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First Strike, Part 1 (Ves Sithia & Ren Varadon Short Story)
🕑 Added 2023-11-06 19:35:02 +0000 UTCThe mark is an easy one. Or so they’ve been told.
Ves grunts and looks outwards, hazel eyes narrowed against the golden burn of the setting sun. Grimacing at the cramp in their leg, they flex their shoulders and unfurl their wings, using them to keep balance as they alleviate the pressure in the offending muscle. Bronze sings against bronze, the artificial feathers a far cry from the rustle of natural wings. Though alien to many, the sound is second nature to them. More than that, perhaps. They don’t recall what it was like to fly without them. Or if they even did.
From their position on the rooftop Velantis unfolds before them, its tall buildings and proud domes glinting in the fading light. Beyond the terraced rows, the dark waters of Lake Naiadros slip into black nothingness. Pockets of light dance in the windows from flickering lanterns and bright conjured lights. Though the shadows are long, the streets are anything but empty. They brim with a cacophony of voices echoing in dissonant harmony, the thunder of footsteps against the cobblestones, the sour smell of sweat and perfume and oil after a hard day’s work. The sheer presence of a thousand souls passing through on their evening business—to homes for much needed rest, to taverns for much needed drink, to markets for dinner, to the lyranaeum for entertainment, to temples for succor.
So many people. So many lives. All blissfully unaware of the danger lurking above. If they would only just look up…
Ves knows better than that. No one thinks to look up. No one.
Hissing quietly under their breath, they stretch their arms above their head and slink back down into a calculated crouch. Uncle dislikes when circumstances forces their assignment to stall. Delays lead to complications, complications to compromises, and compromises which could jeopardize both their chapter and their client. And that is to say nothing of Ves themself. Their skills are specific, called upon at the client’s request when they require a certain handling of the situation. In some corners the city whispers with dread, rumours abounding about the gilded winged assassin who falls from the sky to smite their enemies and cull the weak. According to the tales they might as well be a god.
They snort at the thought. If only they could be. In reality, their movements are closely monitored far more than the others of their chapter. Where most Swiftmark assassins operate as nondescript faces fading into the streets, Ves is as memorable as they are talented. They make an impression—so much so that venturing outside the Swiftmark’s safehouse for longer than planned risks putting the chapter in danger.
Their wings flick with impatience, boredom settling in. The evening is fresh and cool, and the open cloudless skies call to some primal part of them, begging them to take flight and ascend. They fight the impulse and stick to their perch, watching the bustling streets below. A child screams, tugging at their mother’s hand as she scoops them up off the cobblestones and forces her way through the crowd. A group of burly thugs at a corner curse and shout at one another, fists already bared. A couple whisper together furtively, exchanging a flash of coin for a nondescript package. A person in a green cloak grips the hand of another as they are willingly lead into an alley, trembling with cautious excitement.
Ves blinks impassively. They have long since lost interest in such mundane events. Though Velantian districts are so different from each other they may as well be separate countries, some things remain the same. From the splendour of Oriath’s palaces to the dregs of the Undercity, there is always a screaming child, a brawl in an alleyway, an underhanded deal, someone soliciting sex where they shouldn’t.
Their mark isn’t here. Demophen Amestris isn’t someone who must be picked out of the crowd, hunted across the city and struck down. He is too important, too essential for that. He has walled himself in at his favourite estate but a short flight from here, surrounded by food and drink and musicians and actors and whatever else passes for entertainment in Ithyria. Drunk, high on frivolities, and surrounded by useless fawners… He will not stand a chance against their blades. He is living on borrowed time, dead the moment the client exchanged coin for his head.
Crowns for a crown…
They could take him themself, but the League has their protocols and Uncle has his. Ves has always taken pride in their knowledge of procedure. Their execution is flawless when it goes right and calculated when it doesn’t. One way or another, they always finish their work. A reckless agent is one thing, to be praised under the right circumstances. But an insubordinate one who cannot follow protocol is a danger to the League and must be excised.
Ves’ wings rustle impatiently as they stretch. Though they are itching to take flight, they must wait. The target’s death was assigned to them and one other.
Ren.
For all his personal quirks, it is not like him to be late. If he were anyone else, Ves may suspect the worst—death or desertion—but he is not anyone else. He may be exactly the kind of reckless that gives Uncle’s superiors pause, but despite the countless times he has gone off course, the Swiftmarks have never had a more faithful agent. His loyalty is as unquestionable as Ves’ own.
