was beginning to feel dizzy. She shook her head and looked toward the bald man. He had turned back around and now regarded her with venom in his eyes. Holding Screamer and Disdain out widely to each side in mountain stance, she rose to her feet.


    The man, who the spearman had referred to as Talahet said nothing.


    Instead, he slowly moved his concealed arm out in front of him, causing the sleeve to be cast aside. He shrugged off the outer wrappings of his robes revealing a thin vascular torso of pale white skin. His entire body was covered in the same intricate patterns that were tattooed on his head and attached to each hip was a crude hand axe.


    Tessier exhaled slowly, raising her fangblades in front of her. Very well then.


    Tessier let Talahet charge her. She was running on adrenaline and would clutch at any reserves she could muster. In doing so, she took a moment to notice his stance, raising a concerned eyebrow at it.


    Talahet¡¯s arms were loose, hanging down by his hips with the axes pointing inward. Tessier took a step back and fell into a cocoon stance variation, her fangblades tucked close to her torso. She would be cautious until she could weigh up the skills of her foe, then adapt stance accordingly.


    After what felt like an eternity of sizing each other up, Talahet charged. He swung upwards at her, forcing a parry that pushed her back a step, before he followed by swinging horizontally with his second axe. Tessier managed to knock it aside, and in doing so brought both fangblades round to his exposed midriff.


    She carved a small nick along his chest but nothing that would prevent his onslaught.


    Talahet spun away and performed a feint that she recognised. Reflexively, she blocked his next attack, then was able to perform a riposte to his follow up, knocking him across the head with the shaft of Screamer.


    It was a variant she was unfamiliar with but the groundwork was there. He had adopted fire stance, which she knew how to counter! Tessier curbed a wave of hope that began spreading through her.


    As Talahet struck out toward her, she butted the side of the axe with the end of Disdain, knocking the axe free from his hand. He smiled. Why did he smile?


    As his axe fell to the floor, Talahet cleaved across her in an arcing swipe with his second axe. He caught her on the wrist, severing her right hand.


    Tessier didn¡¯t even register the pain as Disdain fell to the floor, still clutched in her fallen hand. He had baited her. She panicked as she came to the realisation she would die here.


    Her training took over. Epistle Knights were conditioned for receiving catastrophic injuries just as much as they were for causing them.


    Tessier swung Screamer toward Talahet as he spun away, racking the fangblade down his exposed spine. He screamed as he staggered forward. He had clearly not been expecting such a quick response from her.


    She took a step toward him, although it was partially a fall as she felt herself becoming dizzy. She risked a glance at where her hand had been just moments before. The cut was clean, like a butcher¡¯s cut and she was bleeding¡­ badly.


    Talahet was crawling toward his second axe which now lay a few feet from him. Tessier had clearly affected his mobility as he had made a couple of attempts at standing, to no avail. She charged forward, plunging Screamer into his back. Her arm was met with the familiar grind and tear feeling that indicated heavy internal damage in her target.


    Talahet however had flailed his arms behind him, axe in hand, hoping to hit something, anything. His axe caught her in the calf, peeling the skin back like a potato.


    Tessier screamed in agony, her vision going spotty, but thank The Merciful One, Talahet did not continue lashing out, his body falling still.


    Tessier dragged herself to her campfire, tears filling her eyes, her body screaming for sweet sleep, for the pain to end. ¡°Just go to sleep.¡± It was telling her. ¡°Just lie down¡±.


    She fumbled about her neatly lined belongings until her hand settled on the knife before casting it into the fire.


    Placing the waterskin in her mouth, she twisted off the lids and began pouring the wine on both her leg and hand. Holy eternal Ninth Hell that hurt, she felt her eyes rolling back, ready to release, to let this all be over. Groggily, she shook her head and ripped off some fabric from her now useless right sleeve, fashioning it - with great difficulty - into a makeshift bandage around her leg. Minutes passed. She was still alive.


    Finally, Tessier removed the knife from the fire and drove the flat side of it down onto her wrist, this time, she did pass out.


    ~


    Tessier awoke. Praise The Merciful One, she actually woke up! The first thing she noticed was the stars, dancing across the twilight sky like jewels.


    She groaned sitting up, her wrist was throbbing, protesting furiously at the movement. She looked at it tearfully. There would be time to dwell on it later.


    A quick assessment of her injuries led her to believe whilst she may not be dead¡­ she certainly wasn¡¯t far from it. Blood had soaked through most of her clothes, leaving them sodden and clinging to her. The makeshift bandage on her leg was also damp, but it would hold for now.


    Beggar¡¯s Hollow was within trekking distance. She could walk there, hell, she would drag herself there.


    Tessier hobbled to her feet and made her way to her partially hidden travelsack. She clumsily hoisted it over her shoulders.


    Then, she did what Epistle Knights do best. She walked.

 The Assassin

    The Assassin


    Lediert leaned against a wall, sighing softly as he did. He rubbed a hand against his cheek, catching stubble.


    Moving through Repose at night had become harder than before. Once, an assassin could slink around the city with ease, passing unnoticed through its shadows like a ghost.


    These days however, the cobbled streets shimmered under the glow of oil lamps. Their flames flickered infuriatingly, illuminating every corner and alleyway.


