Inner City, City of Rivana, Kingdom of Astralia
A rare, gentle rain had settled over the city of Rivana, and Aiden could hear the individual raindrops softly tapping on the roof of his carriage. Seated on the bench within the cabin, he was in a meditative state as the vehicle slowly made its way back to the Silver estate. Allowing his aura to roam freely, he absorbed the nightly activities of the city. He sensed two groups of warehouse workers in the wagons ahead, their auras tinged with annoyance as the rain soaked them. A bunch of young noblemen passed by, their boisterous singing signifying the culmination of a lively evening filled with games and drinks.
Feasting on the meat of the Blacktip Razorclaw during his dinner with the Camaras had completely revitalised his mana core, leaving him feeling better than he had since his return to life. He wondered what else the Forbidden Region had to offer, and he hoped that they would be able to find the last survivor of the expedition the Baron had sent out. Considering the substantial financial resources the Baron had invested, and lost, in the quest, Aiden felt confident that the area had more to offer than a few encounters with magical creatures. The mention of the ancient wizard by Valentina added another layer of intrigue to the potential treasures hidden within. If this rumour held any truth, the Forbidden Region could become an incredible treasure trove for Aiden to explore and exploit.
Soon the street lanterns' golden light reflecting from the freshly created puddles were the only signs of life accompanying Aiden's carriage as it traversed deeper into the residential district of the inner city. His senses only picked up the peaceful auras of the sleeping upper class as he let it roam across the large estates.
However, this peaceful ambiance was soon disrupted by the arrival of four distinct and violent auras, intertwined with those of their horses. Three of these emanated the typical fragility of the era's inhabitants, but the fourth stood apart. It wasn't remarkably stronger, however, it was unmistakably not human.
Aiden attentively observed the quartet of riders, ensuring that their intentions were indeed firmly fixed on him. Aiden didn't know who would send an assistant after him, as he didn't think that he made any real enemies yet. Yet, his suspicions were swiftly validated when their horses followed the exact turns his carriage made through the winding streets. Letting out a resigned sigh, he steeled himself for the imminent confrontation.
###
Thalorin Shadowbreeze, Third Blade of the Shadows in the Night, urged his black stallion into a swift gallop. Their task was straightforward, yet the rewards were substantial. They had been contracted to eliminate an upstart merchant's son, and so far, their plan had unfolded flawlessly. Utilising an insider's information, he had secured the necessary components for a tracking spell targeting the boy's driver. Alongside his three companions, they had successfully trailed the young merchant and his carriage for some time, patiently awaiting the opportune moment to strike. That moment had arrived now, the carriage had just taken a right turn at the next intersection, venturing into a section of the street enveloped by expansive, vacant gardens, a stretch devoid of potential witnesses.
The four assassins stealthily pursued the carriage around the bend, the rhythmic clattering of their horses' hooves reverberating through the otherwise hushed night. The carriage loomed mere horse lengths ahead, forging its path through the desolate city street. In synchronised harmony, the quartet drew their compact, custom crafted crossbows from their holsters, discharging their bolts with deadly precision. The sharp crack of splintering wood was swiftly followed by a piercing scream, as the carriage veered off the road, its collision with the wall of a nearby estate resonating in the stillness of the night.
Thalorin rounded the toppled carriage. He was pretty sure that the young man within was either dead or mortally injured. A cruel smile lit up his handsome face at the latter thought, he didn't get anywhere near enough chances to bathe his blade with blood in this filthy human city. He found the driver still alive. The man was trying to crawl away from the wreck, his right shoulder pierced by one of the crossbow bolts as he rapidly bled out. Thalorin's lips curled into a wicked grin as he casually placed his boot on the man's left hand.
"Now, we can't have you bleeding all over the street," he said, looking down at the man, cold amusement twinkling in his eyes.
"Please…" the man managed to croak, his weak voice accompanied by a feeble attempt to lift his head toward the elf. His complexion had paled from blood loss, and cold sweat glistened on his forehead.
Kneeling beside him, Thalorin ran his delicate fingers through the sweat-soaked hair of the dying man. "What is it you seek? You must speak clearly, human."
"Please… help… me…" the man sputtered, coughing out blood.
