“I will kill.”
She inhaled softly. The air seeped into her lungs and escaped through her mouth in the form of three words, not a single breath wasted.
Her target stood behind her.
“I will kill.”
She stabbed a knife up into his skull through the back of his neck past his long blond hair where his armor failed to protect him. He suddenly appeared before her with his sword raised above his head.
“I will kill.”
She slashed his throat. He appeared again and again and each time she slew him. She contemplated on every motion she had seen her quarry make and concentrated on any vulnerabilities.
Of course, the exercise suggested she intended to end it all with one swift strike. It was far easier to try kill someone than to purposefully nearly kill someone, especially an elf.
One had to strike the head or the heart to immediately kill an elf. Even damaging the heart proved to be less than an absolute certainty of death.
The rarest but most absolute of demises was shock. In an instant, one’s body failed and their souls refused to return. It was not fully understood as there were many that wished for such a fate but were not graced by it. Those desperate for release found starvation to be sufficient.
They were still subject to the slow deaths of starvation, thirst, exposure to the elements, bloodloss or suffocation. Drowning, choking, and destroying the lungs were options. For this mission, she chose blood loss.
When she was younger, she was told she would one day kill for the king. She was told that until it was simply a fact, an inevitability. By the time a Dark Elves killed another sentient being, they already came to accept as if it had already happened.
But her first order had been to save someone.
Some part of her still anticipated the day she might be called to another crisis and be given the reminder that her role was more than just a killer. But that call had not come, not in the last three hundred years.
There was more to her than her role. That was obvious. There was more to her kin than soldiers, miners, and smiths. There was more to everyone. But that also meant there was more to her victims than their status as target.
Tarica had spent almost a month surveying the palace, memorizing the patrols and what few blind spots there were. Such a precise measure of time was an alien concept to elves but the terminology was heeded somewhat if only to understand the thought processes of those that were not immortal and the idea of lunar phases was simple enough to understand. The moon was prepared to complete its cycle and disappear for the night.
By the united calendar it was the year 1123. Elves did not have calendars and tracked the passage of years with the completion of seasons and did not preserve their history with the exacting detail of dwarves and humans, most elves remembered key events for themselves. The calendars of all civilizations were eventually reset to the year that Satros the great explorer first met humans. It was then that the world expanded for everyone.
Normally, she would require more than a year of study to guarantee a perfect kill, analyzing her target’s mannerisms and how they might react but her king did not ask for perfection, he demanded cruelty.
It would perhaps been easier if he asked her to perform this task upon a mortal. Many of Tarica’s kin expressed sympathy for the other races but thought nothing of killing them. Unlike elves, they were destined to die. It was only a matter of time, it was even considered a mercy to swiften the inevitable.
However, Tarica thought otherwise. Even if their lives were limited, murder was at least theft of the time they had left. It was a mindset she possibly shared with Odlig though her mentor had spent centuries more than her contemplating on the value of mortal lives.
She had killed before and would do so again. But this was new, for her at least. Perhaps her sisters received similar missions. When she returned home, would this be the last time her king asked her to perform this type of task?
This was a particularly difficult request. Ordelas wanted his enemy, Malendar, to suffer so she could not be as quick as she desired. She coated her knives with special poison for the occasion. It slowed an elf’s healing to a pace similar to the shorter lived races.
She had to rely on hearsay as to understanding the prowess of her opponent.
She had to strike that night while the elements were on her side. The moon was gone and it would not be for another lunar cycle that she would be blessed with such a great opportunity and Ordelas was impatient. Every day she was away, his mood would sour furtherer. She would not keep him waiting.
Guards would undoubtedly rush to their king’s side the moment they sensed something ill. There was a precious gap when the guards left before their king retired for himself, she would capitalize on that.