    Of particular nuisance were the city¡¯s lamplighters who lazily patrolled the night, reigniting any extinguished lamps.


    This ¡®Lamp Light Initiative¡¯ had been spearheaded by the Repose council in an effort to reduce crime rates in the once unruly city. And, curse the Merciful One, it had proven remarkably effective.


    Lediert was currently in the merchant district, toward the eastern border, which was marked by a long winding river that hugged the university¡¯s grounds. Each district of Repose was separated by similar rivers, each marked by majestic golden gates with intricately designed bridges stretching beneath them. Passing through these gates at night required interaction with guards, who had set up sentry stations across each bridge. Anyone wanting to pass through would need to explain their purpose for travel first.


    For Lediert¡¯s task tonight, he would need to cross into The University¡¯s grounds.


    The river separating the two districts was too wide and fast to risk swimming across, and the gates stood tall and imposing, their surfaces much too slick and steep to offer any purchase for climbing.


    As such, Lediert had spent the last week meticulously shadowing one of the city guard¡¯s Sentinels, which were of a higher rank than the typical Wardens you would find at sentry stations.


    Two nights ago his diligence had been rewarded as, like most members of the city guard, his target had frequented a certain tavern on most evenings. Lediert had given a particularly pitiful looking beggar a pouch full of coins with the instruction to ensure the Sentinel had been plied with Ebonwine all night, loosening his lips and dulling his senses.


    Hours later, Lediert had followed the guard home, being less careful than he would normally need to be, to a modest dwelling nestled in a quiet corner of the merchant¡¯s district. The house was lit by a solitary lamp light providing a warm welcoming glow by the front door.


    The guard stumbled inside, slamming the door shut behind him. Then, Lediert waited. And waited.


    Finally, and with practised ease, he slipped through an unlocked window into the guard''s darkened bed chamber, the stench of alcohol assaulting his nostrils. Perfect. The guard lay sprawled upon his bed, snoring softly. Lediert pulled one of his blades from a pocket within his tight cloak, it gleamed briefly in the dim moonlight as Lediert leaned over the sleeping form, pausing for a heartbeat, then gliding the blade across the guard¡¯s throat. There was a muted gasp as a red line appeared across his neck, like a broad red smile, followed by a brief struggle that faded into stillness as his life ebbed away. Lediert closed his eyes, he knew this part too well. The room fell silent once more, save for the faint rustle of the curtains and the steady rhythm of the city outside.


    Lediert had then worked efficiently, placing a pre-written note exclaiming that life had become too much and he would prefer death, onto the guard¡¯s bedside table, accompanied by a blade in his limp hand. It was placed with the intention of looking suspicious. The way the body lay, and the slight mess Lediert left the room in, appeared more like an intrusion had taken place.


    Then, he took one of the guard¡¯s uniforms, along with any identifying paperwork and exited hastily through the same window he had entered.


    Lediert now stood motionless in a rare unlit alley that opened onto one of the main streets, the guard uniform adorning his lean frame.


    The uniform was composed primarily of dark-coloured fabrics that felt tough, yet surprisingly flexible. The tunic and trousers were made of reinforced leather that had been dyed a deep midnight blue. Over this, a fitted long coat extended down to his thigh, which was crafted from a heavy water resistant wool blend. The coat also included reinforced shoulders and elbows, fitted with polished obsidian plates, that blended seamlessly with the fabric, offering protection without hindering movement.  His right arm was adorned with golden embroidery that reflected his rank as Warden.


    Lediert inspected himself in some remnants of a shattered mirror, he had to admit this was one of the most efficient uniforms for combat mixed with comfort that he had ever come across. He made a mental note to take it back to The Conclave after he completed this current assignment; they could take inspiration from its subtleties with their own attire.


    The missive he had received had been the same as they always were, simple, blunt, and to be destroyed after reading.


    The target was Archmagister Khazim, the head of the Repose University. The man was much loved by the city, well respected by his peers, and was understood to be formidable with magic.


    It was only natural that Lediert be chosen to perform such a task.


    He had strict instructions to make the assassination look like it was an in-house betrayal, and incite paranoia within the walls of Repose. He was unsure of what his masters planned, but he had learned long ago that it was not his place to dare ask such questions. He brushed his fingers across the insignia on his arm idly, lost in thought for a moment. The Conclave had been different since Ixtin¡¯s passing, something that Lediert lamented, he had looked to Ixtin as a father figure for as long as he could remember.


    He cursed himself for not seeing Inoch sooner. Whilst Ixtin had not been his blood, he had treated Lediert as if he had been, accepting him into his family and helping fill the void that had been left after the bloody deaths of Lediert¡¯s own parents. He would speak with Inoch after this, he was an honest man and undeserving of the pressures placed on him. He did not live the life Lediert or Ixtin did, he was a good man.


    He was a good man¡­


    Lediert shook his head, coming out of his stupor. What was he doing? This was not the time to allow sentimental thought to cripple him when he needed to be at his most efficient.


    He slid his blades within newly made pockets he had sewn into the thighs of his trousers and exhaled, uttering a brief prayer to Lament, the Goddess of The Hunt as he did. Then he rounded out of the alleyway into the main street.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    The Repose accent wasn¡¯t too hard to mimic, you had to cut your words off sharply at the end of each sentence and raise your pitch slightly. Lediert had picked a certain dialect from one of the city¡¯s outer villages in particular which should give a small amount of leeway for slip ups.