"Oh? But why would I do that?" the elf mused, slowly pulling his ancestral sword, 'Blackthorne', from its sheath. "That would be a waste of a perfectly fine sacrifice."
The blade, an ancient artefact crafted centuries ago by the bloodmage Dracus Sanguis, gleamed with a dark sheen. Infused with magical properties, the black metal possessed an unyielding and unbreakable nature, its edge sharper than that of ordinary weapons. As long as it was nourished by blood, its power remained.
His angular face contorting in a picture of zealous enjoyment, Thalorin stuck the tip of his magical sword into the uninjured left shoulder of the driver. The dying man didn't even manage to scream anymore, not even as the elf twisted the blade viciously in the wound. Only a pathetic little whimper escaped his mouth, and Thalorin knew that his first victim of the night didn't have much longer to live.
Seizing the man's hair, Thalorin pulled the broken body closer until their faces nearly touched. He locked eyes with the dying driver, watching the last remnants of life vanish from the man's gaze. "Your existence is forfeit. A gift to Blackthorne," he intoned, his voice laden with a malevolent edge as he thrust the black steel into the man's throat.
Previously invisible blood red runes briefly lit up on the blade as its inherent magic sucked in the remaining life force out of the dying man. The driver's skin shrivelled, the last remaining vestiges of colour leaving his skin as the blade did its terrible deed.
A few heartbeats later, the ordeal concluded. Rising to his feet, the elf surveyed the lifeless form beneath him. The driver hadn't surpassed the age of forty, yet his fresh corpse appeared ancient, pallid skin tightly drawn over brittle bones. Blank, unseeing eyes stared into the night's sky, his toothless mouth forever frozen in a silent, soundless scream.
Thalorin grunted, not happy with the small amount of lifeforce that he had been able to extract from the man. The crossbow bolt had drained too much vitality from the driver before he was able to intervene. Letting out a sigh, he returned his gaze back to the carriage. He had been so engrossed in feeding his blade that he had almost forgotten about their task.
Two of his companions stood close to him, openly staring at the blood-dripping blade in his hands. "What about the merchant's son?" Thalorin barked at them.
The men flinched briefly, the dark-skinned Adimu regaining his composure faster than the bald Phelan. "Dragon's handling it, Third Blade," he responded, addressing the elf by his formal title.
Exasperation furrowed Thalorin's brow, and he shot Phelan a withering glare. Observing the carriage, he noticed one of its doors ajar, hanging precariously on a single hinge. The broken glass of a side window lay scattered beneath it. The elf wondered what their companion was doing, no sounds emanated from the wreck, the only audible sound being the rain's steady percussion upon the street.
"Check on him," Thalorin commanded, and the two other men quickly moved to the carriage.
The elf watched as Adimu stuck his head into the cabin. It only took a few seconds before the dark skinned man's head reappeared, confusion evident on his face.
"Boss, there is no one here," the man said, bewilderment evident in his voice.
Thalorin groaned inwardly, cursing the day he got matched with this group of human trash. Shoving Phelan aside, he strode up to the carriage's cabin. Casting a glance inside, he found the interior enshrouded in darkness, pierced only by the shimmering moonlight filtering through the hole where the window had once been. A small oil lamp, a casualty of the crash, lay shattered. Apart from the broken lamp, the space was mostly empty. Three small openings marred the rear where the crossbow bolts had entered, two more marked their exit at the front. The third bolt had lodged itself into the cabin's partition and wooden splinters and spilled oil tainted the opulent interior. Yet, there was no trace of the merchant's brat or their companion, nor was there any blood.
"Find them!" He ordered the two remaining members of his squad. He didn't know what happened here, but he felt a growing unease. As he saw it, there were two possible scenarios. The first involved Dragon's betrayal. While highly improbable given the dire consequences for traitors within the Brotherhood of Shadows in the Night, Thalorin couldn't entirely dismiss it. The second possibility was that the merchant's son had not only survived their initial onslaught but also somehow managed to fend off their comrade, subduing him without leaving a trace. Thalorin considered this almost as unlikely as the first, yet he struggled to conceive of any other explanations.
The three men expertly spread out through the moonlit street, looking for signs of what had happened. "Third Blade!" Adimu's voice eventually rang out through the night.
