Today's usual weekly meeting of the king and the representatives of the various regions has been going on longer than usual but that should be expected with what's going on in the kingdom. Most of the alchemists, of which many are of noble birth, have refused to go back to work after what happened to the Trossard household. Some even went as far as to leave Bairro or Montreal altogether just to make their position clear. Those of non-noble birth were 'convinced' to continue working, but what can be done of those of noble birth?
The doors of the chambers finally opened, and the emissaries of the regions began trooping out. Owain stood by the side as they passed, none of them acknowledging him. When the last person was out, he went in and shut the door.
King Vogelhut leaned casually against the table, arms crossed, his gaze sharp despite his relaxed posture. "What do we have?" he asked without preamble.
"Our informant reports that the king's rats are spreading word of an attack," Owain said. "He's blaming Montreal and positioning himself as the victim."
The king's arms left his chest and rested his hands on the table, his brows furrowed. A flicker of confusion passing across his features as he considered the information.
"What is he doing? Seeking sympathy?"
"I'm not sure" Owain answered, "Maybe he hopes to turn the continent against us, to fight his battle"
The king gave it a thought then shrugged it off. "Tell them to go ahead with it"
Owain bowed in acknowledgement, turning to leave. As he reached the door, the king's voice stopped him.
"Hobart is still refusing to return to duties?"
"Yes, your majesty"
The king acknowledged the information and with a casual wave he told him to go.
With a final, respectful bow, Owain left, the doors closing behind him, leaving King Cedric alone with his thoughts.
┌─────── ♕ ───────┐
The moon had risen in a now cobalt sky, lording it over a host of attendant stars. It's lights fell on the open square where the famous bridge stood, its crowded butchered shops dark and silent now, joined bank of the river. It's lights also found out a figure clad in black, standing on the roof of the temple of Istina. An aged man but he stood tall and proud.
The black raven came to him, and he removed the little scroll it came with. He opened it, the raven fled. It was a single word, a simple message : Death. He crumpled the paper and allowed it fall. Surveying the neighborhood below keenly, he put a hand to his lips and whistled, a low but penetrating sound. In response, as he watched first one, then three, then a dozen, and at last twenty men, young unlike himself, clad in blacks too, all with swords and daggers at their belts, emerged from dark streets and archways, but they weren't coming towards him. They were dashing towards different areas of the capital of Drakoria. All except the three that remained behind, moving towards him. Theirs were a task of diversion and they will have to give the runners a few minutes start.
Moments later and it was time to move. With a silent breath, he swung his legs over the edge and dropped down the side of the temple, sliding effortlessly along the curve of its dome. His cloak billowed briefly before settling against his back, his boots landing without a sound on the next ledge. He moved down, twisting through narrow crevices and ancient carvings, his hands finding holds as though the stone itself conforms to his will.
In moments, he reach the ground. His posture shifted, and without hesitation, he broke into a sprint. He became a blur, his form flickering with inhuman speed as he darted through narrow streets and empty alleys. The night favored him, wrapping him in darkness as he raced towards the looming figure of the king's castle, rising tall and formidable on the hill above.
The three peeled away from where they'd been waiting, falling into a stride behind him. They moved with the same blinding speed, their footfalls vanishing in the wind, bodies slipping through the night like ghosts. Their eyes scanned the streets, sticking to the darkest corners, the overhangs, never letting the faintest glimmer of light betray their presence.
The castle loomed ahead.
The old head slowed, motioning to the others as they approached the outer thicket. They melted into the foliage, pressing their bodies against the cool earth, slipping into the dense brush and low hanging branches like they belonged there.
There were knights at the rear of the castle, as expected. The new comers remained still, eyes sharp, every breath measured as they waited.
In the distance, voices echoed--the soft, lilting chatter of castle maids drifting through the night air as they walked the halls. The sound was faint but enough to mask any accidental rustle. With a nod, the old head crept forward, slipping across the ground like a snake in tall grass.
The rest followed, each movement controlled, deliberate. In moments, they were at the base of the castle, pressed against the stone, blending with the great structure.
He found the unguarded entrance, a servant's passage, no more than a crack between two stones. One by one, they slid inside, the castle swallowing them whole.
Now inside, they slid their blades, cold and sharp, silently from their sheaths. The old head turned to the others, eyes flickering beneath his hood.
"You remember what to do?" his voice was a low rasp, unnecessary but instinctual.