    He adjusted his gait as he walked, adding a flair of militant discipline to his steps, each foot hitting the ground with just that bit more authority.


    Lediert crossed beneath the giant gate and continued to the middle of the bridge where the sentry station was located. Two Wardens stood idly engaged in small talk, immediately standing to attention upon seeing him.


    He approached and gave a half hearted salute, drawing a smile to his face.


    ¡°Please Gentlemen, at ease.¡± They relaxed visibly as he approached. The smaller of them hurried to a table off to the side whilst the other held his gaze.


    ¡°Busy tonight?¡± Lediert asked, producing the identification that would match his uniform .


    ¡°No sir.¡± The taller soldier replied. ¡°Not really any need to be travelling to The University at night, I suppose.¡± He sighed, reaching out his hand to collect Lediert¡¯s paperwork. ¡°Save for deliveries, maybe.¡±


    He slid the paperwork into the Warden¡¯s hands. Would he take the bait?


    The taller Warden nodded with a smile, turning to his smaller companion who now stood with a stamp and writing tools at the ready, then began unfolding the papers.


    ¡°Ready?¡± He asked.


    The smaller man nodded.


    ¡°Sentinel¡­¡± The Warden hesitated, studying the paperwork. He glanced toward Lediert then back down again.


    ¡°Sentinel Gavishene. Forge District.¡± He said, folding the papers and handing them hurriedly back to Lediert. The man was uncertain, but he was not going to challenge a superior in such a blatant way. But¡­ Lediert had planted a seed of suspicion in the man¡¯s mind.


    Lediert had replaced a picture of Gavishene with one of his own. It didn¡¯t look perfect, but it nearly did. It was the tiny imperfections that he was counting on any keen eyed Warden to detect, and thank Lament, it looked like this one had.


    The smaller guard scribbled something down on his ledger before hefting the stamp down on top of it. The joviality had disappeared from the taller guard¡¯s face, replaced with uncertainty.


    Lediert held his gaze, staring intensely at the man.


    Reluctantly, the guard nodded toward the far end of the bridge and handed the papers back.


    ¡°Very well gentlemen.¡± Lediert said, raising his hand to a salute, holding it until both guards returned the gesture.


    He continued across the bridge without looking behind him. Only once he had crossed completely and set foot onto the University¡¯s grounds did he glance over his shoulder. He saw the two guards deep in intense conversation.


    His timer had started.


    In his mind he played out the guards at the bridge alerting their superiors. He knew the route well, for he had pored over countless images, old blueprints, and even paced parts of the route around the university himself in preparation. He would have a few precious minutes before word reached authorities and a few more minutes after that before the area became flooded with bodies searching for him.


    The grounds were split into several campuses and high rising buildings, all divided by lush greens, neatly trimmed bushes and extravagant fountains. As the university¡¯s Archmagister, Khazim¡¯s residence was set toward the centre of the grounds, in a large tower that overlooked the recreational greens. Lediert grimaced as he spied a statue of a particularly pretentious looking scholar raised loftily on a pedestal, then froze in his tracks at the sound of hushed voices.


    He ducked down furiously, pressing his body to the pedestal. The voices continued then cut to a hush. Stalking him no doubt. Lediert glanced either side of the pedestal and slid his knives out silently. He had assumed he would have had more time.


    He could hear the clumsy footsteps rounding a fountain beyond the statue, hidden by large bushes, their voices talking in short, sharp whispers. Lediert considered for a moment, three, maybe four of them? Challenging, but not beyond his capabilities.


    They came closer. He waited. Painful seconds.


    Lediert swung from his position rounding on his assailants, arms held out widely ready to bring his knives downward in an arcing motion.


    He was met with three slinking students, one of them yelling out in fear, the other two too preoccupied with their stealth - or lack thereof - to notice Lediert¡¯s sweeping figure. Their features dropping and faces turning pale upon seeing him.


    ¡°Please, please.¡± One of them murmured.  ¡°We can go back, please don¡¯t fetch the elders.¡±


    Lediert stood stunned for a brief moment. Instinctively he flipped the knives inwards, sliding them into his sleeves, before lowering his arms.


    One of the students, a pompous looking youth with a ridiculous blonde mop of hair on his head, seemed to find their courage at this. He eyed Lediert suspiciously. ¡°Why is a member of the city guard slinking around the university grounds after curfew¡­?¡± He let the question hang in the air.


    ¡°I suggest.¡± Lediert said in his most menacing tone. ¡°If you wish this little liaison to remain a secret, you move on before sense takes the better of me and I alert the nearest elder.¡± He turned to the student, ¡°or simply cuff you in the ear for daring to speak to a Sentinel in such a tone.¡±


    The student narrowed his eyes suspiciously before being dragged off by his apologetic companions. He watched them disappear beyond some bushes and continued, cursing to himself.


    That delay may prove to be costly.


    Testing the whims of fate, he made for the tower in a full sprint. The grounds provided enough cover for him to remain hidden for the most part, and a newly birthed moon ensured that Lediert would not be well illuminated. Still, it was desperate, he didn¡¯t usually operate in this manner, but his window of opportunity was so slim.


