Gryphon’s Roost, Caras

Kingdom of Cedirc

7th Day of Pendelius, 247 A.C.

Early Morning

The black gloved hand reached over the top of the parapet, searching for something, anything, to grab on to. It pawed around for a moment before finding a crack, nothing more than a small seam where some of the ivory coloured mortar had fallen away from between the white marble bricks. Once it was secure in its grip, similarly groping around blindly until it found another gap to hold on to.

Moments later, a head hooded in black poked up, face covered except for a pair of barely visible eyes searching the top of the wall for the guards the intruder knew to be about. The head ducked bow the crenelation as a pair of them exited the tower to the left of where the intruder hung from the wall. It was not long before they wandered past, chatting softly with one another. Neither appeared to notice the pair of hands gripping the top of the parapet in the light offered by the torch they carried, diminished as the flame was by the steady breeze that blew in from the west this cloudy night.

Once the pair had passed, the intruder hoisted himself to the top of the wall, well toned muscles vaulting his body up and over the crenelations to land softly on the rather narrow walkway. The black clad man glanced after the guards to ensure they had no paused in their rounds, then the opposite direction, to the door they had come from, knowing he did not have long before the next pair came along.

The Gryphon Guard was nothing if not well trained, efficient and, most importantly to those in his line of work, predictable.

He moved quickly to the edge of the walkway and peered down. Perhaps ten paces below him stood the red slate roof of the building he knew to be the stable-master’s quarters. With another quick look around, he slid over the edge of the walkway, lowering himself from sight as the door to the western tower opened, and light from the torches within flooded the walkway where he had stood but a moment before in an orange glow. The next pair of steel plate clad soldiers exited the structure on their rounds, boots thumping loudly on the oaken planks. The intruder felt the wood under his fingers vibrate as the boots came closer.

He let go.

The figure dropped to the roof below, landing in a roll to soften the impact and reduce the noise his landing made as it disturbed the slate. Fortunately for him, as he landed, raucous laughter emanated from below, followed by more than a few curses as those within, oblivious to the intruder above them, gambled and drank the night away. Turning his attention back above, he saw the guards had continued on, clearly not noting his presence either. He allowed himself a small, self satisfied smirk as he turned to survey the courtyard of Gryphon’s Roost, the seat of power for Alfred DeCarren, King of Cedirc.

The soon to be late Alfred DeCarren, the intruder silently mused as he ran his fingertips over the pommel of the onyx dagger belted on his waist.

The building on he crouched sat against the southern wall of the complex, directly across the manicured courtyard from the towering five story keep, built of the same white marble as the wall behind him, which rose out the darkness before him. It was dark, the full moon hidden by unseen clouds the wind brought with it. The only lights in the castle grounds came from the torches carried by the guards as they went about their patrols, and those held by sconces at regular intervals along the walls of the compound.

The only exception was the area below him to and to the right: the stables.

Stretching from his current location along the westernmost wall of the fortress, the stables were the one patch of uninterrupted darkness, and thus afforded him the perfect route to his target. 

He took many moments to study the courtyard, mentally noting the positions and routes of the guards posted within the castle proper, comparing him to the notes his informants had passed him. If any of the soldiers positions or routines had been missed, overlooked, or omitted, his entire plan could go awry. Though he had studied the castle from the outside many times in the days and weeks leading up to this night, he had been unable to enter, lest he be seen. Thus he had been entirely dependent on the descriptions and information given to him by sympathizers within the castle.

And his memories.

As he scanned the area, he silently marveled at how little the compound had changed since he had last been inside those many, many years ago, when he had walked the courtyard daily. The major exception was the large, L-shaped structure with a large, central dome that dominated the northeastern corner—the recently opened Temple of Aegoth. He shook his head as he viewed the domed structure, hardly believing Alfred had allowed the construction within the castle walls. 

Counting the time that passed between pairs of guards on their rounds, he was satisfied the information was correct, and that he could go ahead as planned. The route he had devised following Jurard’s failed attempt several weeks ago remained his best option. Pleased, and confident that he could move unseen and unheard through the castle grounds, he switched his attention to the keep.

The marble structure was partially obscured by the towering trees—red oaks that had been planted immediately following the castle’s construction over two hundred years prior—that stood in meticulously maintained beds to either side of the covered mezzanine that served as the keeps main entrance. Torches lit the red and black slashed white columns that rose in even rows, creating overlapping shadows that stretched for hundreds of feet in all directions. Purple banners emblazoned with the swooping gryphon of House DeCarren hung from every other column, fluttering gently in the night wind, the embossed golden tassels reflecting the torchlight.

Idly, he wondered which column Anika had been discovered—and subsequently killed—behind. He had heard she had gotten quiet close before…

His breath caught as he caught sight of a beaked head sticking out from near the top of one of the columns. He calmed almost immediately, noticing similar shadowed protrusions coming from the capital atop each pillar, as he realized they had to be carvings, as none moved, and they were spaced far too evenly to be natural. Evidently, work had been done to the keep itself since the last time he had been here; he silently hoped that none of those changes would impede him in his mission.

