The greater the light, the greater the shadows.
There will be many who will want to grasp the light, for their own selfish gains or to extinguish it. The closer their hands reach, the more their skin will tear off from their flesh as it melts down into a puddle of nothing in the shadows that drag them away.
And Sikir, the Flint adheres to it.
She is not the light, she never will glow bright, but she will be the burn that protects it from harm. From the foreign invaders and their dubious means to pry apart the birthright of His Majesty, to the insiders who themselves want to become the undying star of hope.
The ragged assassin stared at a flower with transparent petals, freshly plucked from the patch under the trees,
But what if the light itself doesn't want to be the light of hope?
Serve the king, that was her oath. To never let him draw his blade for there is no reason for him to when she has drawn hers first. The knights will protect him, the assassins will do his dirty work for him, the tacticians will order them all for him. There is no need for the white robe to be stained at all.
Yet why did he donned the darkest cloak there is before disappearing into the night? Sikir had no idea. When that one night, that one night where he looked to be in such distress that Sikir almost drew her weapon to ask for names to erase. For when the light fluctuates, the shadows will ripple.
And wherever it may go, it will follow, willingly or not.
Sikir ventured as she followed His Majesty. Out from the secret entryway from his chamber, through the back alleys of town, as he sprinted through the endless meadows tirelessly as if he was afraid of what was behind him and into the luscious forest where it soon merged with endless fungal growth.
She never once wondered 'Why?' as she chased him. Shadows do not have the right to ask of it. They will blindly imitate, they will blindly reflect, they will blindly protect. That was what it meant to become the shadow of the light. Unquestioning devotion to your master. Their word makes up the world, her world.
The assassin twirls the faint flower around her fingers. A flower without pollen to spread is doom to die into obscurity. Yet more of the same will sprout elsewhere. Will they also die forgotten?
She wondered, oh she wondered. Through the Ghost Lilies that will soon disappear once the sun breaks over the horizon. What would the shadow be if the light had died off? Would the shadow become one with the darkness? Engulfed by it? Immersed by it? A cold place in the hands still warm with blood.
Sikir flicked the flower away as it landed upon the roots of a mushroom and in front of her, was a witch.
"Going to cough it out now?" The assassin asked.
The witch spat on the grass. "Your. King. Is. Gon--"
Another knife instinctively thrown into the soft skull of Alga, another burst of spore permeating into the air.
"He's not." Sikir denied. Twitching, the witch grasped the handle of the knife before forcefully pulling it out. A soft trail of inside muck flowed out of the hole.
"You… emotional brat." The witch threw the knife aside atop the other pile of feather-shaped knives. "Your oath. Makes. You. Blind."
Sikir produces another feather knife. "Keep talking and I'll aim for your other eye."
"You. Don't under… stand. You trigger-happy. Bir--" Alga quickly threw herself aside to avoid another knife to the head. If the witch knew that the price for sending the fake king away from this world would be getting stabbed over and over again by the actual king's assassin, she may have weighed her options a bit more differently.
More feathers grew from Sikir's wrist, detaching from it once it had hardened and was more akin to steel. She stood up.
"From what I understand, you say that this 'Leah' has replaced His Majesty's soul." Her nails grinded against the sharp edges of the knife, her silvery eyes reflected upon the blade. Cold, unexpressive, the desire for warmth.
Alga struggled to get up. "Twenty. Four. Years. Festering--"
Another knife pierced her legs, whatever bones she had left were in fractions.
"And you let this 'Leah' get away." The assassin spat. "Pray tell, Witch of the Fungal Forest, where did this imposter go exactly?"
"I have. No. Answer--"
Alga grunted before coughing out spores as if she was choking on them. Sikir shook off the excess spore off of her boot, prepared for another kick to the gut if need be.
"Where?" A simple question but an answer not so easy to get. "Tell me before I burn this forest down alongside you in it."
It took her a moment to stop the storm of coughing, wheezing and trying to breathe right. Her body did not biologically function the same as everyone else anymore but for some reason, her nervous system still sent pain receptors the same way. The multiple splitting holes in her head, the knives buried in her chest and legs, the only part that wasn't hit was her scratchy throat.
Even then, speaking was still hard.
"The. Rite. To send. Heroes. Back home." She managed to vomit out the words through her ceaseless breaths
"The rite to send heroes back home?"
The witch nodded. "Sending. A soul. Summoned. From. Another world. That rite. Was what. It was."
Through dark ruffled hair, Sikir's cold eyes narrowed. It wasn't an unheard ritual. It was written in ancient tomes and inscriptions in ruins. The power to bring another soul from a world beyond this. Although it was mostly brushed off by many as legends meant to stay in fairy tales, Sikir was one of the closest shadows of the king and the king knew many things in his journeys.
"Then." Sikir said. "Is there a way to track them down?"
"Look for. It. In that. Castle. You guard." Alga answered. "You have. More oppor... tunities. Than I can."
"The Library of Faudwick."
Faudwick is the kingdom of hope as it is led by the hero who slew the Demon Lord. Naturally, every kingdom would have its own great hall of knowledge and Faudwick was no exception to it. It was not the most expansive there is in the lands, but it was surely the one that was the most mystical in the arts of spells and hexes.
And thus, without even another word or even a 'Thank you', Sikir, the Flint sets off, leaving only feathers as she soared above the trees and into the night sky. As the crow's feathers floated down gently, Alga groaned as she continuously ripped off the knives embedded in her.
"Damned. Brat…"