    During his research phase, Lediert had discovered that Khazim was known to have a strict evening routine which would ensure he would be fast asleep by now. However, within the tower, each door was locked with runes Khazim would have created to respond to him and him alone.


    Lediert could disable them, of course - he was one of the few who could - but again, he needed time for this.


    He brushed his thoughts aside hurrying forward and reaching the tower door, he would worry about rune locks he was ins- Pain.


    Pain screamed at Lediert as he slowly registered the wet slapping sound of an arrow piercing his chest. He looked down in disbelief.


    Spinning, he tried to spot his attacker. Leaning on the tower wall as he did, his body suddenly feeling very heavy. He spun the knives out from within his sleeves, poised.


    THUNK! Another arrow punctured his shin, making a sickening crack as bone was shattered. He fell to one knee, the pain bringing tears to his eyes. He would not scream.


    A cloaked figure appeared before him, a bow in his hand with an arrow notched in the string, aimed at Lediert. Lediert squinted through tears, where had this person come from? No one was here. He was sure of it. No, he knew there had been no one here.


    ¡°You can come out.¡± The figure said. ¡°It is safe.¡±


    The door behind Lediert opened slowly, giving a slight creak before another hooded figure stepped through it. This one was bigger, more rounder than his companion, and was wearing deep red robes. He pulled back his hood to reveal a bald middle aged man with a rich beard. Khazim.


    ¡°Fool boy.¡± He said looking down at Lediert. ¡°I would have expected more from an assassin charged with my execution. We detected you and your activities days ago.¡±


    Lediert tried to retort. Instead, he made a soft gurgling sound as blood left his mouth.


    ¡°Bring him to my chambers.¡± Khazim said to his companion before turning and walking back inside the tower.


    ¡°We shall keep you alive assassin. Long enough to tell us your secrets.¡± He disappeared into the darkness beyond the door. Darkness which Lediert felt himself slipping into, and embracing longingly.

 The Dark Path

    The Dark Path


    Harkas Holt splashed his face with the now cooled water from his wash basin, before dabbing himself lightly with a hand towel.


    He was tired of the pretence. Tired of delivering sermon after sermon to audiences filled with peasants and lesser nobles, gawking at him with eyes that lacked intelligence or insight.


    He cast aside the towel in frustration before composing himself. He would allow himself a moment, nothing more.


    The facade was of course a necessary one. The Crimson Path was one of Loudwater¡¯s oldest and most destructive religions that fostered submission and repentance from its followers, but alluded to immeasurable rewards in the eternal afterlife.


    Harkas had never much cared for it. There had been a time when he had uttered his sermons in disbelief, stunned that the audacity and outright blasphemy of his words were devoured wholly by his impoverished audiences, eager for promises, for hope of a better life.


    Now he had grown numb to it. He was not a follower of The Path, his own personal beliefs had been sacrificed decades ago to make room for what he must do, but he had learned every aspect of the religion, pored through each of the six Crimson Tomes countless times, in order to fulfil his role as High Seer.


    A serving boy entered the room, pulling Harkas free from his thoughts.


    ¡°Holy One.¡± The boy said with a bow of his head. ¡°When it suits you, today¡¯s audience is waiting.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Harkas said, turning his back to the boy and extending his arms to the sides.


    The boy understood the meaning and hastened to the armour stand. He hefted large golden shoulderpads, etched with intricate Crimson Tome quotes, onto Harkas¡¯ broad frame. The shoulderpads had small loops on their underside which the boy used to clip a long pure white cape on to.


    Next, six assorted chains were placed around Harkas¡¯ neck. Varying from brilliant gold, to polished silver, to a bloody crimson, these were known as The Chains of Penance.


    Harkas was already wearing his deep red sermon robes, finished with bright golden detailing.


    He studied himself in a mirror, allowing a thin smile to creep across his face. He had to admit, he did look good.


    ¡°Tell Karsi to begin preparations.¡± He said. ¡°I shall make my way to the chapel once I have finished my prayers.¡±


    The boy scurried off wordlessly.


    Once he was certain he was alone Harkas strolled over to a dressing table. He pulled out a drawer built into the front which gave off a faint sigh as it was opened. Within, lay a pristine white box about two handspans long with golden runes decorating it. He uttered a phrase under his breath and rubbed his thumb across a rune that was placed over the box¡¯s seal. The rune faded and the box popped open.


    Resting on some cushioning inside was a beautifully crafted knife. The blade was not made of metal, like one would expect, but instead bone, with small teeth chipped along each side.


    Harkas grabbed the knife by its handle and quickly sheathed it in a holder within his robes. He closed the box and slid the drawer back into the table before exiting the room quietly.


    Harkas could hear Karsi¡¯s voice as he made his way from the back rooms of the chapel toward the main theatre.


    He rounded the side halls and made his way to the entrance of the chapel, he always entered from behind his audience, strolling forward through the middle of the room as he was introduced. It was a small detail but Harkas felt it was beneficial to his speeches. Let the people see him among them, let them see what a man could become if he followed The Path.


