The sun had long since set by the time Henric Aldrimar finally returned to his bedchamber. Luckily the stewards had already been in to light a fire in his small stove, and Henric lit a candle from it. He sat down at his desk, resting his sheathed sword against it. He opened a drawer, and placed the Book flat on the desk. He hoped that maybe there was something in the old leather journal that could help him sway the Lords Aldrimar to his case. He would search all night if he had to.

“The eldest son shall rule the younger,” wrote Zakaran in a long, flowing cursive. “and so protect them. The younger shall do their duty to their eldest brother as their father and their lord.” Which of course, was completely unhelpful for Henric. The great Zakaran Aldrimar had died with three sons, and only one a grown man, and so his succession had been clear. In fact, according to the Book, nothing like this had ever happened before, each Aldrimar succeeded by his eldest son in an unbroken line from that first Zakaran to Henric’s own grandfather.

“Damn it,” he said to the empty room. “What the hell am I going to do?”

Rua had been waiting behind that wardrobe for hours in silence. He had watched servants come and go, tending to the bed, the privy, the small fireplace, but it wasn’t until well after sunset that the boy himself came in. Rua had to focus to quiet his beating heart, sure it might give him away, but the boy did not seem to notice.

He watched the young Henric cross the room and light a candle from the small fireplace before sitting down at the room’s small desk, his back to the wardrobe. Excellent. He had his blade ready since that afternoon when he’d first found this hiding spot, and as the boy began to read, Rua silently slipped out into the room.

“Damn it,” said the boy. Rua froze only step behind him, blade ready. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Behind him, the cupboard door creaked.

Henric turned in his chair to check the source of the creak. A flash of metal was coming right at his neck, and he flinched out of the way, taking the blade in his shoulder. He let out a cry of pain and dove to the floor, reaching for his sword.

“Don’t try to fight me boy,” said the assassin. His accent was thick, and Henric had a hard time placing it, but it certainly wasn’t Erazi. “You’ve been lucky twice so far, but no more. This time you die!”

The assassin chased after him with slow, deliberate, almost silent steps. Henric was crawling as fast as he could while trying to fumble his sword out of it’s sheath. His heart was racing, and he could feel a mixture of panic and rage, and Death.

Suddenly the assassin had a grip on his foot, and yanked him back to the center of the room with a single mighty tug. He made to stab Henric in his exposed belly, but the boy whipped himself with all his weight and kicked the assassin in the ribs, allowing the boy to escape. In an instant he was on his feet and bolting out the door.

“Help!” Henric shouted. “Guards! There’s an intruder in the east tower! I need guards!” He looked left and then right. The stairs to his left led up to the top of the tower, to the Duke’s chambers and the rooftop above that, to his right they led down into the main part of the castle, where the guests would be. It wasn’t until he heard someone shouting ‘Henric!' up the stairs from below that he knew which way to run.

As he ran up the stairs, Henric was finally able to undo the clasps that kept his blade in its sheath. He could hear the assassin only a few steps behind him. If he could just stay ahead of the assassin, if he could just get to the roof, there’d be plenty of room to fight with his sword, and the assassin would have nowhere to go when the guards finally caught up. He forced himself to run faster, as fast as he could, until he pushed open the hatch and emerged into the cool night air and the brightness of both moons.

The boy had run to the top of the tower, and finally pulled that sword of his free, taking up a defensive stance. Rua laughed. “You think that will save you?” he asked as he circled the boy, his dagger at the ready. He had forgotten how much fun it was to corner prey.

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"Stay back," the boy threatened. He was smart enough at least to keep the point of his sword trained on Rua. That wouldn't save him, once he swung, Rua could slip in. There would be a gap, and that's all he would need.

They had circled each other twice, both tense, ready to swing at the other. I can’t let my guard down, Henric thought. He watched the assassin’s footwork, light and effortless. Henric was certain that even with that small blade he had, the assassin would only need an instant to end his life. If he had his shield, if he wasn’t dressed in his eveningwear but his armor instead, he might have had a chance. What would Zak do?

