“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
- Ancient Red Empire Proverb
Kaelin Shade, the once-famed champion of the Orion cadets, paced a trench into the rickety wood of his room. Well, to claim it was his room was a bit of a stretch in logic, and not just because it technically belonged to the innkeeper. Nor was it due to the tiny detail that Kaelin knew that to use his real name on any documentation or even between customer and patron was a death sentence.
No. Prometheus had paid twelve coppers for this room—five for the second floor and seven because he was never there. At least, that was what the innkeeper would tell the Orions on his tail. He grinned to himself as he remembered the eighteen lowlifes he had paid a sizable sum to in an effort to throw off those that hunted him. The floorboards creaked under his weathered leather boots as he imagined the seasoned Orions discovering the various ‘Kaelin Shades’ that had taken lodgings across the Valoria Imperium. What mayhem and confusion that must’ve caused them, to finally gain a lead on his whereabouts only to find some drunkard pissing off his coin in some seedy tavern.
If it wasn’t for his girlfriend, Sora, and her connections to the criminal underworld of Valoria, he wouldn’t have managed such a convoluted plot. A pang of guilt and grief threatened to break the mask he always wore nowadays.
Sora.
His elven lover had changed everything for him, and yet she would pass him by in the street without a second glance. Not for the first time, Kaelin cursed that bastard, Hawthorne. If Sora was responsible for the love and courage he felt now, his old professor was culpable for all the misery that now coated his thoughts and actions. Kaelin’s lip curled in annoyance, forgetting to maintain the march he’d dedicated to for the past three hours as he waited.
What is taking that fool so görnaching long? He questioned the unnatural silence, begrudgingly grateful yet again for his old master’s tutelage in wardcrafting. No sounds save those he made himself permeated this room. They were cheap enchantments, but quite effective in a pinch. His eyes flicked to the curved marks his whittling knife had made in the doors and walls. Each glowed faintly, confirming that all were functioning properly.
In this relative privacy, Kaelin continued to pace. His thoughts shifted to something far more chaotic: Thea. He wrung his wrists as he considered the absolute hellstorm his sister had kicked up in the past few months. He had given her one job. One. Job. Keep their parents safe.
“But could she just skrägging sit still for once in her life? No. No, she had to upset that idiot, Barnum. Then she had the brilliant idea to follow my footsteps and manage to piss off every major faction at that cursed school. AGH!” Kaelin threw his hands up, grateful that no one could hear him in his moment of frustrated weakness. He stopped suddenly, the faint creak of weight against wood enough to heighten all of his senses. His hand went for the short sword his reputation had been founded on, the thrill of using the Zengo’s powers right at his fingertips.
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“Down with the Red Empire,” a gruff voice whispered through the thin wood of the inn’s door. It was not in the language of man, dwarves, or elves, but something much older. A tongue native to Eridia…
Tuluken. The language of the tieflings.
“And may the Archons rise,” Kaelin responded out of habit, mirroring the required speech. Though he recognized the faint stench of liquor and mud immediately, it was comforting that his contact had not broken protocol. He sighed with relief, moving over to deactivate the wards he’d scratched into the door the moment he entered the tiny space. After several seconds, the wards disappeared and the cloaked figure swept into the cramped bedroom. “You’re late. What delayed you?” Kaelin asked, his voice harder than he intended.
“Piss off, Kael. ‘Twas hard enough getting past your friends down there on the streets, much less the seven Cloaks they have scouting for you now in this city alone.” The disgruntled man reached deep into his cowl for a hidden pocket. With the faint shudder of cloth against glass, he procured a vial with amber liquid inside.
“Seriously, Barty? Now?” Kaelin huffed, his exasperation only tempered by his desperation for the news this drunkard brought with him. “What’s happening? Is it time to move? Do you think she’s ready?”
Bartholomew grunted and shot the young Orion fugitive an annoyed look right before he downed the vial’s contents in one fluid motion. He gasped and licked his lips, and Kaelin knew he was already missing the raw flavor his expensive habit offered. Kael watched as he returned the vial to its secured pocket, taking his time before answering. Thea’s older brother felt the temptation to let his leg tamp impatiently, but resisted it. He would show nothing to this ‘ally’ of his. It was hard to trust someone you were blackmailing, after all.
“She’s not ready,” came his delayed reply. “They’ve started the Hunt already. I am on duty starting tomorrow, trailing some royal arse named James, I think.”
Kaelin shook his head. Though it hardly made the list of damning secrets he’d unearthed of late, the knowledge that the Hunts were proctored so that certain cadets made it through bothered him to no end. He’d had no such advantage during his first two Hunts, and believed anyone who did would pay the price in the long run. The real world had no buffers, as they would all soon discover. He forced the grotesque images that plagued his mind whenever he pictured his kid-sister in the Hunt out of his thoughts.
“How’s our other project going?” Kaelin asked, schooling his expression.
“It’s nearly ready. But once it’s done, I’m out. I can’t keep risking my hide like this.” Bartholomew pinned Kaelin with a stare to show just how serious he was. But the young exile didn’t flinch under such intensity. He had stared down far worse threats than this man. If not for those experiences, however, he doubted he would’ve had the stomach for what needed to be done next.
“No.” The word rang out like a sword drawn from its sheath. Barty’s eyes narrowed.
“No?” He repeated in his gravelly voice that reminded Kaelin faintly of his father. “You won’t ever let me go, will ya?”
Kaelin stepped toward the window, his left hand remaining on the pommel of his enchanted blade. “Contrary to what it looks like, I will, in fact, consider our…contract…fulfilled. But that day won’t come until my fool of a sister is out of that deathtrap and Hawthorne’s schemes are exposed. Now, what can you tell me of the schematics you saw?”
Bartholomew sighed and held out his hand. Kaelin permitted a small smirk to curve his lips, and he offered the man another vial he’d hidden up his other sleeve. He clasped it, downed the rich fluid, and then sighed as he too began to stare out the window.
“I’ve never seen runes like these, Kael. I’ll try to get drawings of them for you and the others to go over.” Barty looked up at the young man who had entered his life like a surge and done as much irreparable damage as those Coldor-cursed storms. Kaelin returned the gaze evenly. “You know, once we begin this plan of yours, there won’t be any turning back. You know that right? Every Orion and their mother will be gunning for you. Those that don’t go catatonic with shock, that is.”
Kaelin sighed.
“Trust me, Barty. I crossed that line ages ago.”