    Karsi spotted him with a smile as he rounded into the chapel¡¯s theatre. Karsi didn¡¯t know of course, none of the priests did, save for Hethel. Hethel, who had been sent here with Harkas all those years ago, was nowhere to be seen. He would no doubt be in his study, awaiting the end of the sermon so that the two may conduct their work.


    ¡°Please stand for His Holiness, Highseer Holt.¡± Karsi said, gesturing toward Harkas.


    Harkas painted his face with a false humility, bowing his head as he walked forward through the room.


    His sermons were always full. The room seated hundreds. Hundreds of eager eyes and hungry stomachs. Hundreds of desperate minds clinging to his words, waiting for him to bring hope to their fruitless lives. They applauded him, some shouting prayers or reciting quotes to him.


    How they yearned.


    Harkas walked up the steps to the stage and approached the now vacant lectern, raising his hands before him as he did, silencing the room.


    ¡°Brothers and sisters.¡± His voice boomed across the theatre. ¡°We gather today under the shadow of the Crimson Watcher. The light of our world grows dim, and the air is thick with the scent of impending doom. Hearken unto me, for He is not pleased. The Watcher gazes upon our land and finds us wanting.¡±


    He fell into his speech with ease. This year, produce had been particularly lacking due to an unexpected drought. He would use this today.


    ¡° We were given dominion over these lands, entrusted with the sacred duty to uphold the six holy tenets and live in harmony with the elements. Yet, we have strayed from this most divine path!¡± He stepped away from the lectern and began pacing across the stage.


    ¡°Look around you!¡± He yelled, gesturing in a broad sweeping motion. ¡°Look within the city. Greed and avarice corrupt our hearts, turning neighbour against neighbour. Pride and hubris blind us to the needs of the weak and the cries of the suffering.¡±


    He paused, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Do the rich suffer as you do?  Have they felt the cruel embrace of this year¡¯s drought?¡±


    He turned to a child within the audience and smiled. ¡°Does the fourth tome not say we can take from one man what is needed by the other?¡±


    The child nodded eagerly.


    ¡°The Church of The Crimson Path will fill your stomachs whenever we can. You will always have a place to rest, to eat, but more importantly, to pray, within our halls. We will deal with the nobility. Their gluttony blinds them! Who tends their fields? Who cooks their meals? Who makes the very clothes that adorn their fat figures? You!¡± He jabbed a finger forward at the crowd.


    ¡°I am reminded.¡± He continued, ¡°of Vassendra of the fifth tome. He was a sinner, he lived a life of blasphemy. But Vassendra saw the signs, he could see what lay on the horizon. So, in the mightiest of blights, he prayed. In the longest of droughts he prayed. While Kings and lords squabbled with each other, he prayed. When the world was ending and the world¡¯s twilight looked to be upon us, Vassendra prayed to The Crimson Watcher. And what happened?¡± Harkas stood with his shoulders up in a shrugging gesture.


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    ¡°He was redeemed by The Watcher.¡± The child in the crowd shouted.


    Harkas pointed at him with a smile.


    ¡°He repented, and he was redeemed.¡± He said softly.


    ¡°Today I say to you all, cast aside your pride and kneel in humble supplication. Seek forgiveness for your transgressions and mend the ways that have led you astray. Only through true repentance can we hope to appease the wrath of The Crimson Watcher and restore balance to our world.¡±


    Harkas then walked back to the lectern where a copy of the Sixth Crimson Tome lay. He flicked it open, knowing by memory the page he sought. He cleared his throat and began reading.


    ¡°Warriors, lay down your arms and seek peace. Let your strength be a shield for the innocent, not a weapon of conquest. Pledge your swords to the service of justice and mercy, that you may cleanse your souls of the bloodshed that stains them.


    Common folk, let your daily labours be offerings of penance, and your homes be sanctuaries of righteousness. Remember, no soul is beyond redemption, but neither is any sin beyond judgement. The Crimson Watcher¡¯s gaze is unyielding, and His judgement is swift. We stand at the precipice, teetering between salvation and damnation. The choice is ours to make.¡±


    He closed the book.


    ¡°I would like to close this sermon with a prayer.¡± Harkas said, bowing his head. The room followed.


    ¡°Let us fall to our knees and beg for The Watcher¡¯s mercy. Let our cries for forgiveness rise to the heavens and pierce the stormy veil that separates us from divine grace. Only through heartfelt repentance and a return to the path of righteousness can we hope to avert the cataclysm that looms over us.


    Oh, Crimson Watcher, may you hear our pleas, and may your divine wrath be tempered by our sincere contrition. And to you all, go forth, and let your lives be a testament to your repentance. For the time of reckoning is upon us, and we must choose redemption over ruin.


    Finally, let us pray that The Watcher cast his gaze to those poor souls have gone missing and ensure their safe return home.


    We obey, we trust, and we serve. Always. Thus it shall be."


    ¡°Thus it shall be.¡± The audience repeated.


    Harkas kept his head bowed, allowing his audience to breathe in his words. He gorged on the silence, smiling inwardly at their naivety. Withdrawing his hands from his robes, he placed them over his face, as if in contemplation. In actuality, this was a well rehearsed part of the speech. Harkas had several herbs in his pockets that when rubbed together gave off a vapour that caused one¡¯s eyes to stream.