At that thought, emerald eyes tracked up past the statues, passing over the red roof of the terrace, past windows large and small, some lit, others dark as those within slept, until they fixed on a pair on the top floor of the main structure. Light flickered dimly within and, as he watched, they flickered regularly. He realized someone was moving back forth across the room.

Alfred DeCarren, it seemed, was awake.

The intruder tracked up from the King’s chambers, to the crenelations lining the roof of the grand castle, visible only as silhouettes from the torches held by the guards stationed there. He sighed, though he had expected guards to be stationed there. Myenn, his third and most recent predecessor in this, had lost his grip while climbing down from the roof, after all, and fallen to his death, landing on the red tiles of the terrace roof below. The assassin would not be able to approach from that direction, which left…

His eyes narrowed as he sought the narrow ledge that ran between the fourth and fifth levels of the keep. Barely half a foot wide, it ran the circumference of the structure, and similar ledges existed between each story. He followed the barely visible line around the corner from the King’s chambers, to where it passed above the upper roof of the west wing. From there, they followed the path he had plotted from his memories.

The assassin’s survey of Alfred DeCarren’s seat of power ended abruptly he heard a shout from below, though he was certain no one could see him from down there. Laughter followed the shout, and he cautiously crept to the edge, peering over.

Light streamed from a window below, from which the laughter and continued shouting came; the light shone unobstructed, casting no shadows, and the assassin felt relatively certain no one had noticed him. No one was paying any attention to the stables.

And why would they, with Gryphon’s Roost under such strict protection following the previous three assassination attempts? Even though those attempts were not common knowledge, at least according to his eyes and ears inside, surely they had noticed the increased number of guards around the compound. Though, he mused, that could easily be attributed to the heightened tensions in the capitol of late—and, he supposed, given the reason for his presence here, it was.

With a last quick scan of the compound, he padded softly across the slate roof, picking his steps carefully so as to not to rattle the hard tiles, though he doubted those inside would have noticed over the commotion they made. One he got to the wall, he moved back to the edge of the roof. He waited as two more sets of boots thudded by on the walkway above him, dust falling as they thumped past. He once again lowered himself over the edge until he hung by just his fingertips, and dropped the remaining few feet to the dirt below. 

He landed almost silently in the soft ground, bending his knees to absorb some of the shock of the landing—and whirled as he heard a shuffle from behind him, hand dropping to the hilt of his knife, ready to draw and thrust in a heartbeat.

His lips curled in a rueful grin as he identified the source of the sound, making out a shadowy, four legged form against the slightly lighter shade of the wall. He admonished himself, reminding himself where he was; he could not afford a mistake now that her was within the castle walls. Of course there would be a horse in the bloody stable! Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he pulled his hand from the daggers hilt, and slowly stood, holding his hands out spread wide before him, berating himself for not noticing the equine form from above before dropping into the stable.

The horse, for its part, stood still and stared at him, as if trying to decide what to make of this uninvited guest before nickering softly and moving off for the far end of the enclosure, where more of the animals stood. The black clad man watched for a moment before edging his way to the back of the pen, putting one hand on the wall to orient himself, and began making his way along the back of the stable.

He moved slowly and steadily, aware that he would not be able to see any rocks or divots in the ground, and that tripping over anything spell his end. There were no torches in the stable, which was why he had chosen this as his way in. But the very darkness that protected him now worked against him, and though he would not encounter any more patrols, he made slower progress than he would have liked. 

More than once he had to move around the sleeping form of a stallion or mare, taking extra caution to avoid disturbing the beasts. The last thing he needed was to startle one or more of them and cause a panic while he was among them. Not only would that bring attention to the stables, but he would likely be caught in their midst. He had seen more than one person trampled to death, and it was not something he ever wanted to experience for himself.

Before long, he came to one of the low fences that divided the different pens. Mindful of the new friend he had made when he entered the stables, he took an extra moment to check the next pen before entering, not wanting to repeat the experience. He stepped between the rails, careful not to let his clothing snag on any protruding nails or splinters as he did.

The intruder passed through the next two pens in the same manner, well aware that the night was slipping away every time he had to slow or deviate from his path to get around another horse. He passed feed and water troughs, and more than the occasional pile of refuse. Of the last of these, he was the most careful; what use was being silent, after all, if your target could smell you coming well before you could reach him?

When he at last reached the far end of the stable, where the wall turned and headed east along the southern edge of the cliff atop which the Roost stood, he paused a moment to check the skies. It had taken him longer to pass through the stables than he had wanted, but there was little sense in worrying about that now; what was done was done. The position of the moon, only faintly visible through the layers of cloud that still covered the sky, told him that he still had a couple of hours before the sun began to rise—more than enough time to finish the job, so long as everything else went according to plan.