So why is he late?
Ves grits their teeth, unease clenched around their heart. Ren has been more withdrawn than usual. They have rarely seen him around the safehouse, though that has a reasonable excuse. His abilities allow him to bypass the twisting corridors and cramped rooms, easily moving from one desired location to the next. Nor have they spoken much in the past several weeks. Again, this has a reasonable excuse—Ren doesn’t say much to anyone—but they have always been the exception. Well… them and Raven.
Not that Raven wants much involvement in their life these days. She made her choice. They would repay it in kind with steel and bronze if they could. If only Uncle would allow it. If only Ren could see the way her magic has sunk its claws into him. There is no bitterer an enemy than a former friend.
They aren’t a blind fool. They love him, yes, but no manner of love will make them deny it. Something has happened, something beyond Raven. Something Ren is keeping from them. Idiot. There can be no secrets in the Erebian League, they both know that—
The tang of familiar magic settles on their tongue and an unnatural wind rushes in their ears. They know it well: the sound of displacement as air is pushed out of the way to make room for the portaling interloper.
Ves’ eyes crack open. A cloud of dark violet mist clears, evaporating into the air to reveal a cloaked figure crouching next to them. Ren’s hood is up, shadowing his pale face. His skin is pallid, almost as if he’s been ill—his lips are dry and cracked, the bags beneath his eyes purpled and swollen.
“You’re late,” Ves grunts.
Ren says nothing for a moment. “Sorry.”
“Why?”
The word is sharp, focused, precise—like the first cut of a dagger slicing through skin. The question is the least of it and asks more than itself. It is not simply why, but where and how and what. Where were you? How did you take so long? What were you doing that was so important you risked shirking your assignment?
Ren does not move a hair’s breadth, his expression still in the face of scrutiny. League training. He was always the best of them. Unreadable, unknowable, unbreakable. He could carry the world’s greatest secret to the grave and no one would know the difference. His outward standoffishness is a shield to protect both the League and him, nothing slips through.
Except in the dead spaces of their days, when it is the two of them alone…
A strange, deep ache tugs at their heart. That shield came apart for them alone once. Now they’re uncertain if it ever will again. They dislike this feeling of doubting him. It sets their teeth on edge.
Ren’s eyes—a dark liquid brown, so dark they are almost black—flick upwards, catching them in the fringes of his vision. “Raven,” he answers. Short and to the point. No elaboration.
Ves’ nostrils flare. It’s the answer they expected—and far from the one they wanted to hear. “Why?”
“Does there need to be a reason?”
Something in their chest seizes at his response. Their wing flexes, metal grating against metal as the tip swings outwards, extending to its full length. Ren ducks intuitively and the wing passes over his head, bronze feathers shearing the air. He crouches, unruffled, eyes trained on the street below.
Ves clicks their tongue. “Not for me,” they say finally, watching him intently for any changes in his expression. A hint, a tell—something that reveals what he’s thinking. “But Uncle will want one.”
“Then he’ll get one.”
He answers quickly, assuredly, with nothing in his tone to betray his inner thoughts. While a visit to Raven at this time of day is unusual, it is not out-of-character. And there are countless reasons why even someone with Ren’s talents would be delayed leaving the Narrows…
The anger rises, bright and searing. Ren must be hiding something, why else would he be behaving so suspiciously? Perhaps he has even gone so far as to betray not only them, but the League itself—
Fool.
Ves inhales sharply and shoves their anger down, clearing their mind. They have no use for irrational rage, it will only make them a liability in the field. Is this their instincts talking? Or is it paranoia? Regardless of the answer, there are only two options ahead. Either they put their lingering doubts aside and choose to trust Ren—or they forgo him completely and bring him to heel, bringing him to Uncle’s superiors and resigning him to punishment.
The thought puts a foul taste in their mouth. No matter how angry it makes them, no matter how long he holds this secret to his chest, they have to trust him. They have no interest in living in a world where they can’t.
Ren stirs from his crouch and peers over the edge of the roof. The street has changed a dozen times since Ves last looked, the faces they memorized having long since disappeared on the tide of shifting foot traffic. The sun has sunk deeper towards its resting place, its burnt glare glinting in the gaps between the domes and the roofs. Ren squints as he stares into its glare, scouting the distance between this rooftop and the one across the street. Ves bends a wing reflexively, shading him from the light.
