Markhiss’s Perspective
The shadows in the dark alley stretched unnaturally to wrap around Markhiss. The world around him bent to his unconscious desire to remain unseen and unbothered. He moved forward without a sound, hands in pockets, and posture slumped.
He was not looking forward to the meeting about to take place in the shady building ahead. The black door with silver highlights opened before he arrived. A butler in immaculate attire bowed deeply, inviting Markhiss inside with pristine movements.
Markhiss distinctly remembered the first time he had been to this particular branch. The stark contrast between the dingy alley and the finery of the interior, perfectly designed to throw new guests into mental disarray, had caught him by surprise.
With a grunt and nod of greeting to the butler, Markhiss made his way deeper into the grandly decorated hub of criminal activity. Underestimating the staff here was a deadly mistake. There was not a single person in Silence who was as simple as they appeared.
As he crossed the large foyer filled with beautiful tapestries and statues, three shadows detached from the walls and materialized beside him. One on each side and one in front, they escorted him deeper into the building without making even the slightest detectable sound.
The room they led him to was not nearly as opulent as the rest of the building. Simple wooden chairs faced a spartan desk. The man who had called the meeting eyed Markhiss as he entered the room and took a seat.
He wore shadows like a uniform, they covered him completely except for his brilliant blue eyes. They surveyed every millimeter of Markhiss, looking for any signs of weakness.
The three shadowy escorts vanished as the two men stared each other down. Markhiss spoke first.
“Was the operation a success?”
“Indeed it was. Emperor Dominus himself left to fetch the children as you anticipated. Our infiltration during his absence was a complete success.”
“Then why am I here, Abel?” Markhiss spoke in a dangerous whisper while leaning forward threateningly.
“Why? Because I sent two promising recruits with you and they are both dead. Because you were chased off by a third party. Because I have questions, Markhiss, that’s why!”
“Fine, ask your damned questions. Don’t expect to be happy with what you hear though.” Markhiss spoke while petulantly crossing his arms like a pouting child.
“Who interfered and what was their purpose?” The question was spoken clinically as if his previous outburst had been a facade.
“Samris Feylon La’Furiette,” The name was followed by absolute silence.
Abel didn’t move, not even a blink. There was not a single discernable motion from the man. The shadows that cloaked him, for the first time since Markhiss arrived, stopped their swirling motions and held as still as death itself.
After several tense seconds, Abel spoke. “That is troubling indeed. Do you have any idea why he was there or why he stopped you?”
“He didn’t stop me,” Came the immediate reply from Markhiss.
Abel’s eyes widened with surprise then quickly narrowed in fury.
“You attacked him, didn’t you? You thrice cursed maniac. You put the entire operation at risk!”
“Can you really blame me though? I may never get another chance to measure myself against a Unique.” The shrug of Markhiss’s shoulders as he spoke elicited the first real reaction out of Abel.
His shadowed form shuddered as twelve shadowy appendages extended behind him. They curled around his body like a spider's legs, each tipped with a sharp point.
“Don’t get so worked up, Abel. I asked him if he was there to stop me and he didn't respond. I think he was just in the area.”
“You honestly believe that the son of Dagris was ‘just in the area’.” The scathing response was full of sarcastic intent.
“I looked into it yesterday. Apparently he exiled himself to some coastal village in the southwest. It’s not entirely unreasonable that he was ranging his territory and stumbled upon us.”
“Fine, I’ll look into it. What about my recruits, did Samris kill them?”
“No. Some kid I picked up in the woods killed them. He also released the captives and destroyed the camp.”
Abel groaned, like someone had stabbed him. For several seconds he stared at Markhiss expecting the man to continue. As the silence stretched, so did Abel’s control over his emotions.
“Out with it you imbecile! We both know you aren’t so incompetent as to have no further information for me! If you keep pushing my patience I’m going to send Liftou into the barrens.”
The threat in his last words finally got a reaction out of the calm Markhiss. The man's entire body vibrated and the wooden chair beneath him exploded into splinters.
“Excellent, now that we are both taking this conversation seriously, will you please answer my questions with some real details.
“Oh, and skip the part where you threaten to kill me if I mess with your pet project., I’m not so vile as to ruin seasons of your work just because you're being a royal ass.”
“I’m glad you understand your position, brother.
“I really don’t know much about the kid, he called himself Jiran. His movements were trained, but definitely Tier two. He was the only unknown variable that could have killed your men.
“I suppose Samris could have been working with someone else…” The way Markhiss let his words trail off made it obvious how ridiculous the idea was.
“Fine, I’ll look into the kid as well. Anything else to report?”
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“No.” Markhiss turned to leave without a moment's hesitation.
“One last thing, Hiss. Did you win?”
“No, he kicked my ass.” came the response as the door closed behind him.
Oliviala’s Perspective
Frustration, annoyance, and impatience.
Olive paced back and forth in her opulent bedroom, full of toys and colorful art. Not a single one of her possessions arrested her thoughts.
Olive wondered what Michael would say if he were there. She missed him so much, his stoic and solid demeanor was one she would never again feel the comfort of. Would he have reprimanded her? Perhaps he would have helped her escape this prison.
She needed to get out of this room. The training grounds, the library, anywhere other than here so she could learn and practice.
“How am I supposed to catch up to him if I’m stuck in here!?” She yelled for the fifth time. She was alone, not a single person could hear her frustrated shout, not even the guards on the other side of her door.