The man was grateful for the relatively flat surfaces of the flagstone courtyard after the uneven, rock studded ground of the stables as he padded over to a stack of crates and barrels, crouching in the shadows as a pair of guards passed near on the wall, briefly illuminating the area he had just crossed. Once they had gone, he poked his head up and considered the towering wall of the west wing that rose up in front of him, perhaps twenty paces away. A staircase ran down the side of the keep, leading down from the top of the wall to the courtyard. He ducked again as torchlight once again flooded the night, reflecting off the crenelations on the wall above, preceding the appearance of another pair of soldiers, who chatted idly as they went about their rounds. He counted off the seconds once they had passed from view, and barely reached twenty when the next set appeared. He pursed his lips in thought. Twenty seconds, not very long. Not nearly enough time to cross that distance, go up the stairs and scale the last ten feet to the roof of the west wing.

He glanced around, searching for another option until his eyes fell upon a small stone on the ground nearby. His eyes flicked between the rock and the stable he had just passed through, considering. Deciding he really did not have a choice if he wanted to reach the King, he grabbed the stone, rolling it in his gloved fingers to get a feel for its weight as he peered at the stables, picking out a target.

He took a deep breath, readying himself.

And let fly the stone.

It soared through the air, his aim true, and came down in the stables. It struck the nearest horse, a sleeping colt, on its flank.

The colt jolted awake as the stone struck it, whinnying loudly as it reared on its hind legs before breaking into a run, startling the other horses in the pen. Within moments of the stone leaving his hand, nearly all the horses in the pen were awake and galloping, whinnying and screaming, their eyes wide.

The door to the shack opposite him flew open, the shadowed form of the stablehands he had heard gambling and carousing earlier bursting out to see what was the matter. More importantly to him, in that moment, came the clanking of heavy boots on stone as soldiers rushed down the stairs near him, running with swords and spears in hand to see what had caused the commotion. Shouts rose across the compound, and he grinned in satisfaction as he counted a full minute after the last soldier had passed his hiding spot before he left it and made for the keep. One thought dominated his mind as he crossed the distance, and he almost laughed aloud at it.

If one simple stone could cause that much panic, he could only imagine what the death of the King would do.

He tempered the bittersweet notion before it could take root, knowing that he had to keep the inevitable conflicting emotions at bay as he reached the top of the stairs and, jumping, caught hold of the narrow ledge between the first and second floors of the keep and began to hoist himself up. The King had to die, there was no doubt in his mind about that. But some part of him still felt loyalty to the monarch, and more than that besides. In spite of knowing what had to be done, and accepting it, there was a reason he had sent three others before him, and had hoped against hope they would succeed.

For he had not wanted his hands on the blade.

Logically, he had known the others would fail; they did not have the intimate knowledge of the complex—and the victim—that he did. Though it had been decades since he called the castle his home, that history still gave him the edge over the three he had hired. 

Pulling himself onto the roof of the west wing, the assassin crept into the shadows of the tower that rose from its apex. He felt a slight surge of power from the room above, where the castle magus resided, but it dissipated as quickly as it came, and he did not feel any probing in his direction. Which was good, since he did not plan on engaging a mage this night. He waited a moment longer, to ensure the magus’ attention was gone, before returning his attention to the matter at hand. He eyed the keep that rose in front of him, visualizing his path up its exterior.

Before setting off once more, curious in spite of himself, he looked back and down at the stables.

Several men and women, guards and servants both, stood peering over one of the fences, watching two men kneeling over a small form on the ground. At a gesture from one of the kneeling men, one of the bystanders turned and ran out of sight. Stablehands worked behind them, trying to calm the still panicking horses. He saw more than a few of the soldiers running through the pens as well, torchlight glinting off their armour as they tried to help the overwhelmed—and likely inebriated—workers. More people were drifting closer, trying to see what had happened. Still, in spite of the ongoing commotion in the stables, he saw a few of the soldiers returning to their rounds.

Pleased with how well the distraction had worked, the assassin climbed across the roof, feet slipping occasionally on the glazed tiles, keeping low as he moved. He tried to stay within the deepest shadows provided by the tower behind him. As he moved, he stole glances above to the top of the keep, three stories above him, watching for a helmeted head or torch, but saw none; so far as he knew, he remained undetected as he reached the central structure.

Pausing to stretch his tired muscles before this final ascent, he ducked low as an ear splitting screech broke the night air above and behind him. Plastering himself against the cool marble, he turned his head to watch as a large, winged creature flew above him, crossing from the south cliffs, heading for the courtyard. Further off, he heard the answering cries of more of the avians, though they—thankfully—remained out of sight. Having one of the creatures that gave the DeCarren family its crest out and about in the night was more than enough to try his nerves. The thought of one of the beasts spotting him while he climbed the keeps walls, will nowhere to hide, and no way to defend himself, was not one he welcomed.