She would need to pierce both his lungs at once so he would start drowning in his own blood so he could not scream for help. Still, she should not underestimate the guards, they might still be able to detect muffled cries, the clatter of metal, and scent of blood. They would arrive to aid him but before that she would lacerate every organ but leave the heart and throat untouched. He would survive for a short while but there would be no way to save him from such damage so she could make her escape while his rescuers futilely tended to his wounds.
For her task, her armor was lined with hooked blades. It was dangerous even to herself to make a thoughtless move but it allowed her cut her foe from virtually any point of contact. It was something she would only choose for an assignment such as this one. She could spare no effort against her prey, yet she needed to keep him alive to suffer however shortly that was, so she required the assistance of such weapons.
A sister of hers convinced her to let her hair grow longer. She was not the novice she was centuries ago. She still did her best to ensure it failed to obstruct her vision.
Her hair was a lesser concern to her helmet. Fortunately, it was of Dark Elven make and gave a near perfect view while protecting her entire head. Her visor was just a slit.
Malendar had fought Malniza, arguably her people’s greatest warrior, to a draw in the Great War and recently dueled with Ordelas. Tarica had yet to defeat Malniza in any of the sparring they shared, the thought of an opponent that was his equal was daunting. Fortunately, his prowess seemed to have faded to have nearly been killed by Ordelas.
She would have asked Malniza for his assessment of his former opponent but his impression would have been more emotional than factual. She relied on the tales her people shared. If Malniza was described as fire, Malendar was linked to ice. Malniza was unpredictable but Malendar’s strikes were steady and precise. Both were offensive fighters and their battle was each equally trying to slay the other only to have to divert the attacks of their counterpart.
From what she understood, the victor would inevitably had been Malniza if they had continued. He was the type to eventually stop attempting to block entirely and press forward. The Light Elves and their king would undoubtedly think differently.
The palace of the Light Elves was a delicate dwelling compared to most castles, so security was not as prominent as in the fortresses of other nations. The structure was fashioned in the shape of a square, but it had a glass dome that enclosed the center, allowing sunlight and moonlight to constantly filter into the throne room. An enemy could easily exploit such a fragile structure.
Parts of it had two stories such as the outer edge but the center and anywhere important consisted of only one floor so those within were graced with natural light at all times. The design or at least its placement was abhorrent.
Her kindred found beauty in simplicity, contrast, and subtlety, the stars in the sky and the flickering of a small flame. Light Elves apparently adored the daylight’s tyrant. She could understand wishing to see the night sky but her pale skin crawled at the touch of the sun’s unwelcome kiss.
Malendar’s throne room was in the center of the palace and barring breaking in, there was only one entrance. It was not like her home where the king possessed a balcony she could slip through.
Her entrance strategy was one she could only perform the night of she intended to complete the task. Before this, she had spied from the roof and watched when he made his regular visits with the people of his city.
Fortunately, she wore a string saw around her wrist like a bracelet to spare her the need to choke the life out of another with her own hands. Though the tool, if facing the correct direction would cut through her target’s throat rather than constrict it. If she had chosen that method, she would have been open when Malendar made his initial swing. She had discarded the option originally because the guards would probably have noticed the gasps so she would not have enough time to rob him of breath before she needed to flee.
She used the saw to cut through the supports on the fringes of the dome and slipped past the loosened glass after undermining the stonework below. Once a few days have passed, a diligent soul should notice how it was damaged and tampered with. Though they would likely already know of her visit before the night was over.
She worked her way inside. Avoiding patrols and slipping further in as guards switched positions. Elves were immortal, not restless.
She heard her sister Ruhin was the best at these types of infiltration. It not only required patience, which unfortunately her king proved shorthanded on at this time but it required precise judgement and at times creativity.
The guards were competent, there was no doubting that, but they were not like the Honor Guard who would track even the displacement of a speck of dust. These were people who let themselves believe there was such a thing as peace. It helped the darkness was on her side as well.
Fate sided with her and clouds rolled in, blotting out the stars, depriving her foes of the illumination they were accustomed to. They abstained from torches and lanterns unless necessary which it appeared too late for them to take such measures when most were prepared to sleep.
