DEDICATION

For all those who either succeeded early in life only to burnout later, or never succeeded to begin with. To all those heroes who never escaped their one mushak town. To the wizards who had to make their laboratories in their parents’ spare room.

Sometimes a journey is circling back, sometimes it’s never leaving at all. You may have missed the train to magic school, but the page always turns, and the story always arcs.

CHAPTER 1

The universe began, which was great timing as the narrative had also begun. A billion years went by in the course of a single sentence. Not that previous sentence, but this one. Another ten billion years flew by in the span of a cosmic blink. Seconds ticked past as a great round object drifted into view. A terrestrial sphere of truly monumental proportions, but not nearly as big as the gas giant it orbited. It was called Munth, a good enough name for the moon of a gas giant. One of a hundred small worlds that orbited Endea. The gas giant was in turn dwarfed by its mother star, which in turn was a humble little yellow marble compared to the massive red that floated next to it. All of it was barely a speck compared to the universe at large, and even the universe was but a pearl in the mouth of an unfathomably huge clam, but that was starting to split infinite hairs.

Munth was a world much like Earth. They could even be considered twin worlds. They both had similar physical laws, natural resources, flora and fauna; they even both had hominids as their dominant species. But those were where the similarities ended. If Munth and Earth were twins, one had gone on to lead a healthy, normal life while the other descended into weirdness and mysticism. Laws, broken as often as fast as they are changed. Wizards bending reality at the whims of dark overlords. The masses, too distracted with blood sports to even understand their situation, much less revolt. Munth had problems too, but Earth was a mess. Sometimes Earth would claim to get back on its feet, it just needed a continent to crash on for a few nights. And just one last hit of non-renewable resources and it swears it’ll be off the stuff for good! Earth was the cousin we don’t talk about at the solar system reunion.

It was not a dark and stormy night over the little town of Cobpleton, so the whole mood was off. It would’ve made for a much better effect, thought the shadow as it detached itself from the alley. It had rained earlier that day, but you really couldn’t count on the weather for dramatic timing.

The shadow leapt up some stacked barrels, deftly grabbed a window sill and caught a truss with its leg. Some townsfolk walked by as the shadow held its breath. It was hard enough to engage your core while being seen, but holding its breath made the shadow’s muscles burn. Of course, the shadow could have just walked to the target without all the business of leaping from roof to roof, but you had to have style when it came to assassination.

The townsfolk passed out of sight. Style be damned, thought the shadow, as it fell to the muddy ground with a wet thud. The assassin paused for a moment. No one came. No mob trying to see what the sound was, no cry of ‘wha-wuz-tat?’ from some sharp-eared guard, not even the yowl of a stray cat. Of course no one would think twice about it, the assassin thought. Cobpleton was a small market town where ‘that sort of thing never happened’. Small townsfolk had all sorts of deeply held opinions about ‘that sort of thing’. Crime was few and far between, and there wasn’t anyone important enough to assassinate. They had their own wizard, and refused to believe that ‘that sort of thing’ was possible. The assassin smirked mirthlessly to themself. Well, they won’t have a wizard for much longer.

As noted earlier, the night sky could have been a lot more thematically fitting. Endea’s brilliant stripes were only partially visible, but at least its great violet eye was peering through the clouds. According to mystics, it was the eye of the great betentacled creator god, silently judging mortals from its empyric perch. Wizards, however, determined it to be a hurricane so massive it could envelop the whole of Munth and so hot it rained lava and hailed shards of volcanic glass. Normal people were left to determine which option was less worse.

The assassin spotted the wizard’s tower, perched on a hill less than a mile outside of town. Endea didn’t even have the decency to frame the tower as a looming shadow on the horizon. This is what you get when meteorology doesn’t have a sense of tension. The tower was a small, two story affair. The architecture took a page from the Neoclassical Thaumaturge style, that is, it was made from dusty gray bricks and ever so slightly bent towards the top. How wizards managed to slightly bend stone, the assassin never knew.

Glowing, multicolored smoke drifted up from the chimney. Perfect, the wizard was home. The assassin dropped into a crouch when they were a hundred paces from the tower. This is where it got tricky. The tower had no gate, no fence, not even a knee high wall, but the assassin knew it wasn’t without defenses. Wizards loved their fiendishly clever, and often ironic traps. The assassin gingerly put a foot down, then immediately jumped back. What had been limp, dewey grass a fraction of a second ago had become rigid, razor sharp needles.