He watched as the bronze feathered creature swooped lower and lower, circling the area where he knew the stables to be, though he could not see them from his current location. Barely visible in the low light was the figure that sat astride the gryphon, one of the famed Winged Knights, who directed the creature in its flight. Once the winged mount and its rider were out of sight, the assassin scanned the sky for more, and, seeing none, began the climb.

In short order he stood atop the ledge that marked the start of the fifth floor, and began edging his way around it, towards the King’s chambers. He paused at each window he came to, stopping long enough to determine if a room was vacant or occupied and, if the latter, if the occupant was awake or asleep. As he expected, the rooms closest to the King’s were empty; once again, his informants had not led him astray. As he rounded the first corner of the octagonal keep, he once again heard the cry of a gryphon, and winced as two more shrieks answered, sounding from above him. He risked a look up, and saw two more creatures appear, flying from above the keep to fly above the courtyard, their riders angling them down towards the stables as well. Cursing softly, he moved faster, feeling more exposed than ever, expecting another of the beasts to appear any second. Gryphon’s Roost was aptly named, after all, and the cliffs below it were home to hundreds of the large avians, some wild, most tamed.

He breathed in and out slowly a couple times, calming himself, and continued around the corner, keeping on in much the same fashion as before, though sparing more than one glance to the skies whenever he finished checking a room. He paused once when he heard voices from above, as two guards on the roof of the keep chatted, wondering what had caused the racket below. He kept going once it became apparent they were oblivious to his—or any intruder’s—presence, and before long he came to a window that emanated a faint light.

The man slowed as he approached, listening for sounds from within; sure enough, he could hear muttering from inside, and instantly recognized the King’s voice, though it had been decades since he had last heard it. Cursing his luck that the King remained awake, even after his lengthy journey through the castle, the intruder edged closer until he could peer into the room.

Alfred DeCarren, a nearly six foot tall, broad shouldered man in his sixties, paced the far side of the room, near a desk upon which a single candle had been lit. His short cut dark drown hair was completely flattened on one side, where he had clearly been lying before he had gotten out of the bed that was just visible through the open doors that lead into his private chambers.

The single candle gave enough light that, as Alfred turned about to head back the way he had come, the assassin caught a glimpse of the King’s most distinguishing feature: his crimson-touched, heavily scarred skin.

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It had not always looked that way; Alfred had once had the dark tan skin common to the people of southern Cedirc, but sometime during the Second Ilvarri War, something had happened to him. He had returned from the final battle, far to the north in the ilvarri woods of Shetna Forest, looking as if his skin had been stained with dried blood. No one had ever been able to ascertain the true reason for this, so far as the assassin knew, but it was a topic of much speculation in the city below. Even more intriguing to many, the King had passed this unique discolouration on to his children, though the effect on them was lessened. Where Alfred’s skin was almost the exact colour of blood, that of his children was more akin to that of a red rose.

If only the people knew why Alfred had returned so changed…

But that was a secret known only to a handful of people, and in spite of his intent this night, the assassin had no desire to see that changed. He wanted the man dead, not discredited.

Well, not too discredited, at least; whatever their differences, they had been friends once, after all.

The King was wearing nothing but a housecoat and slippers, both dyed the deep purple of house DeCarren. The swooping gryphon crest was embroidered across the left breast of the robe, which was tied about his waist. As the intruder followed the King’s movements, his eyes fixed on the set of plate armour that stood on a stand in one corner of the room, the gryphon crest emblazoned across its chest. Hanging from a nearby rack were the King’s sword and shield, the former with a large amethyst centered in its crosspiece and purple tassels hanging from the base of the grip, the latter decorated in the same manner as the cuirass. Though he was now known widely as a pacifist, having ended the half century of bloodshed between Cedirc and the ilvarri of Shetna Forest, Alfred had been born and raised in the rigors of war, holding a sword almost before he could walk, and had been a renowned warrior in his prime.

A closer look at the armour revealed that, though Alfred remained fit and in laudable shape for a man of his age, it was now far too small to fit the man he saw before him now. Another side effect of the incident, perhaps, the assassin mused, though it really did not matter. He did not think Alfred had had to wear armour in the past couple of decades, since the end of the war, though it was said he trained daily with his children.

Though he was well into his sixth decade of life, Alfred had not yet begun the physical decline that effected most humans his age. His back remained straight and unbent, his face was nearly unlined, and only a touch of grey had entered his hair at the fringes. As with his skin, rumours abounded in the kingdom regarding the King’s supposed agelessness, but none was given more credence than the next. What was clear to many, however, that whatever had caused his discolouration was likely the cause of his continued health.