The elf joined his fellow assassin, finding Adimu standing above the still warm corpse of a man. Despite the massive wound in his forehead, it was undoubtedly the man called Dragon, the unmistakable face tattoo depicting a dragon confirming his identity.
"Fuck man…" Adimu said, voice quivering.
Ignoring the shaken man, Thalorin knelt beside the fallen figure, meticulously examining the deceased. It was clear that his comrade had succumbed to the wound on his forehead, likely almost immediately. Whatever had caused it had entered through the man's skull, penetrating his brain before exiting at the back, leaving behind a perfectly round tunnel through the head. A mix of brain matter and blood oozed onto the pathway, but there were no discernible clues about what had caused the wound. Thalorin begrudgingly respected the merchant's son or whoever else might have orchestrated this ambush, but he regretted that the valuable blood couldn't serve to nourish Blackthorne.
"Third Blade?" Adimu's uncertain voice echoed from behind the elf. "Where's Phelan?"
Thalorin's attention snapped back to the situation at hand. He turned his head slowly to look at Adimu, his eyes narrowing as he processed the question. With Dragon now dead, the apparent absence of their third companion was troubling. Thalorin's mind raced with possibilities, but he knew he had to remain focused.
"Stay alert," Thalorin instructed Adimu, "Phelan might still be nearby."
The two assassins carefully scanned their surroundings, their senses heightened as they moved through the moonlit street, every rustle of leaves a potential threat, every shadow a potential ambush. As they continued their search, Thalorin's keen elven senses caught a faint noise; the sound of wet coughing. He raised his hand, signalling Adimu to halt, and then slowly made his way toward the source of the noise, back to the carriage. Adimu followed suit, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.
As they reached the carriage, they found the previously open door closed, a whimpering noise emanating from the hole where the window had once been. Readying themselves, they slowly opened the door. Inside, they found Phelan, his form slumped against the cabin's partition. His wheezing breaths were shallow, his clothes were stained with blood as he tightly clutched one of his hands around his throat.
"Phelan, brother, all you alright?" Adimu's voice was filled with urgency and concern. The injured assassin's eyes fluttered open, terror in his starry eyes. "You need… to leave… a mage…" The injured man managed to whisper, his voice strained.
"We're getting you out of here," the dark skinned man replied, determination and fear battling in his tone.
"No." Thalorin's voice interjected sharply. "Tell us about the mage."
"Third Blade! He is dying, we need to find a healer!" Adimu's plea was laced with desperation as he grasped his leader's arm, his distress palpable.
"Idiot!" the elf shouted angrily, backhanding the desperate man who stumbled out of the carriage. "Can't you see. His throat was slit. His fate is already sealed."
Thalorin leaned in close to the dying man, his grip on Phelan's shoulders almost bruising. Phelan's breaths were strained and nearly inaudible. "Quick, tell me about the mage!" Thalorin demanded, his voice harsh and urgent as he shook the wounded assassin in an attempt to rouse his consciousness.
There was no response. that the blood loss had taken its toll, causing Phelan to slip into unconsciousness. as his breaths grew even weaker. A flicker of frustration crossed the elf's features before a sinister grin slowly stretched across his face. Raising Blackthorne, he drove the blade into Phelan's chest with a swift, decisive motion. The runic patterns etched into the black steel ignited once more, drawing in the last vestiges of the bald mans ebbing life force.
Stepping out of the carriage, Thalorin's brow furrowed in confusion and concern. There was no sign of Adimu. A rare tinge of fear crept into his heart as he began to search for his final companion. It didn't take long to find him. The lifeless body lay sprawled inside a rain puddle, the severed head right closeby. Thalorin stared in stunned silence as his comrade's blood mingled with the rainwater, a macabre painting of red and grey. Then blinding anger overcame him.
"Reveal yourself, you coward!" he roared into the night, his challenge a direct affront to the mage who had aided the merchant's offspring and ruthlessly slain his entire team.
###
Aiden observed the assassin from the concealment of a nearby wall, silently witnessing as the man knelt by the lifeless body of his fallen comrade. With the other assailants eliminated, the elven warrior with the ominous black sword stood as the sole survivor. This was promising, Aiden thought; the remaining assassin's position as the group's leader could potentially make him useful.