She entered the throneroom as the guards departed for the night. A habit the ruler seemed to possess was he believed he should not rest before his own subjects. She had a few moments before the lord would prepare to step out.
The lord sat alone, looking up towards the black sky revealed through the crystalline that filled the room with a rare, thick darkness. She seeped in like a shadow and kept to the edge of the room and made her way around until she was behind him. If someone wished him dead, this would be the night that it should come true. This would be the opportune time to strike.
Malendar must have been expecting her or one of her sisters. He was dressed for battle, in full plate like Ordelas so often was rather than in regal garb. The armor and armaments of the Light Elves were modeled after her own people’s armory though molded to fit their own aesthetic. He was large but his former build as a warrior gave to his years of diplomacy. He was not gaunt, he was fit but not as apparently slim as Malniza or muscled as Odlig. Malendar had a long sword sheathed at his side. It was not the same great weapon from the war. This one was slimmer, capable of being wielded with one hand.
He kept watching the sky the way only the longlived could. She thought he might wait there until morning but there came a break in the cloud cover. With the starlight came color and she could perceive the glint of his long blond hair and if she had been facing him, she would see his bright blue eyes.
Malendar’s gear resembled a defiled set of what the Honor Guard would wear. Instead of white and black, it was a reflective gold and white and articulated with fanciful designs formed into the armor itself. Not even the white remained unblemished, while Tarica’s kind chose silver or bone white to represent themselves, Light Elves employed a pearly sheen. Instead of a golden cloak, he bore a pearl mantle that allowed the color to break apart at the edges, leaving shifting traces of a rainbow.
He accepted the return of the light as a sign and stood to leave. She stared at his back and prepared to stab both blades into his back. Distancing them away from the center of his torso where his heart resided. Elves possessed a similar but more symmetrical internal structure than a human. If her target had been one of those that were more shortlived, she would need to heed where she struck on the left side.
She timed her breathing to her target’s as she approached. She matched her footsteps to his as he walked, lengthening her stride so she closed the gap with every step. She made no announcements for her attacks. She was not a ritual duelist that declared her intentions before an attack or a zealot that screamed during battle.
He paused in the center of the room. His attire’s pearl and gold plates reflected all that shined overhead. She froze and flicked her knives back so the blades rested under her wrists so they would not capture the light. He looked up to the sky again but as his gaze lowered back, he glanced at the hilt of his blade.
He braced himself. He witnessed her, she had to strike before he had time to turn. He slowly slid his sword out of its sheath, the unveiled blade caught the sudden flash of her oncoming knives.
He spun around. He raised his sword to block the two weapons aimed for his lungs and barely parried the blows. He looked straight ahead and saw the bearer of the weapons.
To him, she must have looked like a breathing torture device. The spikes protruding from his assailant’s armor, left no flesh to be seen. He could not even see her dark brown eyes through her helmet.
To leave no mystery as to her allegiance, she bore an insignia upon her chest, her people called it the Mark. It was not as though the symbol drew any more attention than the armor itself. The Mark was the most common icon the Dark Elves implemented in their designs. It was more angular than most symbols the Dark Elves used, comprised of straight lines rather than any of the curves found in typical elven script. It was similar to a pair of tridents placed over each other, one right-side up and the other upside down. The lower prongs were stretched further than those on the top with all the points removed except the bottommost one. To outsiders, it resembled an insect or a crowned face.
The assassin stood still for a moment and observed Malendar. The very next instant, she struck with ferocity and precision, but Malendar managed to back away just short of the knife’s reach. The assassin pressed forward as banished all thoughts from her mind except murder.
She was faster than him, but Malendar’s reflexes allowed him to block or evade each of the killer’s attempts. Her intent to kill him was so strong it was palpable. He could sense it just before the assassin struck, giving him enough time to get away. Being a king and warrior had left him with the instinct for knowing when others wanted him dead. He reminded her of Malniza in that regard but this was a clearly cultivated skill, there was more thought to it than some inborn trait.