The King’s solar was sparsely decorate, reminiscent of the King’s humility when it came to his people. Alfred DeCarren did not believe in having the lavish decorations most of his station had, instead giving back to the people of Caras and Cedirc, mostly through large donations to the Temple of Aegoth on the castle grounds. Aside from the arms, armour, and writing desk and chair, there was a large throw rug in the center of the room, around which a few cushioned chairs were positioned facing one another. A bookshelf sat against one wall, full of historical volumes, the assassin was sure.

Two portraits hung above a fireplace positioned in the wall opposite the writing desk. The first was of a beautiful, bronze skinned woman with a dazzling smile and auburn tresses, who looked to be in her forties: the late Queen Denise DeCarren, Alfred’s wife and mother of all his children, who had taken ill and passed several years earlier. Alfred had not remarried following her death, despite the protests of many of his advisers, and many promising potential matches from prominent houses both within and outside of the kingdom. With the succession secured through his three children, he had refused each offer, and firmly ignored the words of his advisers, and gradually the proposals had slowed to a trickle. Beside the late Queen’s portrait hung the second, this of two dark haired teenage boys and an auburn haired teenage girl—the King’s children, though they were several years older now. The elder two, Rolan and Elenor, were in their mid-twenties, separated by a year, and the youngest, Steffan, had just finished his twenty-third year.

So much time had passed since he had last seen them.

Alfred stopped his pacing in front of the portrait of his wife, seeming lost in thought as he stared up at it until he began speaking softly. In spite of the urgency of his task, keenly aware of the passage of the night and increasingly limited time left for him to perform his grisly deed, the intruder found himself leaning in, focusing on the King’s words. Though the King spoke softly, the intruder could just make out what he was saying.

“Oh Denise, if only you could be here to witness what we do tomorrow evening. At long last, we will finalize the agreement you and I talked about so many years ago. Tomorrow I greet the Eno’Kalians, and the following day, we will ratify the treaty. It will mean the end of this constant threat of war that has persisted for far too long,” the King sighed, reaching a hand to stroke the painted cheek of his lost wife. “I wish you were here beside me. You deserved far better than I was able to give you, going from one war to living in constant fear of another. Never having a moments peace to ourselves and our children. Why is it that only once you were gone I was able to begin making progress with Darren?”

The assassin’s hands clenched unconsciously at the mention of Alfred’s counterpart in Eno’Kalia, Emperor Darren Ungalt, with whom Alfred now sought lasting peace after two decades of trade wars. He forced himself to calm as the King went on.

“I know what I do is right, Denise, and yet… And yet some part of feels as though I am betraying our people, who fought so long and hard against the ilvarri, only to have the Eno’Kalians steal away our hard earned peace before it had ever really began. Please, Denise, I need to know: is this treaty the right course for our people? Am I conceding too much to the Eno’Kalians to avoid more needless bloodshed? Should I do as the people seem to desire, and tear the document up before it can be signed? If I do it will almost certainly mean war…” the King trailed off, staring silently up at the face of his wife, fingers still touching the portrait.

Yes, the assassin thought to himself, to all of your questions, old friend.

He watched the King for many moments, his mind reeling. Here before him stood the man he had stood beside and idolized for the better part of his life. The man who had stood firm and ended half a century of war by seeing past their differences and forging an alliance with the ilvarri leader to save both of their peoples from a greater threat. Though contact between the Cedircian’s and the illusive ilvarri had been nearly non-existent since, the peace had held.

At least with the ilvarri.

For before Cedirc could begin to rebuild following the war, the Eno’Kalian’s, who had fought beside them throughout the war, had attacked. Not with weapons, but with politics, taking advantage of Cedirc’s weakened position to steal trade agreements, destabilizing the Cedircian economy further than the fifty years of fighting ever had. Though many skirmishes had been fought between the two in the decades since, the war largely remained political. After twenty years, Alfred was still pushing for an agreement with the Eno’Kalian snakes, hoping to avoid an outright war the Cedirc, still recovering from the last war, was not in a good position to fight.

Though he could understand Alfred’s reasoning, the assassin could not agree with it. Eno’Kalia ahd taken advantage of their distraction and weakness following the Ilvarri War, and Alfred was going to let them get away with it. Now was not the time to concede, or make peace, but instead the time to push back!

But Alfred was not the one to lead them through it. That much was apparent to him and many others throughout the kingdom. The man who had ended the Ilvarri War, emerging deformed from that last battle, was a shell of his former self. Whatever had remained of him following his return from the north had worn down over the years, disappearing entirely with the passing of his wife three years before. He was no longer fit to lead.

And yet…

Yet there remained a part of him that held a strong respect and love for the Cedircian sovereign, for all that he had achieved. That part wanted no harm to come to the King, and for a moment, he was frozen by indecision. Now that the moment was upon him, he hesitated, unsure if he could go through with the assassination.

The image of an exploding tower, combined with the memory of unimaginable agony and loss, flashed in his mind, fragments of that long ago night nudging aside any remnants of loyalty, replacing them with anger.

The King had to die.

