The remaining members of the Assassins’ Guild found Mor-Ael – or what was left of him – in front of their headquarters.

The corpse was laid before the front gate of the dark, seven story tall building, simple and sturdy in its structure. It stood just a few blocks away from the noblemen’s district. Not too long ago it often housed at least a hundred people at all times. Now there were hardly twenty residing in it.

All of them rushed out of the building once someone noticed the bloody pile of flesh on the street's pavement. It was early morning and no one could be seen around. The assassins were first to notice it.

No one dared to touch the corpse until their higher up – a young woman named Skarlia – showed up.

“We can’t talk to the Great Master about it”, she judged upon seeing it while shaking her head. Her hand ran through the stream of blonde hair reaching down to the middle of her back. “Hell, this poor soul is wearing the clothes of our guild. He’s one of us.”

“Who could’ve done such a thing?” There was disgust and scorn in the voice of one of the men around.

“The Thirdborn or one of his underling. That’s who” Skarlia hissed hatefully. “Turn him around. I want to see his face.”

One of the assassins obeyed the command quietly, but couldn’t stop the sharp breath that escaped his lips upon unveiling the dead man’s face. Slightly shocked expression emerged on the faces of the other guild members around, but Skarlia’s remained emotionless.

“His name… was Mor-Ael, wasn’t it?” she asked.

“It was. I knew him.” One of the men on the right of the blonde woman nodded sharply. “He was one of the elites of the guild. Not a high-ranking one, but he was.”

“Damn it… Is someone trying to send us a message with this kind of crap?” another assassin uttered, almost whispering.

“It looks like it.” Skarlia shrugged.

Half of the skin on Mor-Ael’s head was peeled off, revealing a landscape of veins and reddish meat soaked in blood that was still wet. His right eye was gouged out with a blade, leaving only a dark, scarlet pit in its place. His other eye was glassy and vacant. Undoubtedly dead. One of his ears was missing. Cut off, probably. His expression was twisted into a raw portrait of intense pain and horror. Parts of his lips were cut out, too, leaving his teeth bare. They were covered in dried up blood.

Most of his body was in pretty bad condition too, being covered in bruises, cuts and various other wounds. They were clearly visible underneath the ragged, heavily torn clothes. Skarlia recognized that all of them were delivered by someone without finesse, someone outside of her branch of work. A lot of the damage was done after Mor-Ael had died, she could tell. “But why?” the blonde girl asked herself. Was it really a message?

The answer presented itself in the form of a piece of parchment tucked into one of the corpse’s pockets. The assassins found it only after they brought Mor-Ael into the building and began inspecting him. There was nothing on the corpse, except for the parchment. Still, Skarlia had to sit and watch the examination until the end. She felt obliged to do it.

Mor-Ael was missing three fingers, a piece of his tongue and seven of his toes. Even so, the assassins confirmed her thoughts and proclaimed and most of his wound were dealt after the moment of death, albeit very shortly afterwards.

The contents of the parchment were a mere few sentences, but they made Skarlia’s blood freeze in her veins.

It began with a simple statement.

“I killed Mor-Ael because he opposed me.

He slayed my servants under the disguise of the night, and he actively tried to ruin my plans. I couldn’t let him live. I hope he acted separate from your Guild. If this isn’t the case… Maybe you haven’t learned your lesson and I’ll have to eradicate all of you. And I’m only saying ‘if’ because Mor-Ael didn’t say a word about a conspiracy against me, even if there was such a thing going on. This man… He was very brave and endured everything I put him through. The world truly lost a good man.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

In any case, I’ll discuss the current events with your honorable Great Master. I’m assuming this letter hasn’t gotten to his hands yet. And if my worries are true and someone in your organization is plotting against me, it probably never will.

As a final word, I’ll give you a small bit of advice. You better never go against me. Not your whole Guild nor a single member of it. I won’t be as merciful the next time around.”

Skarlia found herself with a fast-pacing heart, hammering in her chest after she finished reading the note, written in a graceful manner with a steady hand. Even the parchment it was inscribed upon wasn’t cheap, and it permeated the faint scent of thick and yet majestic perfume. “This… It’s sent by the Thirdborn.” Skarlia realized this long ago, but she didn't want to admit it.

