Rakash was, essentially, hiring accomplices.

It would take years before I understood the full extent of his vision. Though to be fair, even now, I wonder if there are not some subtle intricacies that still elude me.

He never, at any time, revealed more to us than what was absolutely necessary at that given moment. And aside from that first day, each of us would be met separately, with clear instructions to not repeat what was told—not even to our fellow conspirators. We all knew better than to irk him, obviously.

So we played along—because what other choice had we?—all the while wondering what his endgame truly was.

It pains me to admit—though it’s important to understand—that trust was never a factor. I wonder if Rakash even ever was capable of trust. I believe it was, and still is, a foreign concept to him. That was why he recruited us the way he did. He used pressure, brooding menace, and implicit threats to guarantee our cooperation. It worked, too, because none of us ever betrayed him. I’m sure all of us considered it, at some point, but it would have been folly to even attempt it.

Of course, as was to be expected, his entrance into the senate was confirmed and approved shortly after that fateful dinner. And though we survivors had been sworn to secrecy about his plans—or the little we knew of them—the events of that night became the source of much gossip that spread through the city like wildfire. I would not be surprised if Rakash himself started the rumor. It was, predictably, blown out of proportions... to the point that soon no one knew anymore how much of it was true and how much of it was exaggeration. But it did not matter, for the result was the same.

Rakash had always had a reputation, there can be no doubt about it. Few ever dared to cross him. And while this added to his aura of mystique and his repute of ruthlessness, it also drove further home the notion that he was not one to mess with.

After that, he rarely met with any resistance at all.

It may seem odd—it certainly did to us who had survived that night—, but he never vied for a higher position. We were all convinced that, had he wished to, he could easily have become our king. But he did not wish to. He preferred, as I later realized, to pull the strings while he remained in the shadows. Despite this—or because of it—he became, within a year, unquestionably the most powerful among us.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Something should be said as well about our own standing.

As survivors of the massacre, we enjoyed a form of prestige, mixed with fear, and a hint of suspicion. Had we helped him kill the others? Why had we been spared?

These ambiguous sentiments toward our persons—which Rakash also nurtured—were prevalent everywhere we went, in every conversation where our names were uttered. They were fueled by mystery and our refusal to answer questions—not because we were unwilling to, but because of the repercussions we knew would follow if we did.

I would come to miss those days in the dark years that followed.

***

After much arguing, Don had finally convinced him to see a doctor.

The man—a burly fellow with too many broken teeth for comfort—had used a mixture of magic and science to heal his bruises. A peculiar warmth had spread through his body and he could literally feel his bones regenerate, his skin stretch, and his soul soothe.

Feeling much better now, Michael had even walked down to the hotel’s restaurant for an elaborate meal that was more satisfying than the take-outs he’d been ordering for the past twenty-four hours.

When he returned to his room, he heard shuffling sounds from behind the door. He wondered if his roommate was back already and walked in.

He barely had time to see a figure jump out the window with a bag in his hands. Within a fraction of a second, he registered the leaflets were gone, and ran to the window.

Michael’s room was on the first floor, just above a souvenir shop. Part of the boutique’s roof was under his balcony, so it only was a short fall. From there, the man—for he could tell now that it was a man—had jumped to the ground and was running toward the seafront.

Never one to hesitate, Michael jumped from his window, and then from the shop’s roof to the street beneath it to pursue the thief.

The chase took them through busy streets crowded with tourists and merchants. Quickly noticing he was being tailed, the bandit upturned stalls and pushed people around to create obstacles for his pursuant.

But Michael did not falter.

He jumped over rolling fruits and circled around fallen bystanders, all the while maintaining his target within view.

When they arrived at the port, the thief threw his bag onto a ship that had started to move away from the quay, then ran off in the opposite direction, back toward the center of the city.

Michael had a moment of hesitation. Should he go after the bag—which most likely contained the stolen diary—or go on after the man?

He decided the former was more important and headed to an empty boat that floated nearby.

It was an ancient thing, with rows. It did not bother him, as he’d used these when he was a child and had rather enjoyed the experience. What did concern him, though, was the matter of speed.

The ship with the bag was a more modern vessel, propelled by an engine. However, he could see it was headed for a larger boat.

Hoping it wouldn’t sail away as soon as the package arrived, he started rowing.