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If he could anticipate her attacks, she would have to lead him into one. The slayer backhanded Malendar but when he dodged another blow she managed to cut his right arm with a hooked knuckle as he avoided a knife. Malendar winced as he practically moved into the strike. He could not afford to look at the injury, yet he knew it was not as deep as it could have been.
He retaliated with a strike of his own. However, the assassin was experienced. The Dark Elf did not make the mistake of moving backward when dodging, instead sidestepping to move closer to the target.
He could once fight Malniza to a draw but Tarica fought differently from Malniza. Of course defeating someone who at one point fought the commander to a draw would not mean she surpassed Malniza. Combat was not a pure measurement of strength and skill. There factors of compatibility to consider. The difference in reach accounted for little when she preferred to be as close as possible. If anything, Malendar’s long sword was to his detriment.
For a moment, he wielded his weapon with two hands like Odlig. While Odlig used his shorter leaf patterned blade to deflect, the king could have used his reach to attack. Tarica saw how Malendar might have kept Malniza at bay, the longer the weapon, the more distance it covered at the flick of a wrist. Though what she had seen so far would have been insufficient against the commander of the Honorbound.
She kicked at his legs. He needed to back away to implement his weapon’s reach but as he drew it back, she stepped forward to stab.
He covered his chest with his left arm reflexively. If he had been holding a shield, it would have been in the ideal position to protect his heart and neck without restricting his vision while being able to easily raise or lower it to defend against an attack from above or below. This was not the technique that forced Malniza into a draw. This was something he must have learned from his allies.
He swiped his arm as if to deflect her strike. Elves invented weapons of war far later than any other known culture. The first ones were not made by elven hands until after Satros left. Shields were something they were slow to consider, resorting to evading rather than blocking. Her people’s champion, Vernigen, was one of the forerunners of blocking but never used a shield. Even his straightforwardness gave way to a technique for deflecting a blade by striking the side of the weapon with one’s forearm at just the right angle. Tarica herself used that technique when desperate.
But she knew how to counter it. She angled the edge of her knife perpendicular to the direction he was swiping towards and plunged further. Her blade dug deep into his forearm. That earned a grunt from him as he swallowed his own outcry to deny deny her any satisfaction.
She twisted the blade, she knew where to cut to make him unable to close his fingers. She heard a muffled gasp through gritted teeth. She pulled her weapon back and the tantalizing scent of blood made her heart race.
She gritted her teeth. She killed before but she was doing was torture. She could let herself grimace while her face was concealed.
She fought against her own confidence, reminding herself that he was a threat until the moment he was dead. Now that they were so close, her knives were the superior choice. Still, she could not kill him immediately so she juggled with the contradiction of regarding him as a danger while abstaining from a swift execution.
She had to back away. If she kept as she was. She would kill him. She went against her own training and gave him a moment to wallow.
The killer backed away for a moment and stared at his arm. The king resisted the urge to cover the wound, thinking the shallow wound would heal quickly enough on its own. He did not notice how it continued to bleed, far more than it naturally should have.
She had watched him from a distance for a month and had the time to study him. She read his movements and could garner some understanding of what he was thinking with every breath, expression, and gesture.
He could discern that she could have pressed further and caused more damage. He read it as him perhaps being toyed with. Maybe he understood Ordelas demanded for him to suffer.
She changed her stance and spread her arms out like a bird stretching its wings.
“I will have your name,” demanded Malendar, pointing his blade at her so it served as a barrier between her and him.
“If you intend to distract me, that will not work,” she calmly warned him. It did not surprise Malendar that she was female. It only confirmed that she was indeed one of Ordelas’s personal assassins. “You will die here.”
She silently counted her heartbeats and listened for footsteps. She did not bother to quiet herself. The clashing of metal would already have been heard. The guards would be coming.
