Several hours prior to the Blue Vultures crossing paths with the evacuees, before the sun even peeked over the horizon, a lone, shadowy figure traipsed through the darkest alleys of Azgara under the cover of darkness. The cloudy night sky aided his stealthy venture through the city.
Glancing warily around a corner, he scouted for any patrolling guards or possibly even drunken civilians. Nothing.
Instantly, his body sank into the shadows and dashed across the stone surface of a main road. A meter or so into the alley on the other side, his body resurfaced in an instant. Shadowy manifestations of mana melted away from him and dissipated. Once again, he warily eyed his surroundings.
Upon seeing nothing, he sighed and leaned against the alley wall. He lifted the sleeve of his dark gray cloak, revealing a tattoo portraying a miniature map of Azgara.
Almost there, he thought while letting the sleeve fall back in place. Before moving any further, he reached down the neck of his cloak and pulled out a silver locket. He opened it. A fist-sized parchment lay within, a portrait, or rather, a magic imprint of three people visible on the surface. The man’s eyes moistened. In spite of the promises from his masters, he knew he would, most likely, never again see the love of his life or their little muffin. Cursing his fate, he closed both his eyes and the locket at the same time. He steeled his resolve and moved on.
Eventually, he arrived at the back wall of the Azgara City Temple without alerting anyone to his presence. Four great steeples protruded from the roof and pointed toward the sky. Stained glass windows portraying all sorts of strange rituals lined the outer walls of the enormous cathedral. The largest, most noticeable one portrayed a divine being surrounded by floating trails of blood. Although the main sect of the religion removed blood sacrifices from their worship many years ago, the thought of their history somewhat eased the man’s conscience of what his actions would bring to pass.
As before, he melted into his shadow and darted through the slit between the bottom of the back door and the door jam. On the other side, he emerged into a dimly lit hallway. An open doorway to the right led to the sanctuary, but his destination lay beyond that.
Ignoring the splendor of the sanctuary, he skulked toward the wooden door at the end of the hallway. Just in case, he attempted to open it by hand, but it remained sealed by a powerful spell. Prepared for such a result, he retrieved a scroll from the small travel pack at his waist. Unraveling it revealed a complex pattern he did not comprehend. As instructed, he pressed the parchment against the wooden surface. Upon contact, it crackled and sizzled, generating a few blue and white sparks before burning to ashes in an instant. The door clicked open with a barely audible creak. Hesitantly, he grasped the iron handle and pulled. Several creaks echoed through the hallway. He held his breath. He glanced behind himself. He heard nothing.
Beyond the open door, a stone staircase descended deep below the ground. He stepped down and shut the door behind him as quietly as possible. Utter darkness closed in around him. As a precaution, he retrieved a small, yellow-brown stone that glowed enough for him to see in the enclosed space.
Wasting no time, he bounded down several steps at a time. Far ahead, he could see a greenish glow. The closer he got, the less necessary the glowing stone in his hand became. Eventually, he simply decided to slip it back in his pack. Then, almost three hundred steps later, he reached the bottom.
A half-circular opening led to an expansive cavern illuminated by the eerie white-green glow. Spiral grooves were carved into every inch of the hardened clay floor. Seawater dripped from countless stalactites above his head but all of it drained into a basin on the other side of the room. However, none of that mattered. The centerpiece, the source of the greenish light, garnered his full attention. An enormous chunk of glowing stone the size of a full-grown man slowly rotated and bobbed in the air over an intricately-designed darksteel pedestal. Green light pulsed through the grooves, coursing from the grooves on the pedestal to the grooves covering the floor.
Despite his awe of the construct, the man sauntered toward it while retrieving another scroll from his pack. The designs on the parchment did not even register in his mind in the least. Even so, he placed the open scroll atop the pedestal directly below the stone. This time, he uttered the phrase his owners told him to say.
“Ianua,” he whispered, his thick Zhulisian accent audible in the lone word.
The sound of his own voice reverberated around him. The air pulsated. The open scroll shivered beneath his hand. Then, his eyes widened as the scroll sucked an invisible substance from the stone. Something akin to a small tornado spread downward into the scroll. Frightened, he yanked his hands away, yet the scroll remained in place.
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After a few moments, the scroll evaporated like steam and spread out into an oval-shaped mass of pulsating air. It continued to expand in near silence, the only noise from it sounding like water draining into a pipe in the distance. Then, the steam-like oval stabilized and the air cracked with a sharp bang. An eerie screech like two chunks of metal grinding against each other followed. Afterward, the greenish light in the grooves gradually vanished, starting from the pedestal onward. Once every inch of the grooves went dark, the crystal plummeted toward the ground.