“For hell’s sake…” The words escaped her lips in a low murmur. “Mor-Ael, what the hell did you get yourself into?”

***

Farnaraen walked into the throne room of Tarha-Nan’s king with a confident and cheerful step. Yet, his expression was grave.

The Thirdborn felt a bitter taste in his mouth after all he had done with the assassin. The poor man had died long before the real nasty wounds on his body were created, but the Changeling still felt regret and sadness over the whole ordeal. “Shield yourself from the feelings”, a voice inside of him whispered. “You can’t allow yourself to sense regret over such a small thing.”

The voice sounded cruel and merciless, but it was right. Farnaraen’s face turned into a steel mask. He had to deal with some things before he could just stand around and sink into his dark thoughts.

It was still relatively early in the morning. But king Broh-Aer II, monarch of the city of cutthroats, protected by all the crime organizations aroubd and (presumably) the Crescent Master himself, sat on his throne and spoke with a number of advisors. The man – noble in his speech, attire and mannerisms, and yet having posture that was far from noble and a face bearing the marks of small pox – was protected by half a dozen guards. They were well-trained, muscular brutes in top-class armor and they surely knew the Changeling's identity. Still, they would be no obstacle for Farnaraen if he wished to hurt their ruler.

The king’s eyes widened when he saw the Thirdborn approaching and he was quick to dismiss his advisors. They obeyed his command silently, but with  sourness written all over their faces.

“What brings you here today?” Broh-Aer’s voice wasn’t hostile, but there was a certain kind of coldness to it. “You can’t walk around this openly. You said it yourself a few days ago.”

“I did, but…” the Changeling made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “The matter I want to speak about is rather urgent.”

“And what would that be?”

Farnaraen didn’t answer immediately. Instead he looked around, letting the ethereal beauty of the palace fill his senses. Every little bit of the crystal blue and greenish walls (with the occasional specks of pink and purple) was crafted with incredible mastery. The huge supporting pillars, the intricate ornaments upon the doorframes and walls…. It felt like humans didn’t really belong here. Even the throne upon which the king sat was far from most other thrones seen by the Thirdborn in his lifetime, at least when it came to structure and design. The sight of the hall calmed him a little bit.

“I want to take action against what’s left of the Assassins’ Guild. And I thought you should be informed of that decision”, he proclaimed slowly and indifferently. His words were nowhere near a question, just a plain and simple statement.

The king’s face darkened.

“What more can you do to them? I won’t allow for more violence against their ranks, understand?” His voice was mighty and charismatic, but it somehow couldn’t stand next to the Thirdborn’s calm and collected sentences, cutting like daggers.

“I do not wish to kill them.” Farnaraen shook his head. “I need to pry some information from the assassins, and I would like you to help me… I promise that all of them will come out of this unharmed.”

“And why do I have to help you in this deed?”

"Because it'd be far quicker and smoother if you do so, Broh-Aer."

The king sighed and shook his head. 

"What have they done this time?"

The Thirdborn smiled faintly. 

"One of them went around killing my people left and right. I have to know if he worked alone or with the assistance of other... rebellious guild members, so to speak."

"I presume he's head, isn't he?"

"He is. He didn't say a word before his last breath."

"Fine. For hell's sake..." The monarch glanced at his own luxurious attire while frowning. His boots, coat and mantle were well made, but definitely not too spectacular. They didn't match his ordinary, even slightly unattractive face. "I'll lend you the people necessary to carry out this task. But you won't hurt an assassin without asking for me first, you hear?"

"I do... Your Majesty."

The king didn't answer. Farnaraen knew that he sensed the ironic tint in his words, but the monarch said nothing nonetheless. In a way, it was another small victory for the Thirdborn.

The Changeling left the throne hall without hesitation. One of the guards at the entrance glanced at the two bloody marks on his sleeves - memories from Mor-Ael - but quickly averted his gaze.

Farnaraen shook his head. He had to crush every form of resistance in Tarha-Nan and hunt down every little troublemaker left in the city. Even if it was unpleasant for him.

And there probably were plenty of troublemakers to worry about.