“The intel is correct?” he asks. “He hasn’t left the estate?”
Ves raises their head, a gust of wind tugging at their loose hair. “No. You know these noble cunts. Why would they leave when everything they desire is within arm’s reach?”
He says nothing, his expression impassive as he waits for them to continue with proper clarification.
They grimace and roll their eyes. “He hasn’t left. We have eyes on the estate, you know that. Besides, even if he somehow left without our knowledge, he and his retinue would be forced down this thoroughfare. I’d have seen him had that been the case.”
A pause. One that overstays its welcome a fraction too long. Either this is a perfectly natural moment, with those seconds lost to one wandering thought or another, or… this is the smallest hint of uncertainty and doubt. Which is it? If he would but talk to them—
“Good,” Ren says abruptly, rising to his feet. “Let’s go.”
He disappears in a swirl of dark mist, blinking to the other side of the street in the space of a breath. Moving with the speed and grace of a natural athlete he sprints across the rooftops on light feet, not a single footstep misplaced. Ves smirks and spreads their wings. They push off the edge and launch themself into the air with ease. With a few great flaps, they ride the currents and overtake him, soaring low above the tenements. Their shadow stretches out below them, shielding him from the setting sun.
Ves’ heart throbs as they watch him run. These paces are familiar—him below, them above, swift as the wind as they home in on their prey, moving together as one. Uncle once called them two sides of the same coin. Though in recent years they have both taken to operating alone, Ves will never forget their origins. They have been paired together for more missions than they can count. Working with Ren is a rhythm, a harmony, one that is as natural to them as flight.
It has always been this way. Since before Uncle saved them.
They hum contentedly to themself, the vibrations so gentle they are lost to the wind. Flying above Ren like this puts their mind at ease. He has never been one to express himself through words. Action, however, is another story. That he falls so effortlessly into their shared rhythms speaks volumes. They were wrong to doubt him. Of course they were. All these wary thoughts they’ve had speak only to their own paranoia. Here they were, so concerned about Raven’s effect on Ren that they never stopped to consider their own distrust could very well be a fabrication of their own mind.
Or the work of a rival empathist.
A chill creeps across the back of their neck and runs down their spine. Their mind is steeled against invasion and their thoughts may be their own, but their emotions? Flighty bastards. They know all too well that emotions are illogical. Liabilities. They can’t always trust what they’re feeling and that’s on a good day. On a bad one, where they could have been manipulated to feel things that are not their own without noticing—
An air current gusts below, catching them off-guard. They curse under their breath as they spiral on the updraft, shooting off in the wrong direction. Their wings jerk and they catch themself, hanging awkwardly in the air for a breath. Ren is gone—he must have assumed they were behind him and moved on, portaling across. He’s too fast, it’s too easy to fall behind. Even for an aeda.
Damn idiot.
This is what happens when they let their mind wander.
Ves hovers mid-air. The wind whispers in their ears, bronze feathers vibrating with familiar harmonies. Their brow furrows and they squint past the sun’s glare, searching the tenements below for the thing that does not belong. At first there is nothing but a repetitive cityscape stretching out to the horizon and labyrinthine roads crawling with faceless figures. Then they spot it, eyes drawn to it like a moth to a flame—the afterimage of a cloaked man, suspended in a swirl of fading mist at the crown of a distant dome.
They spread their wings, circling on the updraft until they are turned around, and speed towards the dome. The burnished building glints in the dying sun, standing proud amongst a sea of red stone. They land hard at the apex, their feet scraping across tile and dried bird shit, and drop into a crouch. Judging from the muck and odd assortment of knickknacks and worthless junk, a flock of fledgling harpies must have nested nearby. Bad news for the townspeople, good news for Ves. No one will think twice about a shadow roosting here. If the creatures are nearby, they won’t bother them. Harpies never show much aggression towards aeda.
They hunker down, the swirl of mist fading around them, and tilt a wing to keep the sun out of their eyes. Now that they’ve found one afterimage, the next must be close by. Tracing Ren is like hunting an animal; where one might follow tracks in sand or mud, they are following tracks in the air. Their lip curls and they suppress a chuckle. He would hate the comparison. Then again, he did once try to compare his process of portaling to skipping a stone across water.
“Look, it’s simple. I’m the stone.”
“The… stone?”