Preparing for a loud crash, the man closed his eyes and winced. However, the world around him instantly darkened. The screeching subsided. He opened his eyes. Nothing. Confused, he once again retrieved the glowing stone from his pack.
The little amount of light generated by the small stone barely illuminated the area enough for him to see the now empty pedestal. The light cast overly elongated shadows, creating an eerie atmosphere. The giant crystal vanished in the brief moments he shut his eyes. Although he expected a different kind of ending to his job, he shook himself out of the surprise and swiftly retraced his steps back to the narrow stairway.
Although not as quickly as the trip down, he bounded up multiple steps at a time. A vain hope of possibly escaping formed in the back of his mind.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his breathing turned ragged and his legs and lungs burned. He practically slammed the door open and sprinted outside. Each stride swift and light, he darted away from the temple.
Loud voices erupted from around the temple. The priests already noticed that the barrier protecting the city had fallen. Time now worked against him. Every moment lowered his chances of a successful escape.
Only a few minutes after leaving the temple, he glanced around the corner from an alley and saw a patrol of city guards running down the road toward him. To avoid detection, he sank into the building’s shadow until they passed. When he emerged again, his head began to throb. Mental fatigue was already setting in. Briefly, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then, he dashed across the street without using shadow magic. He did so in the hopes of saving as much mana as possible.
Commotion in the city increased every second. More patrols combed the streets. Some citizens woke early due to the noise. Despite the early hour, a few of them took the situation more seriously than others and carried the message to their neighbors. Before long, numerous people roamed the streets. All of the traffic prevented the cloaked man from advancing as quickly as possible.
Wary of the fact that time was running out, he started using mana again. He dashed through the shadows of back alleys, all the while clinging to a hope of escaping with his life.
However, his luck eventually ran out. A guard who happened to be knocking on his family’s door noticed the shadow darting across a small street. The guard yelled to all the nearby soldiers. Although only a handful were close enough to respond, it frightened him. Fear caused him to forego stealth and charge toward the wall with every ounce of strength remaining in his bones. He truly feared leaving the world without seeing his family once more.
For several minutes, he raced toward the wall. Sweat poured down his face in droves. Tears streaked across his cheeks. The wind lapped at his cloak. All he could do was focus on his destination.
About two-thirds of the way to the wall, the thought that maybe, just maybe, he might escape floated into his mind. Nevertheless, his hopes crashed and burned in a single instant. While crossing the last main road in his path, an armored foot caught him in the ribs. The sudden impact completely changed his trajectory and sent his limp body hurtling through the air. He landed unceremoniously several wagon-lengths down the road, numerous bones shattered.
Pain coursed through every inch of his body. Bright red blood oozed from the cuts and abrasions from hitting the stone road multiple times. The red liquid starkly contrasted with the dark pigment of his skin. Coughing and sputtering, he struggled to roll over and look at the attacker.
A man garbed in ceremonial plate armor rapidly approached. The red feathers protruding from his helm signified his position as a commander. In the shortest seconds of his entire life, the cloaked man watched the young soldier storm over. Then, almost in slow motion, the soldier stood over him with ominous intensity. Without waiting for any type of confirmation of the cloaked man’s identity, the soldier plunged his sword through the man's heart. Crying out angrily, the soldier twisted it and swiftly slid it back out.
The cloaked man grunted in pain, but could bring himself to do no more. Fear clung to him. His breaths shallowed even more than before. The feeling of his life quickly ebbing away frightened him. Shivering, he glanced around. His gaze eventually landed on the city wall. It loomed in the distance. It mocked him.
Knowing he was down to his final breaths, he turned his attention to the man standing over him. Although his death came at the hands of this young man, he did not blame him. Protecting that which you care about was a very familiar thing to him. With nobody else to turn to, he retrieved the silver locket from beneath his cloak, though it proved difficult due to his convulsing muscles. The action drew a wary backstep from the young soldier, but when he saw the locket, his brows furrowed and he lowered his blade.
Struggling to even stay conscious, the cloaked man held out the locket and weakly pleaded in his heavy Zhulisian accent, “Please… I… I know,” he coughed and blood spouted from between his lips, but he continued, “I know… dis is strange, but… please, if you can… see if they are… okay…”
Suddenly, his vision went dark. His consciousness slowly slipped away. No longer able to move his own body, his arm fell, locket still in hand. Even his skull cracked against the stone below him. He died, bleeding out on that very street.