A hard wind blew from the northwest, chilling him to the bone. Cold as Death. He felt himself shiver, and in an instant the assassin was on him. He brought his sword up to counter the blade, and felt them connect, and ducked into the assassin’s blow. He let his blade slip and the assassin’s slid right off into the air where he had just been. Henric left an upward slash along his ribcage as retreated behind the assassin.

“Who the hell are you?” he shouted at the man. “Why are you trying to kill me?”

“You wish I would give you my name so you can offer it to the Keeper of the Damned? I am no fool Henric Aldrimar.” With each word, the assassin closed in. “No, you will die without my name, never knowing which Fate chose you for so early a grave.”

Henric swung. The assassin stopped it with his blade, and then grabbed the blade with his leathered hand. With a single motion he ripped it from Henric’s grip and sent it scattering across the stones behind them. Henric stepped backwards, stumbling when the back of his foot met one of the small riser steps. The hard stones hurt when he landed on their sharp edges, but he kept backing away from the assassin, blade in hand. Henric felt his back come up against the low crenelated wall that marked the edge of the tower and stopped. There was nowhere else to run.

“No more!” growled the assassin. He stomped his foot down hard into his belly, winding him and sticking him in place. “Enjoy your last breath!” Henric closed his eyes as the assassin started swinging for his chest. He heard a thrum, and another thrum, and felt the splash of warm blood on his face.

He opened his eyes, to see two bloody quarrels protruding from the assassin’s chest. The easterner had a look of stunned surprise on his face, but Henric wasted no time. He kicked as hard as he could between the man’s legs and he stumbled twice, lost his balance, and slipped right over the edge of the wall. Henric turned to watch the assassin fall almost three hundred feet into the river below.

“My lord,” said one of the guards. “Are you alright?”

Henric brushed him away. “I’ll be fine. Is everyone else alright?”

“They are my lord,” said the other.

“Good,” said Henric. “I owe you two my life. Thank you. You’ll both have knighthoods for this.” They turned to each other, beaming.

He turned back to watch the river, and saw only the inky blackness. He sighed, and with it let out some of his tension. For the first time in weeks, he felt a little safer, and it was a comforting thought.

“Where’s Lucan?” he shouted at the few guards who were just standing awestruck by the stairs. “Go find him, and have him meet me in the study. The rest of you, come with me. It’s cold out here, someone get me a cloak.”

It felt good to get the cold wind off his bare legs, but their stiffness made the stairs difficult. He took a rest at one of the benches outside the duke’s chambers, wincing as his shoulder made light contact with the wall.

“Henric,” said a small voice. He looked over to see Adelin, his little sister on the steps with Megan just behind.

“What’s going on?” asked Adelin. “Megan heard yelling, is everything alr...” Her eyes went wide when she saw the blood soaking his shirt from his shoulder and rushed over to him in tears.

“I’m fine, Addy,” said Henric as she hugged him. “No reason to worry.”

“How can you say that?” she scolded through tears. “We almost died today! And you’re bleeding now!”

“You should see what I did to the guy who did this to me.”

This water was the coldest thing Rua had ever felt. Colder than the peaks of the Gharas where he had spent the earliest days of his training. So this is dying. He thought about all those he had sent this way before him, and if he could have let out a cry with his waterlogged, punctured lungs he would have. He would die a failure, there would be no glory for him in death. Instead he would be forced to spend eternity at the mercy of all those whose lives he took, the ultimate punishment for those who fail in their service.

As he floated there, face down and drowning, somewhere between Life and Death he noticed the moonlight had disappeared, leaving only blackness behind him. He thought he saw something moving in the water. He felt it grab hold of him, wrap itself around him. He felt it force open his mouth and snake its way down his throat. There was so much pain as it began to eat him alive from the inside. He tried to scream, but couldn’t.

In his last moment of consciousness, as the thing began to wrap itself around his head devouring his thoughts, he heard it speak. “It shall serve,” it hissed.

And Rua agreed, his final thought as the thing consumed the last of him was “Yes, I shall serve.”