“If you are so confident of my demise then it will do no harm to share your name,” reasoned the king. “I wish to know the name of the one who would send me to my grave.”
“Only the names of failures are learned by their targets,” she countered as she crossed her blades over each other. She repeated her killing mantra to herself. He was already dead to her. “But if you are insistent, I will carve it into your soul, so you might know it in the afterworld.”
Malendar intended to continue speaking, but some of his own blood, dripping to the floor, caught his attention. She accepted that as her signal to rush him.
The smell of blood awakened a ferocity and she abandoned all defense to close the distance between them. She needed to close the gap as quickly as possible.
Malendar leaned backwards but he was still slashed across the shoulder. He could not block while they were standing close. Instead, he brought his hilt down on her stomach with enough force to push her back. She gritted her teeth and banished all pain from her mind as she reflexively bowed. In that brief moment he was outside her focus, he drew his sword back to swing.
He aimed for her head. Her posture was already lowered, she could not duck.
So, she slid. She kicked her feet forward and let that carry her as she dropped to her back and drifted towards the blade’s arc, her armor scraping against the floor.
The blade lowered as it approached, it edged past her nose but caught her helmet.
The blow ultimately missed the mark. Yet, he managed to knock his assailant’s helmet off.
Long hair flowed down when the helmet hit the ground, and Malendar beheld the delicate oval face underneath the mane of ebony hair.
It should not have surprised him, but it was very different from a faceless helmet. He stared at her during that moment, while she still seemed fazed by her loss. The respite ended when she stabbed at him as he tried to jump out of her reach.
He let out a gasp. His wounds, which were not closing, were causing his arm and shoulder to burn. He looked at her in horror as she watched his life’s essence flow, yet she made no move to pursue him. The poison on her knives prevented his body from healing. She originally planned to let him bleed to death.
He could have called out for the guards, but he knew she would kill him then and there if he tried to scream. He stared at her, expecting to see some cruel smile on her face, yet there was none. Instead, she was repressing a frown, and murderous pleasure was absent from her eyes.
But he did not need to call for the guards. They already arrived though she paid them little heed or risk losing sight of her target. They barred the door behind them to seal her escape. She truly was trapped.
Fortune favored both parties in this situation. She was locked in but it also meant no reinforcements were to arrive. What foes she currently had were all she needed to concern herself with, all else could be settled later.
She stayed close, never allowing the guards room to step between them. The king and assassin shared a deadly dance. The guards formed a parameter around them and pointed their spears but dared not strike at her or else harm their king instead. She needed to stay moving, as long as she did so and stayed close to Malendar, she was safe from the guards.
They should never have allowed her to reach him. They failed their duty the moment she came within range.
“I am no stranger to your ways,” began Malendar, trying to piece their prior conversation back together as he parried. “I have fought your comrades, and they never shared their names even after they failed.” He may have been distracted forming words but she needed to mind those behind her. She watched his eyes, using them as a mirror to watch for anything beyond her vision.
“Yet you would still ask me?” she inquired, making no attack. She was already surrounded. He had the advantage that he was bleeding, the longer the two spoke, the surer her victory was. She would cut him again and again if she had to, and let him die from a hundred cuts. “Do you expect to survive me as you did them?”
“I expected that you would be different somehow.” He rested the blade of his sword over the palm of his wounded hand and pushed out. She had to give him some distance and he closed it by pointing his sword at her once again. At least the blade filled their gap. “You do not have to do this,” he told her. “As I have said, I have fought those like you before, and they escaped with their lives. You can leave now. This room does not need to taste the blood of either one of us.”
She mimicked his pose with one of her knives. “Ordelas demands your death,” she informed him in an almost pleading manner, as if she was begging him to die. “He will not be satisfied until he has seen your blood.”
“You address Ordelas by name. You must know him well then,” replied Malendar. “Ordelas is mad, and you know it. What he wants is not what he needs. He needs help, just as you do. I say this again. You do not have to do this if you do not want to. I can even provide you with shelter if you are in need.”
