Hector wanders around the front of Finnian’s cavern for some fresh air. He does not plan on running away, for he still has business here with the warlock, his so-called destiny. Anne-Marie’s image is conjured within his mind for a brief second as he looks up to the moon, but her face is soon whisked away from him by a voice—Finnian’s voice. “I’ve put up some pillows and hay next to my bed!” he calls, from further inside. “I’m going for a nap now—my shoulders are killing me!—take your time and do whatever you want, just…” The young warlock pauses. “Don’t run away and give them my location, yeah?”

Delighted, Hector grins. “Not a worry!” he tells Finnian. “Thank you for your hospitality!” Not only will I be slaying the witch tonight, but it will be painfully easy too, the knight thinks. I knew I had charisma, but… to this extent? He cannot help but be proud of his skills. Perhaps, a little too much.

Finnian enters his quarters. He slips into something that isn’t a robe—a peasant’s white shirt, some loose trousers. His back hits his bed made up of stone, hay, and self-sewn pillows. He chuckles, then lies on his side with back facing away from the door.

The warlock closes his eyes.

After waiting for a moment that Hector deems long enough for another to fall victim to slumber, the knight strolls back into the cave. He looks around, does his best to avoid creating any noise by potentially knocking over pots or pans, as he snoops around in Finnian’s every cupboard and drawer, for a weapon worthy of slaying his foe.

Oddly enough, it does not take long for him to find one. The knight had assumed Finnian would have taken more precautions than this, yet, there, on a nearby table, Hector finds a dagger, left behind by Finnian. It is so perfect, in fact, that it is as if it has been placed here for this very occasion.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Finnian had used it to cut up fruit for the knight hours earlier; there is still left-over pieces of pears on its blade. But never in my mind could I have imagined he would have been careless enough to leave it behind, thinks Hector, while he runs his hands over the knife, grins, chuckles to himself, then picks it up and evaluates its weight by spinning the handle around in the mid of his palm. The knight grasps his makeshift weapon, before he stabs the air, once.

The only thoughts that run through his mind are: Perfect, and How lucky.

He steps toward Finnian’s quarters. He rests a single hand against the rocky doorframe and takes a peek into the room. On his bed, Finnian sleeps peacefully with his back turned to the tragedy that is about to be bestowed upon him. Of course, one could wonder if this will actually go according to Hector’s plans, as the knight steps into his enemy’s lair, then approaches the warlock’s bed.

Hector waits one second, then two. His grip around the dagger’s handle tightens. He lifts the blade into the air, over Finnian’s figure. The warlock’s breaths are heavy, and his eyes stay shut. Hector smirks. A piece of darkness—the thirst for murder—flashes through his gaze. It takes one second until the knife has pierced Finnian’s chest; three, for a pool of crimson to be embedded into the once virgin clear hay, and seven, for the very same fluids to start dripping onto the knight’s silver boots.

At first, Hector hesitates. Guilt hits his chest like a pinprick of invisible needles. Now that his hands have been warmed by Finnian’s blood, the knight is not sure if this was truly, the right choice. Something tugs at his gut—something other than the victory and adrenaline that course through his veins. Perhaps, it is remorse. Perhaps it is regret. But we will never know, for once laughter begins to fill the room—laughter, that does not belong to knight—Hector’s eye widen. He freezes.