‘Blades of grass’ the assassin thought. Typical sorcerer sense of humor. They made a mental note to make sure that this wizard’s body was found with pages of a joke book shoved down his throat.

The assassin began to formulate new plans. An assassin typically had to have at least seven points of entry and exit. Assassination attempts had the habit of going wrong upon exiting the crime scene. Just killed the merchant prince? While you were cleaning up, a stray coin would just so happen to roll down the stairs, alerting the butler. Then as he came up to check on his master, the window that you just came through was suddenly locked. And wouldn’t you know it, all your lockpicking equipment was somewhere in the depths of your stylishly black cloak. The butler hears a smash and rushes in, discovering first the body, then the broken window. He looks down out the window, only seeing shards of glass on the ground. Meanwhile you’re looking down at his bald spot, desperately praying that your finger and toe strength don’t give out.

They scanned the tower. The window? Too obvious, and he’d probably have some sort of mirror spell on it. Try to unlock a window while your own reflection is choking you out. The cellar? Not a bad choice, but wizards always kept their more…anatomically varied experiments in basements. Get halfway through the dark and you’d feel a warm breath on your neck and a deep voice whisper ‘papa?’ in your ear. The chimney? Possible. Most people never thought to trap their chimneys. But this wizard was smart. He wouldn’t even have to trap a chimney if he kept the alchemy pot boiling. The question that the assassin asked themself was if the noxious fumes would kill them before the magic turned them inside out.

The assassin’s gaze fell to the dirt path leading to the tower. Were those footprints? A single trail of them led up to the door…which was slightly cracked. Did the wizard have company? Aside from the brief visit the assassin was planning? They followed the trail up the muddy path, carefully putting each step into each print. No sense in making more footprints than necessary.

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A thought crept up on the assassin. There was something missing from this little dirt path. The thought pounced. Of course there were no traps leading up to the tower. It would be an awful business strategy if a wizard’s customers had missing pieces before they knocked on his door. And assassins, always looking for the unexpected, would never expect that the front door would be open.

The assassin inched up to the door, the small wooden porch softly whining under their weight. A thin stream of light emanated from the door. As they reached for the knob, they heard a muffled sound and froze. Was that a scream? Were those footsteps approa-WHAM. The door slammed into their face. The assassin toppled off the porch and into the mud. Their blurry eyes ambled up to the door. A figure stood there. The assassin’s eyes adjusted. A woman?

She had thick, curly hair that fell down her shoulders, or at least that was what the assassin could make out. She was mostly a silhouette, the light from inside the tower made it hard to make out any features. Except her eyes, which had gone wide in surprise and a hand clapped over her mouth.

They were both fixed there for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes. Of course the woman couldn’t see the assassin’s eyes, or any facial features. A half decent, nondescript black mask paid for itself. Some assassins went in for elaborate theater masks, or chic domino masks. It was a marketing ploy, and real assassins had a word for assassins who advertised: inmate.

The woman took off down the path, splashing the assassin with muddy water. Even in their state of shock, a small thought at the back of the assassin’s brain was indignant at the disrespect. Did these peasants know how difficult it was to get mud out of silk? Actually not very difficult since the guild had perfected washing nondescript clothing, but it was the principle of it. No respect for leather-collar workers. Commoners should be thanking assassins, they were the only ones who took out those who oppressed and taxed their way into power. The assassin had to concede that those who funded their job were also those who oppressed and taxed their way to power. It was a big game of king of the hill, but the hill was made of rivals.

The assassin hauled themself to their feet, mud sloughing off them. The rain had dredged up wet clay, which stuck the assassin’s shoes to the ground. They unlaced their boots and stepped carefully onto the porch barefoot. Beside the fact that it was evidence, it was rude to track mud into the home of someone you planned to kill. They had to be quick, but they weren’t worried. By the time the woman had riled up a mob and fought their way through the mucky terrain, a professional would already be long gone.

Their hands silently uncorked a bottle somewhere within their robes. A few drops on a handkerchief, a few panicked breaths, and it would be over for the wizard. The key to assassinating someone whose power was in spoken word, was to use their lungs against them. You couldn’t speak the nine sacred spells of destruction without inhaling.