Ren pauses, brow furrowed, and quickly stoops to pluck a pebble off the ground. It sinks into his palm, flat and round—deep red streaked with white. Lake Naiadros is calm today, its surface and shores finally clear of pleasure boaters and the like. Unsurprising. Winter came early to Velantis this year.
He grips the rock, holding it up to Ves’ face. “You see this stone?” he says. “This is me. This reality is the water. The air is the spaces in-between. See what happens.” He turns sharply, spinning, and hurls the pebble at the water. It bounces, ripples undulating outwards as it arcs out into the lake—once, twice, three times, more. “Every time I touch this reality, I push myself a little further through the spaces in-between until I reach my destination.”
The pebble hits the water and sinks, disappearing beneath the glassy surface with a sad little plonk.
“Or until you can’t do it anymore,” Ves says bluntly.
Ren shrugs. “That, too. Sometimes. Uncle says I lack control. Finesse.”
The last thing they want to do here is talk about Uncle. “What does it feel like? Crossing dimensions?”
He doesn’t answer, his expression growing blank. For a moment, Ves wonders whether he is lost in thought, trying to drum up the right words—but then he stoops and picks up a second pebble, this one very much like the first. He holds it up to their face, lips twitching as he struggles to conceal a grin.
“You see this stone? This—”
With a flare of their wings, Ves propels themself forwards and tackles him to the ground. He goes down easily, grinning as they kiss him, their twin laughter echoing across the lake’s still waters. The stone lies forgotten in the sand. When they finally depart hours later, Ves quietly brushes off the debris and slips it into their pocket, unnoticed.
A memory to keep.
Ves tenses and pulls their wings tight. There’s a tug behind them—pulling, pulling, pulling—as the faintest traces of reality bend. Wind hums in their ears, displaced air rushing over them. A familiar shiver prickles at the back of their neck, dark mist bursting into existence in their peripheral vision—
Ren appears at their side, hands on his knees as he squats beside them. “I lost you,” he says.
“Got distracted,” Ves grunts.
“Problem?”
“No. My fault. Distracted. Not thinking.” Dangerous words for a Swiftmark. The assignment comes before all else. To admit otherwise… At best it declares an incompetency in the field. At worst it questions their commitment to the League. They would never risk to say this to anyone other than Ren, and even then it is a risk. If they were capable of lying to him they would have done so.
But they are not.
He pauses, running his tongue over his bottom lip. His most noticeable tell—he does it when he’s thinking too much about what he needs to say. Sometimes Ves wishes he would just speak his mind, regardless of how it comes out. They trust him, don’t they? He could say anything and it wouldn’t change their opinion of him. “Good view, this,” he says finally. “The estate is in sight.”
Ves nods, murmuring a wordless acknowledgement. Their destination is not far now—for them, at least, if they were travelling on foot it would be a different matter. It rises a storey above the tenements around it, making it exactly the kind of building they couldn’t ignore even if they tried. From their bird’s-eye view the others fade into each other, but this one? This one—with its white walls and burnished tiled roof—is begging to make itself a target. Much like the man inside.
It’s not personal. It never is. Ves has never met Demophen Amestris; at most they’ve heard his name in passing while suspended above one market or another, waiting for their mark to appear. Some relative of Ithyria’s councillor, judging by the surname. A noble with ties to the Meissandium. They don’t care. They may loathe the Velantian nobility on principle, but their feelings have no merit here. Hate him or love him, they would kill him anyway.
As per protocol, the details they know of him are precise but limited. Appearance. Height. Build. Ancestry. As with all their targets, his face is permanently burned into their memory through the work of a talented reminiscist so there can be no mistakes. They know he favours his right leg to account for a weakness in his left ankle. He speaks with a slight lisp and a faint Nemainian accent, remnants of his upbringing in another city-state. In the event he masks himself with an illusion, his gait, posture and manner of speech will be enough to identify him. Lastly, he is a spiritbreaker—same as them—and a middling one at that. Should he draw on magic, they can counter him with ease.
Not that they intend to let him get that far.
As for why someone wants him dead… They aren’t privy to that information, nor is it important to the task at hand. The client’s reasoning is known only to Uncle and his superiors, and even then their business is their own. Demophen Amestris made himself a nuisance to a powerful enemy and they want him removed, it’s no more complicated than that. The League itself is neutral in the matter.
In Ves’ experience, the general populace does not understand the Erebian League—its people or its purpose. To them, their agents are something close to myths and legends. Either they are skilled bodyguards to be respected and feared, or they are ghoulish fiends stalking the shadows, driven by bloodlust. The reality is that they are neither.