She thought back to when she was given her mission. Her younger sister, Elda, volunteered for the mission. The king chose her though.
He said it was because he favored her most. Sending her was the truest expression of his will. He willed for her to torment his enemy.
Her knife shook in her hand for a moment as she turned her eyes away from him and glanced at the guards. They remained where they were. “Do not try to tempt me with sanctuary,” she replied. There was anger in her voice but also sadness. “I am no slave. I serve my lord of my own free will, and I will do what he asks of me.”
“And what does he ask of you? Blood. That is what he demands, and you dirty your hands in it while he remains clean,” he warned her. “What will happen if you fail him? Will he cast you out?”
She thought back to the king that thanked her for saving a child. The king that orphaned that child. The one that told her the truth.
She raised her head and glared at him. “You do not understand him at all!” she yelled.
“I understand him better than you, if you think my death will make him or you any happier,” he calmly tried to explain but he stopped as she bared her teeth.
He was only making her angry. He saw he could not reason with her. He would have to resort to actions over words to survive.
He was not ready for what happened next. His arm grew weak, and his grip faltered. She dashed towards him, forcing him back as she led him to the edge of the room. He pushed aside both of her blades. She kneed him in the side, and some of his plates dented as the spikes on her legs dug into his flesh. The Dark Elf drew her leg back, tearing a portion of armor off with it. She followed through with a kick of the opposite leg and drove Malendar into the wall, causing him to lose hold of his sword.
Malendar feigned a roll when she threw one of her knives at him. He tackled her out of desperation, hoping to overpower her. She grabbed hold of him, flipped forwards, and threw him over her shoulders. He came crashing down on the floor. The move would have been fatal if he had landed on his neck.
He barely had time to respond as he rolled on his side out of instinct. A heartbeat later, the assassin stabbed her other knife into the floor right where his head had been. She left her knife there.
That combination should have been fatal. The finish left her exposed as he rolled away. If the distance grew anymore, the bodyguards would be able to close the circle on her. She had little choice. It was her back against the wall now.
She was not sure what kind of look she gave him, likely an odd one, as if she was insulted he had survived such a thorough maneuver. She wanted him dead, and she was willing to wait no longer. She intended to finish him.
A guard pushed aside the knife she threw. Malendar raised himself up and stood between her and the knife on the ground. She was without her weapons. He should have realized then that he made a mistake.
She planted her feet and slammed her palm into his chest, and his armor caved in with the blow. Malendar staggered back in shock as he struggled to breathe. His own shattered breastplate, which dug into his chest, obstructed his breathing.
Tarica was deadlier unarmed than she was with her weapons. It should have made sense that she initially chose to fight with a handicap when her intent was to not immediately win. It was as if she had given her victim a chance to survive, a chance that Malendar squandered.
While the elves gathered were able to anticipate her identity, they were unable to cloak their surprise as her movements became more deadly after she became unarmed.
The knives were meant to wound. If she had used her bare hands, the death she would have delivered would have been too swift. The skill Tarica practiced most was hand-to-hand technique.
If she needed to, she could have strangled him rather than use the knives to prolong the suffering but if she was to touch someone, she preferred to immediately extinguish their life than feel it slowly ebb away in her fingers. She found the sensation disgusting and appreciated knives to spare her unnecessary contact.
He lost his weapon and she was no longer burdened by hers. It should have been over but she was the cornered one at that moment. The guards readied their spears and struck while they could.
She dodged but these were no common soldiers, she had to give them her attention as she tried to break their semicircle. She prepared to dart between two of them when Malendar, still choking, tackled towards her from the side.
She stepped around him with all the finesse of a well-honed weapon. She caught his foot with her own and tripped him. Before he even had a chance to catch his balance, she slammed her wrist into his throat. The hooks on her armor scraped his collar as he fell backwards.