They nodded in unison, their movements deliberate, calm. One by one, they pulled their face coverings up, concealing their features. They had already forfeited their lives, but they don't mind improving any chance of survival.
Suddenly, the soft pad of footsteps echoed faintly ahead, growing louder. A maid turned the corner, her silver wine vessel glinting in the firelight. She froze at the sight of them, her wide eyes locking on figures draped in darkness. The tray slipped from her fingers, crashing to the floor with a metallic clatter that reverberated down the hallway.
For a heartbeat, the new assasins stood still, letting the sound carry, allowing the scream to tear from her throat, sharp and desperate. She turned to run, her breath ragged with panic but it was already too late. One assassin darted forward with unnatural speed, catching her mid-step, his blade a glint of silver slicing cleanly across her throat. The scream died in a wet gurgle, and she collapsed in a heap, blood pooling on the cold stone.
Further down the hallway, another maid stood. Younger. An elf. Her delicate frame was stiff with shock, her eyes wide, but not quite filled with fear--more of confusion, as if her mind couldn't comprehend the violence unfolding before her. She stared, her feet rooted to the spot, unable to move.
"Take care of that. They will be coming soon." the older man said.
Without hesitation, the assassin stepped forward, his blade spinning in his hand, a fluid, practiced motion before he clutched it tightly in a reverse grip. His eyes locked onto the elf, and he hurried his pace, and with a swift, powerful leap, he flew through the air towards her, his speed unnatural, but to him time seem to stretch as he closed the distance. Then he saw it. Mere seconds from reaching her, she changed. Her blonde hair turned red, and so did her eyes. It was like a whole new person.
His movement was abruptly stopped. His body hung suspended in the air a heartbeat away, his blade inches from her throat. She tilted her head, just slightly, her gaze cold and unfeeling.
A violent force, unseen ,but immense, exploded from her. The assassin was flung backward. His body slammed against the stone wall with a bone cracking impact, collapsing to the ground, gasping for breath. His blade clattered beside him as dust rained from the ceiling. None of them understood what was going on, but they could all feel the oppressive air.
The elf was shaking her head vigorously, like she was trying to shake something insistent off. She was doing this while gliding towards them, feet barely an inch above the ground. The assassins stood in place, but not of their own volition, as can be seen by their useless struggle.
"Haaa!" the elf sighed loudly "𐑕𐑴 𐑛𐑨𐑥 𐑳𐑯𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑𐑓𐑩𐑤!"
The voice was human but carried strange vibrations that were not human.
She stopped shaking her head now. Her hair was still a perfect red, but one of the eyes have turned back normal, and the other, still red, flickers?
"The air of this world is annoying" she continued, stopping before them.
The man that had attacked her was the only one moving, he was rousing and he got her attention. As though by her gaze, he was lifted up, struggling in futility. She held out her hand as if to receive something, and the assassin cried out sharply like a man in mortal agony. He reeled drunkenly, and then, with a splintering of bones, a rending of flesh and muscle, and a snapping of leather his chest burst outward with a shower of blood, and through the ghastly aperture something red and dripping shot through the air into the elf's outstretched hand, as a bit of steel to a magnet. The assassin slumped to the floor and lay motionless, and she, hurled the object to the side--a still-quivering human heart.
Though they have given up their lives, but now, faced with the certainty of it, they dread it. With a casual wave of a hand, they collapsed where they stood in a crimson puddle of bones and leather.
She glanced around, her gaze calm but calculating. She recalled the path to the king's chambers--the hallway, the door--but this castle, for all it's smallness was a labyrinth to her. Without a sound, she vanished.
She appeared in another corridor, but it wasn't right. Gone again. Another hallway, wrong again. Two more times she blinked out of existence until, finally, the king's hallway was before her. The knights at the chamber doors stiffened the moment she appeared, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"Halt!"
She didn't. Her feet never touched the ground as she floated towards them, utterly silent. Blades scraped from their sheaths, but she drifted forward, unbothered, her gaze fixed beyond them.
When she was mere feet away, her hand rose casually, and she curled her fingers.
It happened so slow, yet it had taken less than a second. Blood trickled from a mangled heap, and with a casual flick, she threw them aside.
Another flick, done with the same movement, and the great doors to the king's chambers exploded inward, splintering into pieces. Ahead she moved, entering into the king's room.