They are a means to an end. Tools to solve problems. And in Velantis there is always one person or another at the heart of a problem.
They may have taken plenty of lives in their line of work, but no more than the general on a battlefield or a mercenary captain defending their men. Providing a service does not make them monstrous. Those who are afraid of the League have their fear misplaced. It is not the assassin in the night they should fear, but the neighbour who hired them.
Ren shifts beside them, boots scraping the brassy tiles. “The sun is almost down,” he says quietly.
Ves raises their head, their eyes flicking to a horizon bleeding red. The scent of oncoming twilight sits heavily on their tongue. There is something distasteful about the Ithyrian air in the evening. The district wafts with the spices of the night markets and the stench of sweat from the auditoriums. Streets reek with alcohol served from the amphitheatres and taverns and leisure houses as assuredly as they resound with the roar of the masses seeking their nightly diversions. They wouldn’t mind the stink if it stayed low on the streets, but even several storeys above they can taste the way it poisons the air.
“He has a family, you know.”
They tense, their gaze still fixed on the setting sun. That can’t have been Ren, can it? A voice from below. Or maybe they misheard. Or their imagination—
“A husband. His second spouse, Theren. His wife died five years ago. Unusual for a meissant to remarry, but House Amestris is Nemainian through and through. They don’t care for Velantian traditions.”
Their upper lip curls back into a snarl.
“Theren is a childhood friend. Nemainian. Tonight is a celebration of their first year of marriage. Demophen’s children will be there.”
They hiss and spin, wings flaring outwards as they round on him. “You can’t tell me this—”
Ren blinks, his dark eyes blank, his pale face eerily composed. “Twins. A boy and a girl. Acamas and Ardea. Seven years old. They love their father very much. They have a villa on Naros where he stables a herd of winged horses. He’s teaching them to fly.”
“Stop—”
“His aunt will not be attending. Called to an important gala in Oriath. She sent her regards tonight by hiring a troupe of local minstrels. Councillor Amestris is infamous for her love of music and the arts. It seems that love extends to her nephew.”
“Shut up—”
“He is a beloved figure in Ithyria. A man of the arts. A man of faith. Recently elected as the district’s meissant. His investiture is three days from now.”
Ves growls, muscles tensing and ready to go on the attack. They don’t think, they don’t question. It’s instinct. Decades of training telling them to silence the threat to the mission and the client, lest the Swiftmarks—lest Uncle—pay the consequences.
But there is no threat when Ren is the one speaking.
Their hand stills, their thumb glancing across their dagger’s leather-wrapped hilt. They clear their throat, and it does nothing to dislodge the dry lump forming there. “How do you know this?” they ask. “Who told you—”
“It doesn’t matter how I know,” he interrupts. “What matters is that I do. And now so do you.”
“We can’t know this. We can’t. This is not the way it’s done—”
“No. But it maybe it should be.”
Their jaw clenches, teeth grinding painfully together. Their shoulders ache, the weight of their wings digging into their back. The metal bones and feathers are denser than natural wings, but they’re all they have. They can ignore a little pain for the freedom of flight.
“I want you to listen, Ves,” Ren continues. “This is the life we are to end. A man who loves his family. He has to die because House Amestris crossed someone’s line. Knowing that—”
“Knowing what?” they spit. “There is nothing to know here. I will put it so far from my mind I may as well have forgotten it. You best do the same. For your sake and mine.”
They kick off forcefully from the dome, a rush of wind whistling in their ears. Usually a strong ascent is all they need to clear their mind, but Ren’s words refuse to leave them. What did he hope to accomplish from it? To cast doubt? Sow guilt? Unnecessary. They will carry their directives through to the end. Guilt belongs to the client who hired them, the one who wanted to make the death of Demophen Amestris a message. They have carried many messages in their line of work; they will not be held accountable for delivering them.
Even so he has said too much. Too many words, too much intel… The kind of knowledge best reserved for the League’s spies, agents of another chapter tasked with documenting the lives and movements of their marks. Details to be auctioned off to the highest buyer.
Details. A Swiftmark’s work is also rooted in details. Small or large, they are specific to the task at hand and always, always neutral. Neutrality is essential to the League. It is not their prerogative to a make moral decisions about who lives and who dies.
Death comes to everyone, after all.
You fool. What are you doing? What the hell are you playing at?