    As he rubbed his face with the herb residue, his eyes began to burn and water, responding instinctively to the irritant. After a moment he raised his head and allowed the audience to see him weeping, as if moved by The Watcher himself.


    Shouts of praise came from around the room at the sight of him and Harkas took this as his queue to leave. His work here was done.


    He stepped down from the stage and made his way back through the audience to the door in which he had entered. Desperate hands reached out toward him, gliding across his robes as he passed.


    As Harkas left the theatre he heard Karsi¡¯s voice begin sounding out. The day¡¯s sermons were far from over, but for the star of the show, well, he had places to be.


    Instead of returning to his chambers, Harkas entered his study quickly followed by the serving boy. He stood with his arms out as the boy got to work unclipping the cape and carefully removing the shoulderpads.


    ¡°Another fine sermon.¡± He said as he worked.


    Harkas nodded to the boy, he allowed a hint of a smile. The boy had earned it.


    ¡°Will you be needing anything further before you conduct your devotions, Holy One?¡± He asked. Any who knew Harkas, knew that after sermons he conducted his devotions. Hours worth of prayer, meditation, and writings, asking for forgiveness. And they also knew it was beyond blasphemous to disturb him during this time.


    ¡°No. Thank you.¡± He replied.


    ¡°Very well. I shall see you this evening.¡±


    Harkas watched the boy bow deeply before him, then hurry out of the door, closing it behind him.


    He used to wait a few minutes. Third hell, he used to wait up to an hour sometimes, fearful that someone may walk in on him. But these days he needn¡¯t bother. There was no danger of any disturbance and he would not be called upon until Harkas himself signalled for it.


    He removed all of his formal attire, folding it neatly on a chair and removing the sheathed knife from its hiding place and laying it on a table as he did so.


    Wearing only a simple white tunic, Harkas stood to full height and rolled his neck to either side, causing a series of loud clicks. Then, he sat at the desk and played with the knife for a moment, dancing it across his fingertips with practised ease. He paused. Hethel would be waiting for him.


    Harkas pushed his chair backward and leaned forward into a crouching position on the floor. Using the knife he carved three runes into the stone. Upon completion of the third rune, the three lit up and a green glow formed between them, creating a fourth rune.


    The stone floor began to part in front of Harkas, forming downward leading steps before him into darkness. He didn¡¯t need light, he had walked this path hundreds, maybe thousands of times.


    He knelt down into the hole and began descending the stairs, pulling the chair back to his desk as he did so. He was comfortable with his routine and the secrecy of it, but he would not become sloppy.


    The steps spiralled to the left and as he continued down them and light slowly began to creep into his vision.


    Eventually the steps ended and opened into a large room. There was a passage on the far end of the room, just like the one Harkas had entered from - that led directly to Hethel¡¯s study - and several patterns had been carved into the floor all culminating at a large stone slab, elevated in the middle of the room. Located on a wall beside the slab, were three metallic squares, each attached to a hinge and to the side of them, what appeared to be a furnace of sorts. The room was well lit with stoked braziers hanging on the walls, causing dancing shadows throughout.


    Hethel was standing beside the slab, a slew of assorted tools laid out before him. Even at their age, he was a handsome and sought after man. Harkas would often see Hethel courting some noble¡¯s daughter or another. Luckily for Hethel, The Path didn¡¯t forbid such frivolity.


    He smiled toward Harkas. ¡°Heard the middle of it from the corridors. Vassendra of the fifth?¡±


    ¡°Aah.¡± Harkas replied with a wave of his hand. ¡°He was an easy choice. I couldn¡¯t speak on Eliesh of the third again, could I?¡±


    Hethel let out a laugh. ¡°They really do eat anything up. Maybe you should speak on the farting whistler? I hear he was as virtuous as any hero.¡± Harkas snorted in response.


    Here, help me with this?¡±


    Hethel stepped to one end of the slab, placing his fingers around the edges, while Harkas moved to the other end. Located underneath a lip on either end of the slab was a set of levers that when pressed in conjunction with the opposing levers, caused depressions to appear in the slab that lined up with the patterns on the floor.


    ¡°Shall we begin?¡±


    Harkas nodded, striding over to the metal squares on the wall. He grabbed one and swung it on its hinges revealing a drawer of sorts and the bottom of a pair of feet on display.


    He flicked up a locking mechanism on the underside of the drawer and slowly began sliding it out along some wooden tracks.


    Once fully extended, the drawer revealed a man, naked, save for a cloth strewn modestly across his lower regions. Each square in the wall contained such a figure, although they varied in height, sex and weight. Those parts needn¡¯t be the same.


    Upon the light hitting the man¡¯s face he began slurring and groaning.


    ¡°Peace, friend.¡± Harkas shushed him. ¡°We just need to move you over here.¡±


    The man was heavily drugged, but the light and fresh air seemed to be pulling him from his stupor.


    ¡°Harka¡­ Holy One?¡± He spluttered.


    Harkas and Hethel guided the man onto the slab, laying him on his back, ignoring his confused protests.


    Methodically, each one began tying down the man¡¯s hands and feet which started to induce a panic within him.


    ¡°Be easy.¡± Hethel whispered. ¡°You appease The Watcher with your actions.¡±


    The man started pulling at his bonds, becoming more and more lucid by the second.