Taking a steadying breath, the assassin slipped the onyx dagger out of its sheath, candlelight glinting off the twin emeralds that served as the eyes of the raven carved into its hilt and crosspiece, the black blade seeming to come from the open beak of the bird. He slipped into the room, and began padding softly across the marble floor towards the King, who continued to stare at the painting of his wife, seeming oblivious to the fact that he was no longer alone in the room.

One thrust, between the ribs and into the heart. Quick and painless… for the both of us.

He raised the dagger as he closed the final steps to Alfred, preparing to strike.

The black blade plunged down, straight for the King’s back.

And hit nothing but air as the King, moving faster than the assassin had thought possible for a man his age, twisted to the side and spun to face the intruder.

Caught off guard, the assassin pulled back on his thrust, backing away a step and narrowly avoiding a countering slash from the silver bladed dagger the King suddenly held in one hand. Where had he pulled it from? No matter, the assassin decided. Even though his quarry was alert and armed, he was confident he could overpower the King. He hunched low, preparing to strike at Alfred again.

“It took you longer to get here than I expected.”

The King’s words, softly spoken, froze him in place. His eyes widened. Alfred had known he was coming. How? 

“You made quite the commotion on your way in,” the King continued in an almost conversational tone, as if discussing the weather. “I do hope none of the horses were injured. Clever, to use them as a distraction.”

The assassin backed away a step, trying to sort his thoughts in this unexpected moment. The King continued to stare at him, a look of complete calm on his face.

“Of course, I did not know you would come tonight, but we expected it. You are not the first to be sent, after all,” Alfred said when the assassin remained silent. “Those that hired you are nothing if not relentless.”

“You think I was hired, Alfred?” the assassin replied, finding his voice, though it came out harsher and lower in timbre than it normally would.

The King eyed him, clearly noticing the lack of a title in the assassin’s response; he shrugged, as if it did not matter. “So you came to do the job yourself, now that three of your hirelings failed. Why?”

“To kill you, of course.”

“No, no,” the King laughed softly at the blunt response, “Why not do it yourself from the beginning? You clearly have the skills.”

Because I could not bear the thought of doing it myself, the assassin thought but did not say. Instead, he simply shrugged, “I didn’t think I needed to,” he sneered, masking his inner turmoil, “Your Talons proved more competent than I expected.”

“I’ll be sure to pass along your compliment to Captain Halfar. He’ll be pleased to know his guards caused you such a headache.”

“You won’t have the chance.”

“We’ll see,” for the first time, a bit of an edge entering his tone for the first time in the conversation. “You still have to kill me, first.”

The assassin curled his lip in a slight grin in response, “And I thought we were having such a pleasant conversation.”

Alfred’s took his eyes off the assassin for the first time since turning to face him, looking beside and behind the black clad man for the briefest of seconds before focusing once more on the intruder. The assassin betrayed no hint he had noticed, but shifted his stance slightly as he heard the soft creak of the door to the hall behind him.

Apparently they had an audience.

“I thought you abhorred violence, king,” the assassin replied, indicating the knife his target held. “Isn’t that why you took the cowards way out with the Eno’Kalian’s and that blasted treatise?”

“It is often harder to make peace with one’s enemies than to fight them.”

“You didn’t think that with those blue skinned bastards in the north. You slew dozens of the ilvarri yourself.”

“To my great regret,” a look of honest sorrow crossed the King’s face as he sighed. “It took a larger threat for us to see we could coexist. A larger threat, and far too many deaths on both sides.”

“They slaughtered innocent Cedircians in the hundreds for simple cutting down a few trees!”

“Many of those trees were sacred to them, and their removal was viewed as an act of war. As was our very presence in their forest. Are we or any other nation less decisive when dealing with intruders?” The king cocked his head, a smile pulling at his lips, “The present situation notwithstanding.”

“Their forest lies within our realm, it was our citizen’s right to—“

“The ilvarri are the Stewards of the Forest. They do not recognize our claim—our former claim,” the King corrected himself. “They lost their other forests—and thousands of their kin—to the Cataclysm, and all their surviving kin are sequestered in Shetna. Is it any wonder they defend it so fiercely?”

The assassin was quiet a few moments, hearing the same argument delivered in the same matter-of-fact tone took him back across the years, to when he and the King were young men, barely in their thirties. Alfred had seen the ilvarri leaders position clearly almost immediately, while he had struggled with the sudden shift from enemy to ally. He felt the old anger resurfacing once again, adding to that which he felt at the current situation. Upon their triumphant return, Alfred had gained the love and adoration of the people while he…

He had lost everything.

His standing.

His access to the vitarus.

Later his home.

And his friends.

All stripped from him, because of that last battle at the tower in the crook of the mountains, far north of here. All thanks to the man standing before him, and a risky alliance and plan with the cursed ilvarri. Alfred DeCarren had not been the only one to walk away from the remains of that tower changed. His changes were internal, however.