┌─────── ♕ ───────┐
Far in the distance the city bell was tolling. I think I was about to cum when the explosion happened. Wood shards and splinters flew into the room, the remains of my door, scattered like a hailstorm. My head snapped toward the entrance as a figure drifted inside, not walking but floating. Her hair was the brightest red I've ever seen, and her right eye was red too. Her skin was pale, like an elf, and her face had some form of familiarity to it but I couldn't place the owner.
Ophelia rushed in from the balcony, snatching a purple ethereal spear from thin air, crackling with vicious intent as she hurled herself at the intruder. But the elf—she raised her hand, as if expecting something to appear in it. For a moment, she seemed confused when nothing came, but Ophelia didn't pause. The spear closed in, inches from striking.
The elf flicked her wrist, lazily, like brushing away a speck of dust, and Ophelia was blasted aside with a violent force. She crashed into the mirror on the far wall, shattering glass everywhere.
«Καλῶ τὴν δύναμιν μείζονα, μείζονα σοῦ!»
"Κτύπος!"
It was a spell that should have generated blasts of force that sends her flying, but didn't even make her blink. The scent that must have followed her in forced it way into my nostrils, mildly nauseating like been too close to a gasoline, sharp and overwhelming, and before I knew it, I was sent flying, hitting the wall with a brutal crash that would have cracked my skull if not for the skin shield. I crumpled to the ground, and almost immediately I got yanked off and dragged through the air with so much speed that when I came to a sudden stop before her I was painfully jerked! Her eyes were so full of hate, or at least the red one, I can't explain it. She spat something in the outsider's language that I didn't need to understand to know that it was vicious and incredible hatred.
Then, a flash. An arrow screamed through the air, aimed at the back of her head. She caught it without even turning, her fingers closing around the shaft as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience. She glanced at it briefly, then tossed it aside.
Suddenly, the room exploded with movement. Knights poured in from every direction, crashing through windows and the door with mana-infused speed. Three of them rushed at her simultaneously, blades glinting as they aimed to cut her down. She swiped her hand again, and they were thrown like stuffed animals against the stone walls.
Another flick of her wrist, and more knights collapsed, their bodies twisting grotesquely as armor and flesh melded into unrecognizable heaps. The clang of metal, the screams—it was chaos, but she barely seemed to notice.
Yet... something shifted. Her movements became less fluid, more deliberate. As more knights piled in, attacking from all sides, her casual dominance began to waver. Each strike she threw back took more effort, each blast of her power slower to manifest. One knight managed to get close enough to slash at her, only to be flung back with a scream, his body crumpling against the stone wall. Another knight was shredded, his armor twisted into his flesh, the smell of blood thick in the air. But the sheer numbers were beginning to strain her.
She no longer paid attention to me, her focus entirely on the storm of knights that pressed in from all sides.
Ophelia, bloodied and bruised, dragged herself from the wreckage of the mirror. Her eyes locked onto my desk. She stumbled toward it, each step surprisingly heavy with pain, yet determined. Her hand reached beneath the desk, pulling out a collar—a slave collar.
I struggled to keep my body steady, the pain from being thrown around still pulsing through me. The fight happening before me was too much for me. My room was been utterly destroyed. When I had used [Appraisal] on her it was same with butler so I wasn't surprised that the strongest warriors were kind of struggling to contain her.
The maid I was fucking was by the side of the bed, curled up and whimpering desperately. I watched as Ophelia, breathing heavily, started moving toward the elf. Her approach was cautious, but masterful.
The elf, too distracted by the relentless swarm of knights, who had indeed done damage, didn't notice Ophelia until it was almost too late. She spun at the last second, her hand raised to summon her power, but it was too slow this time. Ophelia lunged forward, snapping the collar onto the elf's neck with a brutal click.
The elf's eyes widened in shock, her body freezing as the collar did it job. She clawed at it, but it was too late. The battle halted in an instant. She thrashed, clawing desperately at the collar. The knights, though bloodied and exhausted, pulled back as the elf floated about, seriously distressed, then she fell to the ground with a thud. Her hair changed to a dark blonde, and her face to one I recognized. I should have known.
"Stop!" I halted the knight that moved in to finish her off.
I came closer and squatted before her. For the first time since she had stormed into the room, I thought I saw fear, but they are not the same person, are they? I brushed her hair aside gently and the young elf managed a weak smile. I returned the smile.
"Not a word about this event to anyone." I said to the room. " I would consider it worse than treason"
Then I looked back at the little elf. Things might be better than I imagined.