    ¡°Wait. Please, no please. Wait, wait, wait.¡± He begged.


    Harkas gagged the man.


    He moved to one of the man¡¯s arms whilst Hethel moved to the other, both producing their bone knives as they did.


    The man continued struggling. Screaming now beneath his gag.


    In practised synchrony, Hethel and Harkas pressed their knives down into the man¡¯s wrists before sliding them with little resistance up his arms to the chest. They then repeated this with the legs.


    Blood flowed heavily into the depressions on the slab and the man¡¯s struggling had ceased considerably as he lost more and more blood.


    Harkas moved to the man¡¯s throat and made a deep incision from ear to ear. Finally, the struggling stopped as the patterns on the floor around the room began drinking greedily with a dark glimmer.


    ¡°This one¡¯s done.¡± Hethel murmured.


    Harkas nodded, untying the straps. Their moods were always sombre after a sacrifice, no matter how many times they performed them.


    ¡°You see to the collection, I¡¯ll get the next one prepared.¡± Hethel hoisted the lifeless body onto his shoulder and made his way toward the furnace.


    Harkas walked over to a corner of the room that seemed to be where the patterns contravened. He knelt down and plucked a large glass vial that was nestled in a holder built into the floor, now full with blood.


    ¡°Is so much really necessary? He whispered to himself.


    He took it over to where Hethel had laid his tools out and found a cork. He plugged the vial then set it down reverently on the floor by the stairs Hethel had come from.


    Then, he made his way back to the table and found a second vial. He took it to the holder and screwed it into the floor.


    ¡°Be easy.¡± He heard Hethel saying over his shoulder. ¡°You appease The Watcher with your actions.¡±

 The Guardian

    The Guardian


    Seven clutched at his chest with shaking hands. A thick green ooze began mixing with his own blood from the protruding arrowhead that poked through his tunic, staining the pure white linen.


    Already he could feel the effects of the poison, his vision leaving a slight trail behind wherever he looked, his movements becoming sluggish and heavy.


    How had they found him?


    He knew the poison wouldn¡¯t be lethal¡­ would it? He was taller than most, that might slow it down, but his lithe frame would likely offer little resistance. Surely his assailants needed him alive for now, but Seven knew that death would be better than whatever was planned for him. He allowed himself a moment to breathe, to realign himself. He had undergone years of brutal, body breaking training to prepare for the unlikely event of such attacks. There had been times during his training when Seven had found himself wondering who could ever attack him, or why they would even want to. It seemed today that questions were being answered.


    It had only been minutes ago that he had been in his chambers communing with the others, a process that required him to be in a deep trance like state. They had spoken to him in fear, alerting him of their kind being hunted one by one. A moment of terror crossed his mind. Had he been followed between monasteries? Did they know about the tomes? The ramifications of what he was considering were beyond catastrophic.


    Seven leaned against a wall, gritting his teeth through the pain. He found himself thinking of his parents, of his brother. Attachments he had been forced to relinquish so many years ago. He glanced at the intricate patterns on the walls around him, how he had been so fascinated by their designs when he first arrived here. He took in the familiar scents of the evening air, now tainted by the foul stench of blood and death as the last of his protectors fought valiantly to give him any hope of escape.


    His home, a place of peace and learning, a sanctuary of enlightenment and discipline, now to be abandoned forever.


    With a groan, Seven brought both hands around the arrow and tugged feebly. He tried his hardest to snap the arrowhead but his body felt weak and broken. He exhaled sharply at the pain as his fingers slipped off the arrow¡¯s shaft, allowing them to fall to his side.


    Sighing, he closed his eyes and concentrated. Slowly, wisps of blue light began emanating from his fingers leaving a smoky trail in their wake. And yet, something was off. The familiar warmth he felt when he tapped into the Eternal was missing, it felt almost hollow this time. Was it because he was near death? Was it the poison blocking it? So many questions.


    Seven brushed these thoughts aside. For now, he had been imbued with enough strength to do what he needed to. To escape.


    He clasped firmer hands around the arrowhead before reaching toward his back in resignation to the arrow¡¯s point of entry. He gritted his teeth and yanked it backward through his chest. Seven screamed in agony, his eyes widening at the pain as the arrow tore through his insides.


    ¡°Keep going.¡± He panted to himself as he felt tissue and muscle slowly trying to weave itself back together. ¡°Keep going. Keep going.¡±


    He fumbled to a pouch at his hip, dipping in two fingers. They emerged covered in a powdery green dust; Catrine. Seven began drawing a series of runes on a large plant beside him then reapplied the dust before painfully replicating the symbols around his wound.


    He felt the effects immediately as the plant began to wither, but¡­ something was wrong. The healing rune he had cast was simple, but extremely effective, yet something was prohibiting it. Had his assailants found a way to block runes?


    As if in answer to his question, the plant sprang back up unaffected as Seven noticed his wound reopening. This may be more dire than he first thought. Begrudgingly, Seven pushed himself off the wall. His body yearned to stay longer, to sit down and go to sleep, to let this be over. He considered for the briefest of moments then stumbled forward. If he stopped, the world ended.