Some part of what he was thinking and feeling must have shown on his face, for Alfred took a couple steps back, giving the slightest of nods as he did. Before the wooden door behind him slammed open, smashing against the stone wall with a loud crack, the assassin was rolling to the side, pulling a knife from a hidden sheath in his boot and letting fly after the barest of glimpses. He heard the click of a crossbow, heard the quarrel whistle past his head and skip off stone behind him as he came out of the roll in a crouch. 

Most importantly, he heard the squelching impact of the knife, and the unmistakable clatter of an armoured body hitting the ground, the dropped crossbow clattering loudly in the silent room.

He returned his attention to Alfred just as the Crimson King, eyes wide with anger, sprang at him, all pretense of calm gone as quickly as the assassin had loosed the knife. Barely able to bring his own blade up in time, he managed to deflect the thrust wide. He thought to punch out with his free hand, but before he could begin the movement, Alfred’s foot caught him in the side, knocking him to the cold stone floor. Somehow, he managed to hold onto the dagger during the impact, and he brought it in front of him as he got to his feet, holding it threateningly before him as Alfred stalked in.

His side ached from where Alfred’s foot had caught him, and the assassin was impressed with the aging monarchs strength. Clearly the rumours surrounding his vigor had some merit. He was no longer certain he could beat the King in a fair fight after the short exchange. To make matters worse, he heard footsteps in the hallway, the fallen soldier having been noticed. A thought occurred to him, though he still hesitated. 

A shout of “murder!” from the hallway ended his debate, and, looking Alfred straight in the eye as the monarch raised his blade for a thrust, he pulled back his hood, lowering his cowl at the same time to reveal his face.

“You aren’t the only one who came home a changed man, Alfred.”

The King held his thrust, staring stunned at his old friend, a man who he had thought dead for nearly two decades. Yet in spite of that, the assassins face had not seemed to age a day since the King had last seen him.

“Cor—“ the name ended in a gasp as the assassin took advantage of the opening, stabbing up with the black blade, feeling it pierce the stomach of the King. 

Alfred staggered back a step as the assassin retracted the blade, hands clutching at his belly as blood began soaking the purple robe. The assassin noted with satisfaction the smoke that curled out from between the gasping King’s fingers. Even though the wound was not deep—a glance at his blade showed it had barely penetrated more than an inch—the poison that coated the metal had gotten into his body. It was only a matter of time now. He got to his feet as Alfred fell to his knees, doubling over in pain. The sense of satisfaction faded as he stood over the other man.

“I am sorry, old friend,” he said in a voice thick with emotion. He reached back and pulled his hood up, raising his cowl to cover his face once more. “But you couldn’t sign that treaty. I couldn’t let you make the same mistake again.”

The hurried clanking of steel on stone was growing closer from the hallway, demanding the assassins attention. He suppressed his emotions knowing they could only hinder him now. Sparing a glance at the open window, he instead ran for the King’s bedchamber.

He hurriedly pulled the wooden doors shut, closing them just as the first soldier entered the solar. 

“My king!” he heard a deep voice cry as he thudded the locking bar into place. Further shouting heralded the arrival of more soldiers. 

The assassin looked about the room, quickly taking stock of what he had at hand. A four poster bed, a bureau, wardrobe… nothing that could be of use to him. A fire burned in a hearth set opposite the bed, burning low, having been unattended for some time now.

He closed his eyes, reaching out with his senses for the vita he knew surrounded him. As usual, he could feel it there, but it slipped from his grasp every time he tried to pull it towards him. It had been that way ever since the tower, and it tortured him each time he tried. He had taught others to wield the energy of the world around them, had mastered its use, and now the vitarus remained just out of reach. Occasionally, he could still touch it, and in those moments he felt like his old self again. 

He breathed in deep, letting the breath out slowly. He almost had it. If he could just touch it…

The doors behind him rattled as someone tried opening them from the other side, startling him. He felt the vita slip away once more.

“It’s barred!” A muffled voice exclaimed.

“Get an axe,” another suggested.

“No, get a ram!” A third chimed in.

“Fools. Stand aside,” a fourth voice, low and barely audible though the door, commanded imperiously. He felt a surge of power as someone on the other side drew the vita towards themselves. The temperature dropped. 

Fire, the assassin thought. He’s going to blast his way in.

Another thought occurred to him as the practitioner on the other side of the door continued collecting vita. There was one way he had been able to wield vita consistently since the accident. It was risky, to be sure, but…

If they catch me, they will kill me.

That thought driving him, he moved off to one side of the door, closest to the window. A glance told him it was open. Good, he would need it whether this worked or not.

He felt the surge of vita peak in the room beside him. He could almost see the swirls of fire that would be surrounding the mage at that moment. He envied the man. While his own ability had been torn from him, his had only grown. Feeling the anger rising once more, he calmed himself. For this to work, he had to be precise, and for that, he had to be calm.