This time, her scream triggered something inside of her. A memory of a boy, locked in a cage. They had all been in that cage together. While Cameron, Dommell, and herself had sat uselessly in their corner, the boy had trained.
When night fell and when the suns rose, the boy never once ceased his struggle to grow. He had never slowed. He would never stop. So why should she?
Her childish tantrum ceased instantly. Without access to ambient mana, while stuck in her new cell, her only recourse was to train her body and her molding.
So she picked up the dusty sword in the corner. Her aunt had gifted it to her three seasons ago. A gaudy and decorative thing that reeked of nepotism and the currying of favors.
Olive couldn't care less where the blade came from. It was the perfect tool for her right now. He had taught her how to improve her molding technique, she just needed to practice.
At that moment, the sword became her anvil. Her body became the hammer.
Time and again she swung the weapon until her tiny hands bled and tears ran down her cheeks. When her grip failed and the weapon clattered to the floor, she threw punches and kicks instead.
Every time her body tired, and she considered resting, the smug smile of a boy with shining eyes flashed through her mind.
“Just you wait, Jiran. I’m coming for you.”
Cameron's Perspective
A boy knelt in the center of a dojo. Racks of weapons lined both sides of the long room. They held every weapon the empire had ever imagined and built.
Little else could be found in the room other than the weapons. The floor was made of sand and dirt, creating randomly soft and hard terrain so footing was never guaranteed. There was no ceiling, so the glint of light off weapons was as much a danger here as in any true battlefield.
The natural elements of the weather passed through the space as freely as any field or hill. This was truly the optimal setting to train one's martial prowess.
The boy was large to his peers but an ant before the massive man in front of him. Layers of muscles that would take a day to count covered his huge frame. He gazed down upon the child with the eyes of a predator.
Like a master at the game of sompla, he saw two steps ahead of each movement. Prepared to counter any threat long before it appeared.
Energies raged about the man. Moldings, shapings, and castings struggled against each other constantly, creating a battlefield of chaotic mana that never stilled.
The child looked up at his father, the captain of the royal legions of Cruex, Nostrus Amyntas. Emperor Dominus’s life-long guardian and friend.
“Have you gone easy on me, Father? I met Samris’s pupil, he could defeat a hundred of me at the same time.
“I could not protect Olive and Dommell. I disgraced my name. I am nothing but a failure.
“I need to be stronger, faster, more powerful. What do I have to do, Father!? Please, tell me and I’ll do it. Anything, I’ll do anything, please!”
The mountain, wearing the skin of a man, spoke. His voice rumbled like a kicked hive of bees.
“I had hoped your destiny would be different from my own, Cameron. If this is truly the path you wish to walk, then you will show me with your actions.
“Let the color of your blood upon these sands bear witness to your choice. If you falter, if you fail, I will exile you from this house and you may live a happy and peaceful life with your uncle.
“Quit any time you wish, or suffer along the road to power.
“Let your test begin.”
Cameron didn't see the first strike coming, his young, yet strong body rolled across the ground from the blow.
Blood already stained the sand as he leaped to his feet. Bravely he charged toward his Father. His eyes brimming with courage and determination.
Dommell's Perspective
“What's your excuse this time, Dommell?”
The bloated man who spoke sat upon a gilded throne. In one hand he clutched a golden goblet, in the other, the massive leg of a beast. Hot fat dripped from the meat and splattered on the floor, sizzling like acid.
“I have no excuse for my failure, Lord Father.”
His response was instant. Neselex Crueshaunt detested delays. Anything other than instant subservience would result in punishment. Dommell knew all too well the pain of making this man become impatient.
“Tsk, cheeky little bastard, you think you have all the right words don’t you?”
The rotund man stood from his throne. He took one massive thudding step after another as he closed in on the boy. The light from several braziers glinted off the ten rings he wore and the many necklaces adorning his bulk.
Dommell wanted to run, but fleeing would only make his punishment worse. He fought against the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.
“Give me something good, or you’ll spend a week in the box.” The words were spoken as a whisper, but their effects on Dommell were anything but soft and silent.
His body stiffened up and his eyes widened as far as they could go. He scrambled through his memories of the last several days looking for anything that might interest his tormentor.
Not finding anything he knew Neselex would want to hear, he recounted every detail he could remember.
The giant looked at him with a bored expression, standing close enough to strike at any second yet not interrupting his recounting. Not a single detail seemed to surprise him, as if he already knew everything.
Dommell panicked, feeling the weight of the box already pressing down on him.
“That’s enough, get out of my sight.”
“Thank you, Lord Father,” Dommell nearly jumped for joy at escaping the worst punishment his step-father had ever devised.
He knelt and touched his forehead to the floor in supplication, before backing out of the room.
After softly closing the door behind him, he finally breathed a massive sigh of relief. It would not have been the first time he thought he was free, only to be punished at the last second.
Once he was a safe distance away, nearly back to his own small room, he let his true feelings out.
Disgust colored his features, remembering the sight of the pig who had taken everything from his family.
Anger at his father, for dying at the hands of that very swine. Disappointment in his mother for bowing to his demands. Shame at his own fear of the man and his punishments.
Dommell had spent the last precious days of freedom in deep thought. Why did everyone tease him? Why didn’t they want to be his friend? Couldn’t they tell he just wanted them to like him?
Was it all that boy’s fault? Everyone loved Jiran, they practically worshiped him. Always staring at his every move and never questioning his words.
Dommell’s last thoughts before he entered his empty room were that perhaps he should act less like his fake father and more like that peasant.