    The mosaics on the walls around him were now dancing, becoming a blurry mess of colour, the pearly white floor tiles that had seen millenia, now rippling like a lake in a breeze. Seven blinked furiously, forcing his vision to comply. He needed to reach the bridge, if he could make it there then he might just have a chance.


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    He heard a shuffle behind him, spinning round just in time to see a figure rounding a corner and without hesitation throwing a dagger at him. It landed with a meaty thud in his shoulder, forcing a surprised cough from Seven.


    ¡°He¡¯s here! By the fountai-¡±, In a burst of speed, Seven grabbed the assailant by the face, his body now ablaze with a fiery blue glow.


    He drove the man¡¯s head into the ground with a force that caused the tiles to splinter. He took a step back and righted himself as a second figure rounded the corner.


    Seven adopted a defensive stance as the newcomer drew a long slender sword from its sheath. The assailant moved first, lunging toward Seven with surprising speed. However, instead of stepping backward, Seven pushed forward into the attack with both wrists crossed before him. The sword struck Seven¡¯s wrists and he allowed the tiniest moment of satisfaction at the assailant¡¯s face as it bounced off with a vibrating twang.


    He felt a surge of adrenaline. Who did they think they were facing? The sheer audacity of attacking a Guardian. The adrenaline became rage.


    ¡°It will take,¡± Seven screamed as he dipped down, grabbing his attacker¡¯s legs, ¡°an army to kill me!¡±. He heaved upward causing the man to fall to his back with a surprised grunt, then drove his fist through the man¡¯s chest, feeling his knuckles cut on the shattered tiles beneath. Seven''s muscles twitched. He stood upright, breathing heavily.


    No time to stop, keep moving.


    The bridge was on the other side of the courtyard that lay before him, situated in a small inconspicuous looking building. If he could make it there, this would be over. He just needed to keep moving, yet he felt his body beginning to falter. The rage he felt began washing away, being replaced with the now all too familiar fatigue and pain. Slowly, painstakingly, he crossed the courtyard toward the large circular building on the other side huffing and spitting, each breath causing bile to form in his throat.


    Hearing sounds behind him, he reached the building.


    Seven heaved open the heavy wooden door, revealing one large empty room inside. There was no lighting in here, no windows, and no other doors. The walls were stars and the deepest black, the ceiling a moon and clouds hanging lazily in a night sky. The room was impossible and yet, it lay before him like always, an endless expanse of beauty, reaching into infinity.


    This was the bridge, and it had always fascinated Seven.


    He spun around and grabbed the door with both hands, swinging it slowly closed with a satisfying thud, causing dust to spin up off the wall beside it. Seven strode into the centre of the room. He would need time to perform the ritual, time he didn¡¯t have.


    He closed his eyes and concentrated, a faint blue aura emanated from his body before dissipating. The poison was too far gone, he would not have speed to assist him.


    Seven dipped his fingers into his pouch and began tracing runes onto the floor. He had to be careful, this had to be precise, this had to be perfect.


    There was a loud thud on the door behind him, a muffled voice began shouting before becoming multiple muffled voices, and the thuds became heavier and more consistent.


    ¡°Ninth Hell.¡± He cursed to himself.


    Casting fate to the stars, Seven scrambled to his feet and unclipped the pouch from his hip before frantically pouring it on the floor into the shapes of the required runes.


    The thuds on the door became harder still causing it to groan and creak. Beads of sweat dropped down Seven¡¯s forehead.


    I¡¯m not going to make it, he thought. I need more time.


    As the powder came to an end, Seven cast the pouch aside before unclipping a second pouch and beginning to pour a deep red powder. He snorted, if his master could see him mixing Veltrix powder with Feridane to create transport runes, the lashings he would have received would have been legendary. Feridane was only ever used as a last resort for¡­ Of course!


    Seven stumbled to the door and began drawing a set of runes using the Feridane powder which clung to its new surface eagerly. He drew the final few lines then hurriedly returned to the centre of the room to continue his task.


    This just might work.


    The door finally gave way. As it did, the runes ignited and caused an outward explosion, sending the door and anyone behind it cascading across the courtyard. Seven risked a glance.


    The first person to enter now lay in a smouldering corpse about twenty feet from the doorway, with a further five men on fire rolling around in an attempt to extinguish the flames.


    He stood up and applied the final set of runes to the ritual. It was done. It was done! Hurriedly he stepped toward the centre of the room, standing in the middle of the pattern he had created, then using the last of the red powder, traced a rune on his head and his chest.


    The room lit up a brilliant yellow as the runes came to life, swirling slowly around the room and becoming tighter and tighter to Seven¡¯s body. He could see the men outside beginning to recover, their shouts of alarm ringing out as they saw him. Seven tried to control his breathing, his heart was beating so hard it felt like it might burst from his chest.


    He closed his eyes, the runes were now lacing his skin, taking him slowly away, away from here, to safety. He didn¡¯t care which monastery the ritual took him to just as long as it took him away from here.


    He looked down, his feet had disappeared. His legs were slowly disappearing too, it looked like someone was wrapping an invisible bandage around his body, slowly removing him from sight. The spell made its way upward, his stomach now disappearing from view before THONK THONK, two spears embedded themselves into his chest.


    Seven spat out a gasp before disappearing.