In a flare of power, the door blew inward, splinters and timbers flying every direction. Flames licked at the assassins clothes as nails and pieces of wood scraped him. Through it all, he stood with his right hand outstretched. He could see the mist of the vita within the flames, giving them their strength, still tethered to the other man.

He reached for the tendrils of mist with his mind and grasped them, pulling them towards him. Through the vita he could feel the other mans shock, then anger, as he fought for control. For reasons unknown, though he could mot harness the vita around him on a whim any longer, he could take control of another practitioners weave, as he attempted to now. Though caught off guard, the other man fought back against the subversion, and the assassin felt his strength. 

The assassin would have expected no less from one he had trained.

In spite of the magus’ best efforts, the assassin wrested control from him, quickly sending a gust of wind through the shambled remains of the doors, knocking the approaching soldiers back. The wind had the added effect of pushing the smoke back as well, and more than one soldier coughed as they suddenly inhaled ash. Turning to the window in the confusion, sheathing the dagger he still held in his hand, the assassin sprinted for the opening.

The shrieking head of a gryphon lunged through as he approached, beak clacking again and again as it tried to snatch him. Grimacing as the eagle-like head let out another piercing cry, the assassin cast again, using another small part of the vita he had stolen from the magus to create a small bolt of fire. It was small compared to the blast that had blown the wooden doors to pieces, but the assassin did not need to do that much damage to the majestic beast, or the rider he could hear shouting commands from astride its back.

The air around him cooled as the small jet of fire raced from his outstretched hand, catching the gryphon between its eyes, not doing any real damage, but catching some of the head feathers aflame. The beast shrieked out, this time in anger and pain, and retracted its head. 

Hearing the soldiers in the adjoining room recovering from the shock of the wind, and feeling the magus once more swelling with power, the assassin wasted no time in diving through the now-clear window.

He narrowly avoided the grasping talons of the angry gryphon as it reached for him, the rider having already regained control of the well trained avian. Twisting around, he kicked off the beast’s belly, redirecting his momentum, propelling himself downward, towards the slate roof three stories below.

Hoping he had not misjudged, he focused on the last of his stolen vita, waving a hand before him in a circular motion, ending with a slash across the middle to release the pent up energy.

Blue sparks flew from his hand, nothing more.

Cursing, the falling assassin willed himself to calm once more as the red tiles loomed larger in front of him. Shouts from above told him his pursuers had reached the window, and an angry screech told him the gryphon was in close pursuit.

He waved his hand again, closing his eyes as he finished the slash. 

If this failed…

Well, he probably would not know.

Which was small comfort. He still had much to do.

He opened his eyes as he felt the energy leaving him, and watched as the familiar blue-purple mist began swirling in front of him, gradually expanding outwards as it spun about itself.

To the west, the first rays of sunlight broke the horizon.

He had barely a second to hope once more that it had not only opened wide enough, but that it had fully opened before he plunged headfirst through the mist. 

The salty aroma of ocean air washed across him an instant later, and he opened his eyes to see moonlight reflecting of a glassy sea far below the cliffs he had appeared above.

Tucking into a roll, he landed with a grunt, spinning as he came to stop to face the portal, which had opened vertically, as he had intended, expelling him sideways instead of headfirst into the ground. 

The impact still stung as he felt rocks and stones dig into his body as it rolled, but he was alive.

He focused his attention on the cloud of blue-purple mist that hovered a few feet above the ground, feeling the energy that held it together begin to dissipate seconds before the mists began vanishing, like a fog burning off in the midday sun. Breathing heavily, the adrenaline that had propelled him starting to leave, he fell back to lay on the ground as the last of the magical mists disappeared, leaving no trace behind.

He felt empty.

In the moment he had seized the magus’ power, he had felt as he had two decades ago. How good it had felt to wield the vita again, to touch the vitarus! The intervening years had taught him to survive without, but he had never stopped missing that feeling.

Now that it was gone again, he felt that loss keenly once more.

Not only that, but he had succeeded. 

Alfred DeCarren was dead, or soon would be.

While he was pleased that his mission had succeeded, the regret he had suppressed while facing his old friend rose up inside him once more. He saw again the onyx blade piercing the robes of his friend, saw the angry red spreading across the purple fabric. 

Hand trembling, he drew the dagger.

The blood he had neglected to clean off stuck to the sheath, making it harder to draw, but it came out. 

Proof that he had killed Alfred. 

He glanced at the cliff, at the ocean lying hundreds of feet below, starlight reflecting off the placid waters, and felt an urge to throw the raven carved dagger in. But no, he reminded himself, once again shoving aside his emotions as he turned his attention to the large torch-lit city a league away from him to the north.

He had a better use for the blade.

Replacing it in his sheath, he got off the ground and, muscles aching, he set off towards the city on the cliffs.

Alfred was dead.

His first kill of the night was done.

It was time for the second.