She must have expected him to die then and there because he managed to catch her off guard. He grabbed her by the arm with his good hand and dragged her down with him.
He was stronger than her but her armor bit into him with every movement each made. He would shortly be torn apart merely from the struggle as they rolled.
What followed was a shortlived but intense brawl. To call it anything else would make it sound less crude than it was as gashes formed all across his body while he landed a firm but ultimately futile elbow and punch on her. Most of his actions were dedicated to stopping her from gaining a grip to snap his neck.
Unfortunately, he was heavier than her. He pushed her down and trapped her arms under his knees and placed his hands over her shoulders. The blades were no less sharp than when the two first began this desperate contest and cut into his flesh. Rather than pull away, Malendar pressed harder onto them, making them dig deeper into his palms until they erupted from the other side. He clawed his fingers over the plates while he still had control over them.
Tarica could not tear away his grip, flesh and metal were locked together. Her back was flat to the ground and his weight held her as she was. She was helpless before the spears that now surrounded her.
He was bleeding on her. If she used both legs at once, she would likely be able to kick him away but she would abandon what cover she gained from him. She could finish him in the same motion but it would cost her her own life.
She remained still. The longer the two waited, the weaker he would get. The situation could only improve for her from the terrible position she currently was in. He could falter and faint at any moment.
Go home,” he wheezed as he bled on top of her. It was a wonder he was still alive. “You failed.”
“I can not,” she said fearfully. “I can not go back until you are dead.”
Her mission would be settled soon enough if Malendar did not get aide swiftly. He could not afford to die now. “My guards will surely kill you if you try to take my life. Please, give up. You prefer to use those weapons of yours even though you are far better without them. I know you do not enjoy the sensation of life being taken by your own hands.”
She looked away from him and gazed to the east, towards her homeland. “I do not want him to be disappointed.”
“You should not have to serve someone who asks something like that from you. It is enough that he expects my life, but for you to die in order to attain it is too much,” he explained to her as he withdrew his blade. He rose, stepped back to give her room, and offered her his hand. “If you wish, I can offer you a place here.”
She dared to listen to his words. She could afford to listen to him speak, he on the otherhand had little breath to spare. She granted him attention if only to let him exhaust himself on a speech rather than contribute that energy to keeping her restrained.
His grip did not slacken nor did the spearheads draw any closer or further away. The only variable in the world to consider in that moment was the offer he granted her.
Her vision blurred and for a moment she suspected the worst only for it to clear as she blinked and a cool wetness flowed to the side of her face. Without realizing, she had started to cry. Now that she was aware, there was nothing to hold back the tears. They flowed more freely than ever.
The thought of not stifling her tears to lower her opponent’s guard never crossed her mind. She failed to imagine a situation where her opponent had her at his mercy yet kept her alive. She had to kill. That was the only option but not anymore. There were other choices.
The king grunted as he pulled his ruined hands from her shoulders. He lifted his knees so she could move and slowly stood, barely stopping himself from stumbling as his tanned face grew paler.
“I ask again, what is your name?” Malendar repeated the first question he ever asked her. He wiped his bloodied right hand against his mantle. It made little difference as fresh crimson streamed out of the wounds that pierced it but he still offered it.
She got up on her knees and simply stared at his hand, watching drops of blood she had caused him to shed trickle down his gauntlet. The guards watched astonished by the sight. Malendar raised his left hand and gestured with mutilated fingers for them to lower their weapons.
“Tarica,” she answered, acknowledging defeat.
“Tarica, there can be a place for you here. Just trust me and fate,” he practically whispered through ragged breaths.
Malendar stretched his hand out even further, ignoring the pain from the wounds Tarica had inflicted.
Tarica reached for her right glove and pulled it off. “Fate pitted me against you. I can not say it is my friend or enemy, so I will not trust it,” before she allowed him to take her by the hand. “Though for this moment, I will trust you.”
“That will be enough,” he promised her as he carefully pulled her up.