King Alfred looked at his stomach in disbelief, shock painted on his gaunt sickly face. Protruding from his stomach was a sword, thrust deep within his body, the tip going through his back and into his bed. Thunder roared above the castle rooftops, drowning out his pathetic cries for help that crawled out of his mouth accompanied by specs of blood and bile.
From outside, arcs of lightning lit the room, revealing several assassins-each one a deadly shadow surrounding the King’s bed like a pack of wolves. The assassins hungrily spread around the room eying the dying King, their prey.
King Alfred lay there, trying desperately to sit up, but like a bug in a museum case, he was pinned down. He could not get up. Despair and panic threatened to overwhelm him as he continued to struggle, his weak body shaking violently. As he struggled, a small part of his mind retreated deep into his subconscious as a form of protection.
Within this safe place, Alfred felt no pain. Looking down at his hands, almost as if he were looking at someone else’s, he saw the blood that had come out of his mouth. Is this mine? he wondered. The blood was darker than he had expected, almost black, nothing like how it should have been. He needed to fix this. Knowing that what he would do was useless, he tried to pull the Aether surrounded him into his dying body, cursing to himself as nothing happened.
At one point in his life, Alfred was known as one of the great military Pillars of his kingdom, but that had all changed. His body had become withered, his stamina depleted, but worst of all, his Aether had dried up. Even the expertise of countless specialists from all corners of the Kingdom, over the course of a decade, had not been able to solve the mystery of the king’s slowly waning power. All signs pointed towards being exposed to a highly unique poison over an extended period, but proof could never be found.
Even in his safe space Alfred felt regret. Regret that he had lost his strength, regret that he could not even sense the assassins coming into his room, regret of knowing that if he still had his ability to draw Aether he could have cut through the assassins like a god of death.
As the storm raged outside, the door to the balcony violently swung open, crashing into the inner wall scattering precious crystal glass around the room as it splintered from the impact. Angry wind and rain came hounding in where the door had been as more assassins forced their way into the royal bedchamber.
The wind and rain rushed into the room, whipping the black cloaks of the assassins in a hysterical dance. Feeble laughter quietly joined in the chaos as the King’s bloody lips slowly cracked open, revealing blood-stained teeth. Teeth he wished he could use to tear into his assailants, although movement was no longer an option.
Pinned in his bed, Alfred analyzed the closest assassin as much as he could, his spirit dimming as his life faded away. How can your eyes lack all traces of a soul? he wounded. Like that of a doll. Would I die at the hand of this empty puppet?
Catching the King’s gaze, the assassin carefully observed him back, vacant eyes tracing the king’s powerless hands as they slowly moved closer and closer to the sword that still impaled him to his bed. As soon as the king’s hands touched the cold wet steel, the assassin leaned close, whispering in Alfred’s ear, “It’s alright your Majesty. You can rest easy. We also have arrangements for your daughters-they will soon be with you. In fact, you will soon be reunited with your dead son. Sleep well.”
The assassin's words pierced into the king’s safe space, invading the last shard of sanity hidden deep in his subconscious.
Alfred started to struggle, his body straining as he thought of his children: Perseus, Milina, and Elina. Oh Perseus! Perseus, the pride of his life and only son, had passed away years ago, leaving Alfred, broken and soulless. He had tried to channel the love he felt for his son to his daughters, but the more he tried the more painful it had become. Ultimately, he had distanced himself from his daughters, unable to face the pain. He knew he was in the wrong, but he could not help it.
Milina, his eldest daughter, seemed to understand, silently allowing him to put up a wall between them, always ready to help him tear it down. She was calm and composed, her reddish-brown hair the former hallmark of their house, the red slowly vanishing from their family as the generations went on. With her birth and the red in her hair, he had hoped the people would remember the past glory of their house, but he had ruined it all. He had pushed her aside in his grief.
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Elina, on the other hand, never forgave his decision to put up a wall. Never showing her anger but never spending more time around him than necessary. Her personality was identical to his in his youth, both treating rules and customs more like suggestions, doing what they wanted, but she had a kinder heart than his, never making too much trouble for the servants. She had inherited his dark hair, long waves of hair growing past her shoulders. From her mother she had inherited her skin tone, light skin touched with a hint of olive.
