In a tavern amidst the dying night, a local bard plays a haunting, melancholy melody as a final ode to the annual Tournament's festivities. Her listeners drunk or passed out, her voice falls on deaf ears yet echoes into the midnight sky - the mockingbirds extending her range far beyond the realm of Estralyn.
"Farewell, my love, my far fair heart,
Farewell, my love, it's come for us to part.
Your wings flew high, across the sky,
But the sun cut them down before the night."
-
The winds howled throughout the night, accompanying a distinct sound of Umbra training at his home while the local celebrations slowly died down to an end. The music and drums could still be heard off in the distance, and the city folk were slowly but surely dissipating - some back to their homes, others passed out on the streets of the Sapphire Realm. The Colosseum's damages due to the fights were all but fixed, and were announced to remain that way until the next annual tournament; a reminder of what took place, and a display of the gods' authority and power.
Yet the night brings about an air of mystery still. While Umbra was practicing his stances and footwork with a sword, he contemplated his victory. Being defeated by the gods was surely not humiliating - how could one be ashamed of something like that? - but the promise of a rematch kept his fires burning bright, wanting to do better next time. And surely, due to the last few opponents he had to face, he had to be better. There were so many close calls, and it was guaranteed that his opponents were training just as hard as he was. Should he stop at one victory? Why? Why not go for more? The gods have blessed him with his championship, that should surely be enough, right?
The winds howled, the trees danced gently with the breeze, and the branches rustled a soft lullaby. Silhouettes taunted in the distance at the corner of Umbra's eyes.
"Huh?" He hummed, looking towards the direction where he saw the figures, only to see nothing. Perhaps it was exhaustion, he thought, or something else. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him at night, to keep him on guard. As much as he tried to push away those anxious, paranoid thoughts, he couldn't help but notice the dreaded feeling of being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he found himself shivering for but a moment.
Umbra paused, now feeling his ears perk up. He shook his head, trying to get back to it. "This realm always gets weird after curfew hours…" he mumbled to himself, trying to excuse this feeling and return to training.
The wind's howls stopped, and the trees stood still. The only noise that could be heard throughout the dead of night was Umbra swinging a dark sword at a few practice dummies. The silence only ate away at his fear even more, yet he practiced harder and put more force behind his attacks to distract himself. He slashed at a dummy twice, before turning around to slash at the dummy behind him, only to find his sword parried and retaliated.
The hooded figure that suddenly appeared in front of him wielded two daggers and a cloak that shrouded their face in darkness. They were dressed in black from head to toe, blending in with the dark of the night as they gripped one dagger underhand to parry Umbra's sword while using the other one to slice at his cheek. Holding the dagger still, the hooded assassin pulled back their fist to strike at his nose again and again, enough to draw blood.
Umbra stumbled back, dropping his conjured sword as it dissipated into a mist then nothingness. He fell back onto the dirt, crawling away while his fight or flight responses kicked in. His eyes widened, his heart raced with fear, and his mind started to operate on instinct rather than rationality. He crawled away as the torches that lit up his home's training grounds extinguished one by one, each extinguished by a new assassin that's come for Umbra's blood. All six torches were extinguished, and seven cloaks and hoods bearing steel and bloodlust appeared in front of him, surrounding him.
His head swiveled around frantically, looking in each direction but finding every one of them to be blocked by an assassin. His chest was heaving up and down with heavy, audible breaths as his instinct to escape kicked in. As the assassins closed in on him one footstep at a time, the first one with the daggers spoke up in a raspy, feminine voice.
"No hard feelings, champion… it's only divine intervention." She spoke menacingly with a grin on her face, gripping her daggers tighter than before.