The wind roars, tearing at their hair and chaffing their face, drawing sharp tears from their eyes. They blink, clearing their vision, and settle into a gentle soar as they glide towards the white-walled estate. They can feel the celebrations already—the high-pitched shriek of a pair of panduras singing on the air, the buoyant rhythms of a drum vibrating in their bones.
Ves flexes the muscles in their upper back, listening for the familiar whisper of metal joints as they draw their wings in and begin their descent. They can’t remember what it was like to fly with wings of bones and muscle. Those memories are lost to time or magic; knowing what they’ve become, they prefer it that way. Whatever happened to them in their youth is better left buried. Unknown. That does nothing to ease the deep ache in their heart when they think on what they’ve lost, nor the erratic stinging pain in limbs they no longer have.
They imagine the sensation must be euphoric, to feel the wind thrusting through their feathers, carrying them to journey’s end. They’ve seen the flight of their distant kin, painfully instinctual and beautiful in its primal nature. But nature has its faults. Its imperfections. Ves may not be able to feel their wings the way others do, but they are in tune with them. Hearing the mechanisms, feeling the subtle shifts as their weight is carried through the sky… It has honed their senses to a sharpened point, giving them an edge over any aeda with intact wings.
They did not ask for wings of metal, but they are happy they have them. They would never give back this miracle Uncle gifted them. Not for anything.
They land deftly on the dome of an anterior tower, the highest point of their target’s lodgings. A ward seals the estate, its magic so subtle it is invisible to the unaided eye. Though they cannot see it, they can feel its vibrations on the wind, the tell-tale thrum beginning five feet below the dome.
Wards such as these are of little concern to League operatives. For a spiritbreaker with Ves’ skills, any shield can be pierced with a precise enough blow. And they can do very little to keep a planeswalker like Ren out. The danger they pose come from the alarms they may trigger, but it is rare for a job to go unfinished by the time the guard arrives. It’s been years since they made that kind of mistake.
Ves drops to a crouch, turning their attention to the hazy glow rising from the central courtyard below. In the dark recesses of its corners, the light undulates with the mists of twilight, attracting glimmering wisps. On the ground the courtyard would be nothing out of the ordinary for Velantian nobility, but from their vantage point they can how the clean lines of the water features flow into the cultivated flowerbeds and raised daises between them. There’s a precise geometry to their placement, creating simplified emblems at the points of a hexagon.
An ode to the gods, baked into the floor of the very house he lives in. They would expect nothing else from a meissant.
And it is crawling with people.
The crowd is to be expected; they are ideal, necessary even, to make a point. Figures in vibrant colours squirm through the geometric lines, wriggling like ants, their laughter throbbing in discordant harmony to the bright music. The minstrels have staged themselves on the north-western balcony, a storey above the courtyard. A pair of dancers perform on a dais below, becoming blurs of movement and flashes of fine jewels. They play to an audience who seems to take no heed of their craft, enthralled as they are in their feasting and their drinking.
Funny how the festivities are infectious this high up. The air changed when they entered the perimeter, its currents now heavy with the scent of roasted meats and rich soups and fine wines. This is different from the thoroughfare. This odor is rank with wealth and luxury.
Their stomach churns at the scent.
Ves’ eyes narrow. Demophen Amestris is striking even from this distance. Tall, dark skinned, black haired and bearded, his white and red clerics robes make him a beacon among his guests. Though they are too far too see his face, they know his features well—elven, gracious, composed with an innate sense of command from his noble upbringing. And yet there is kindness in his dark eyes. Good intentions behind the façade.
A shame. Perhaps he would have made a good meissant.
Now Velantis will never know.
Focus.
Two weeks ago they had the estate’s schematics implanted in their mind. A necessary failsafe for the cost of a few unwanted memories. There are three entrances to the courtyard—a wide, sweeping set of archways on the eastern wall that lead into a vast sitting room; a pair of grand double-doors on the opposite side that open to a formal dining room; and a service entrance on the southern wall. The northern wall supports a line of floor-to-ceiling windows that could be smashed in an emergency.
Should complications arise and their mark escapes, there is nowhere he can flee that they cannot follow. If he is smart he will run for the service door. Tight windowless corridors make navigation difficult and flight impossible, slowing their pace. But they do not have much faith in a nobleman. He will run east, to the first exit that catches his eye.