As his struggle grew more desperate, the assassin took hold of the sword handle, first twisting, then ripping the blade and life free from the King of Vanura. The last thing Alfred saw before death was the faces of his children.
Making sure the King was dead, the assassin turned, speaking in a hollow voice, his blood-soaked hands moving as they motioned to his men. “We stick with the plan. You two go to the treasury, the rest of us will split into two groups. Group one will meet up with Lord Ferious, group two will follow me, we will meet up with the main group outside, kill as many Arcane Knights and Warriors as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as his commands were uttered, the assassins started to move. The first group silently making their way out of the bedchamber, melting into the castle shadows, closely followed by the two who were heading to the treasury.
The assassin glanced around at the remaining men, each of their emotionless eyes looking back at him, waiting for his orders. Like him they had all taken Devil's Dew, a drug that killed their emotion and numbed any pain they felt, the perfect drug for their line of work, or it would have been perfect if it weren't highly addictive.
Nodding once, the assassin led the rest of the group out of the room and onto the balcony the raging storm whipping all around them. The rain instantly saturated their already wet clothing, causing them to stick to the thin leather armor they wore underneath. Grabbing the rope they had use to climb up the tower, the assassin skillfully descended, making his way towards their marks.
In his mind, the assassin quickly brought up the patrol patterns he had spent hours memorizing, skipping the irrelevant targets he made his way to the top of a nearby wall that overlooked the grounds below. Holding his right hand up in a fist, he halted his group looking for his targets.
Castle Salizia was impressive, constructed on a large mound using the natural terrain to make a multilayer defensive system. Starting from the castle, three walls were raised, each one built on a lower section of the mound, three tiers of walls, one taller than the next surrounding the castle. A fourth larger wall surrounded the city that had been constructed past the third wall. From the inner walls, any soldier would be able to see past the outer wall well into the lands bellow. If on the unlikely situation that an army was able to breach past the first or second inner wall, the retreating defenders were trained to trap the invaders between the wall they had just breached and the next wall. Once trapped the invaders would be met by a bombardment of arrows, fire, and rocks raining down from the hardened defenders.
The assassin sneered, looking down from the innermost wall, from up here he could see that there were much more traps laid out than he had reasoned. He noted the large passageways created for invaders that lead to a stone wall, stone stairs that would turn a corner leading to a sharp drop to the ground below. A virtual maze that the invaders would have to navigate, hampered by arrows, choke points, and wooded barricades that the defenders could easily set up. Without the map of the castle, he knew this mission would not have been possible.
But now they had the advantage, the soldiers would never expect an attack originating from behind them. Carefully studying the castle guards that were avoiding the cold rain under eaves or covered parapets, the assassin searched, his eyes flickering from one guard to the next his eyes searching for the small insignia on the hand or arm that designated a soldier’s rank. There! On the forearm of a guard a small crest, the sign of an Arcane Knight! And near him two guards with crests on their hands, Arcane Warriors!
Slowly the assassin started to rotate Aether, drawing the raw power through his Hyena Crest which was located on his arm. Pulled through his Crest, which acted as a gate or filter, the surrounding Aether flowed into his body, bringing with it promises of power and strength. Brimming with energy, he waited for the next lighting strike, his heightened senses stained to their limits. Within seconds, lighting thick as a man’s arm raced overhead, splitting the heavens. Counting to one, the assassin ran out, signaling with his hand to the shadows crouching next to him, pointing at the two Arcane Warriors.
The sound of thunder exploded above him before he had closed distance between him and the Arcane Knight. He had misjudged the timing of the thunder, but it was good enough. The Arcane Knight barely had time to turn his head before the assassin fell on him, driving his knife deep into the knight’s armpit. His intention was clear: collapse the lungs and sever the heart at the same time. The assassin struck true; the Arcane Knight died before he had time to draw Aether into himself.
Disengaging himself from the dead man, the assassin looked around, receiving silent information from the rest his men. Luckily, only one unfortunate assassin had suffered a small injury to his wrist, caused when his knife became stuck, lodged in an Arcane Warrior and refusing to come free. When the Arcane Warrior had fallen, he had dragged the assassin down with him, twisting the man’s wrist in a painful sprain. All things considered it was acceptable. Signaling once more to his men, the assassin quickly moved towards the next target.
This was going to be a long night.