Stepping away from the shadows and into the moonlit street, Aiden addressed the assassin, his voice calm and steady. "I would suggest that you surrender."
The assassin whipped around, fiery anger transforming his elven features into an ugly grimace. "How dare you interrupt our business, mage! Speak and I might just grant you a quick death." he spat, his hand clenching around the hilt of his dark blade, knuckles white with tension.
"Oh?" Aiden said mockingly. "I was about to offer you the same."
The elf's rage erupted in a roar, and he charged toward Aiden with a speed that reflected his elven heritage. Yet, this opponent, called ''Third Blade' by his fallen comrades, was not nearly a match for the skilled elves Aiden had encountered during his days as Arcanus. Swiftly and deftly, Aiden managed to parry the initial onslaught of attacks.
While blocking his opponent's attacks had been easy enough, looking down at the sword he had taken from the first assassin, he saw that the black blade of his opponent had already left kinks in his own weapon.
"You fight well… for a mere human spellslinger," the elf jeered at Aiden, "Where is the merchant's son's corpse? I'll need it once I've fed Blackthorne with your blood."
"The corpse? Ah, I believe you're mistaken," Aiden replied, a lopsided grin forming on his lips. "I am Aiden Silver."
Aiden used the momentary surprise of the assassin to close the distance between them. His opponent managed to barely evade the first two slashes, but the third left a shallow wound on the elf's sword arm.
The assassin hissed in pain, stumbling back as he clutched his wounded arm. His sneer had given way to a mixture of fury and disbelief. "Impossible! You're supposed to be dead! There is no way you could've survived unharmed."
Aiden's grin widened, his amusement evident. "It appears you're either greatly underestimating me or perhaps overestimating yourself."
Uncertainty flashed in the assassin's eyes, his grip on his sword wavering for a split second. Aiden seized the opportunity, launching a swift and precise strike aimed at the elf's exposed side. The blade made contact, slicing through the fabric of the assassin's dark attire and drawing a thin line of blood.
The assassin let out a low growl, his eyes now blazing with fury and bloodlust. He lunged forward with renewed ferocity, his sword dancing through the air in a flurry of deadly strikes. Aiden parried and dodged as best as he could, the clash of steel ringing through the night. It was a dance of skill and survival, each move calculated, each strike measured.
Amidst the intensity of their battle, Aiden's mind raced. He knew the disadvantage his inferior sword posed; time was not on his side. He needed to conclude this encounter quickly, to seize an opportunity for an advantage. And then it appeared – a fleeting distraction in the assassin's eyes as moonlight glanced off his blade. It was the opening Aiden had been waiting for.
With a sudden surge of magic, Aiden spoke the incantation for a burst of blinding light, aimed directly at the assassin's face. The novice tier common magic was weak, but enough. The elf let out a startled cry and instinctively shielded his eyes, his guard dropping for just an instant. Aiden seized the opportunity, bringing his sword down in a powerful arc that caught the assassin off guard. The blade found its mark, striking the elf with a sickening thud as it ate into the man's chest..
The assassin staggered back, his sword slipping from his grasp. Eyes widened in shock and disbelief, his hand instinctively clutched the grievous wound as blood seeped through his fingers.
"Impossible… how... you cannot..." the assassin choked out in the ancient dialect of his people, his voice weak.
Aiden's eyes locked onto his fallen opponent's. "You underestimated your enemies," he responded in the same elven dialect. "And now, it's time to pay the price for your choices."
The assassin's eyes bulged and for a moment he looked like he wanted to say something, then his knees gave way, and he collapsed onto the wet pavement, a pool of his own blood quickly forming. The moonlit street bore the only witness to the end of Thalorin, Third Blade of the Shadows in the Night.
Aiden stood over the fallen assassin, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion as he caught his breath. His attention was drawn to a glimmer of moonlight reflecting off an object on the ground. Kneeling, he retrieved the discarded weapon of the fallen elf, Blackthorne as the assassin had named it. A sense of exhilaration surged within Aiden as he examined the blade, marvelling at the unexpected acquisition of a genuinely enchanted weapon this night had brought him.