Hair raises on the back of their neck. Dark violet mist coalesces on the lip of the dome, flowering over it like a waterfall. They follow it, inching across the dome, and come a halt. Spreading their wings wide, Ves holds themself aloft and leans outwards, gazing down. Below, they find Ren balanced on a thin decorative ledge above the tower’s upper windows. He leans against the stone, arms folded, hood down, unbothered by his precarious position or how high he is above the ground. He can’t be more than half a foot above the wards.
Ves closes their wings and drops into a crouch. “Almost time,” they murmur. Dusk has well and truly fallen now, the final rays of the sun about to slip below the horizon. A beautiful, clear evening for a celebration. Shame it isn’t raining. If he was driven indoors, perhaps he would have lived another night.
Ren says nothing.
They shrug. They are cloaked in darkness on this side of the tower, all but invisible to the people below. They have no sense of the assassins that wait in the shadows, no idea of the fate that awaits the man they’ve come to celebrate tonight. A swift and efficient count of the crowd tells them the twenty-some guests expected are all in attendance, save one who has disappeared. Neither unusual nor worrisome; they are likely elsewhere in the house. Nineteen will do. Nineteen faces to remember this night.
The mark—Demophen—moves easily through the crowd, his hand holding that of a dwarven man. There is nothing remarkable about him. Dark like his companion, his head and chin shaved clean, dressed in a simple blue serithan. His soft, round physique all but shouts he is a non-combatant… And therefore not a threat. This must be the husband. Theren, Ren said his name was.
You shouldn’t know that.
Ves bites their tongue. They liked it better when the target was nothing but just another noble crushed by the gears of Velantian politics, collateral damage to further someone else’s game. Not faceless—they will never forget his face, the reminiscist’s work will not allow it—but unremarkable. Irrelevant.
Not that they have doubts, of course. They are here to do a job.
A job that Ren now seems hesitant about.
They chew their lower lip in silence, brow furrowed. It’s a troubling change of heart that makes little sense to them. They were tasked with this mark to take care of alone. Demophen is no fighter, no battlemage. He is a meissant, a man of religion surrounded by politicians and scholars and clerics, not escorted by soldiers. It is not the kind of job that requires two. But Ren convinced Uncle otherwise.
Why go to such trouble only to have doubts now?
Something is wrong. Something they can’t put a finger on.
“Sun’s down,” Ren announces quietly, his voice echoing up from the darkness below them.
Ves tenses and peers over the lip of the dome, staring through the darkness at him. Judging from his demeanour he is the way he always is before an assignment. Calm. Detached. Focused. So why are they doubting him? Can they truly accuse him when they can’t even put it into words?
His body is eerily still, barely moving as he balances on his ledge, standing where no one else would think to stand. “One question, Ves,” he continues. “Do you know why we have to do this? Why we have to take this man’s life?”
Don’t do this, you fool. Don’t go there. “Yes.”
“Then tell me. Don’t hide behind empty words—”
“A client wants this man dead.”
“And Uncle wants us to kill him.”
“Gold was traded for services rendered, it’s no more complicated then that.”
He pauses. “Is that what you think?”
His voice is dead. Empty.
What does he want them to say? Of course it’s more complicated. Uncle plucked them beaten and half-starved from the Undercity streets and gave them a life worth living. One where they are protected. Sheltered. Loved. One where they can fly. He could ask anything of them and they would give it willingly.
Ves swallows the lump in their throat and turns away, leaving his question unanswered. The first stars have emerged, shining bright in the greying purple blush of twilight. They tilt their head back, eyes closed, feeling the tug of wind in their hair. The prayer to Nashira slips from their lips, quiet and voiceless. A ritual. Not for them, but for their target.
A promise made before the god themself. That they will take no pleasure in his pain or death. That they will take it swiftly and offer him to Nashira’s hands, who will guide him to the next life.
It is all they can offer him.
“Ves.”
Ren’s voice is barely audible above the wind, the distant roar of the city, the music swelling from the party below.
Ves does not look at him. “Keep to the shadows,” they say. “The mark is mine.”
They push off the tower and ascend into the sky. Up, up, up, higher and higher, the rush of flight singing in their veins. They draw a dagger from their waist, the weight of the cruel blade familiar in their hand, and arc above the estate. As the last vestiges of sundown glint off their wings, they turn in the air and dive for the courtyard.
Continued in Part 2
Comments
thevikingwoman
Ahh the TENSION in this is SO good!!