They felt a soft rug beneath their feet as they snuck into the tower’s foyer. It was a sickly blue, orange, and green pattern. Typical wizard, they thought. Bad taste in everything from the carpets to the wallpaper. They noticed that the woman cleaned her shoes before entering. At the end of the long hall, a heavy wooden door also stood ajar. They pushed it open into a dimly lit study. Their eyes swept across the room. A standard wizard’s study. Books and papers scattered about in scholarly ecstasy, candles that dribbled so much they needed a bib, and mysterious artifacts of occult significance hung on the walls. Their eyes fell on a bundle on the ground.

Oh, he’s already dead.

The assassin’s mind raced briefly before they were able to shepherd it. First, clear the room. They moved carefully around the room, trying not to disturb anything. If clues were going to be found, better they point to someone else. They checked non-obvious hiding spots first, then the obvious ones.It was Assassining 101, If you couldn’t get outside unseen, become unseen inside. If it was another assassin, they couldn’t find them, which was a shame, it would’ve been a nice little networking opportunity.

Second, check the body. The assassin got on their stomach. The wizard was on his side, one arm under his head and the other clutching at his chest. The assassin’s keen eyes met his glazed eyes. He looked in pain, or maybe it was shock? Like whatever killed him either hurt or surprised him. No blood, no signs of stabbing or bruising, not even something magically out of the ordinary. He didn’t so much shuffle off this mortal coil as tripped and fell screaming. The assassin wondered what their clients thought as they died. Their clients were never good people by any stretch of the word, but that didn’t mean they didn’t feel for them. They always imagined that it was like falling asleep, thoughts incoherent and at least a little relaxing. But the deep corners of the assassin’s conscience, they knew that that was less imagination and more rationalization.

Third, congratulate yourself on a job well done. It was a treat when jobs were this easy and went this smoothly. Occasionally, assassins did assassinate an assassinee before another assassin could assassinate. Win-win. Patrons always paid up front and didn’t ask questions, so rarely did they check if it was their guy who did the deed. What would they do? Go to the constable and say ‘oy, the killer I hired is trying to rip me off!’ The world of professional murder was shrouded in secrecy partly because of the lack of communication.

Fourth, accidentally punch your foot through a floor board.

The assassin heaved forward, nearly face-planing into the wood of the foyer. What just happened? One of their feet had suddenly fallen through. The assassin pried their still bare foot from the floor. A red gash had been cut open. They fished around in their cloak for gauze and quickly patched it up before a single drop of evidence could spill. They inspected the floor. Where once was a sturdy, lacquered wooden floor was now old and rotting. It was perfect not five minutes ago.

They strode to the front door and opened it as fast and silently as possible. It let out a groan and fell off its hinges. The assassin crawled out from under it and stared at the now rusty hinges. They looked like they’d be soaking in water for centuries. The assassin collected themself. Not going quite as smoothly at first, but not a total loss. In one fluid movement, they launched themself off the porch, pirouetting in mid-air, and landed feet first in their boots. The porch then collapsed under the show of acrobatics.

The assassin looked back at the pile of rotting timber that had just been the porch. That’s odd, summer rain doesn't usually work that fast. They pivoted to look at the town. Windows alighted as the sleepy town was awoken by the alarm bell. There was that woman who saw them, but any good assassin knows that a witness could be an asset. If you couldn’t escape unseen, you could confuse them. The assassin searched in their cloak for potential clues. They selected a mean looking dagger. Its blade flowed like waves up a hollow core that concealed poison. Their fingers traced over the pommel, where a regal lion was carved. Who’s had a lion for their crest? Who knew and who cared. Some detective would make up a whole history for it. He would take one look at it and smugly declare that it was made on the distant isle of Cyclopes for the third prince of Shamdal; that he had a particular breed of cat, and spent the day playing ninepins. All that mattered was that it threw off the scent. The knife was unceremoniously stamped into the mud.

The assassin saw the first party of concerned citizens trundling through the fields, and could just make out the silhouette of the woman in lantern light. Let her tell them what she saw, let them find a dagger and body with no stab wounds. It didn’t matter, the job was done and the trail led in a hundred directions, all away from the assassin. The assassin reattached itself to the shadows, and became a part of the tower as the mob trudged through up the mud path. The shadow got a good look at the woman, and recognition washed over. Huh, so that’s who she was, the assassin thought. Made sense, she lived alone, not ten minutes away. Well if everything went up in flames, the assassin knew who they could pin it on.