The guard was fast, but Zelkor was faster. With one slick motion, he slid the knife from his sleeve and took the guard down with an arc of blade across his wrist. The sword on the ground came clattering, and with a swing of his foot to the side of the man's knee, down he goes to the floor. In time for him to shout, Zelkor covers his mouth to muffle the sound. The battle was short but fierce, his muscles coiled and ready for the battle that never came. Fear widened the guard's eyes, and then, in a final twitch, still they went.
He waited for a time to listen, for to make sure that no one had heard, before going on down the hall. The air grew chill and the candles less and more distant. It was an infrequently trodden road, which made it precisely what he wanted. His heart was a drum pounding in his chest, the breaths he drew small and measured. He was close to the nobleman, the air reeked of the nobleman's power and of fear.
One by one, Zelkor sent away the guards. Each meeting was a dance of death-a silent battle choreographed to perfection. His blades sang through the air, their deadly melody ending in thuds of lifeless bodies hitting the floor. As he won each victory, he felt the warmth of the nobleman's room closer, beckoning him like a siren's call.
The corridor narrowed; the walls closed in, whispering ancient secrets of betrayal and treachery. His heart pounded in time with his steps, each beat a countdown to the climax of his mission. He knew that the nobleman must have known of the danger; he could feel the vibrations of his fear echoing through the very stones of the manor.
The guards came thicker and thicker, their eyes suspicious and their hands tight on their weapons. Zelkor's mind was a whirlwind of strategy and instinct. He moved with a deadly grace, his knives finding their marks without a sound. The guards fell like leaves in a storm, each one closer to the heart of the beast.
A jolt of realization, like a crack of thunder that seemed to come out of nowhere. One of the guards didn't quite add up. The man was too still, too watchful, even as the others patrolled with the predictable rhythm of fear. It was a trap, a Royal Shield waiting in the shadows, his eyes locked on Zelkor. The air was heavy with the smell of adrenaline as the two men looked at each other, waiting for the other to make a move.
In an instant, Zelkor leapt into action, his short sword a silver streak in the candlelight. The Royal Shield was good, parrying his blows with a grace that spoke of extensive training. But Zelkor was better, driven by a need that went beyond the simple instinct of survival. He pretended to step to the left, and when the Shield moved, Zelkor spun and brought his sword down in a swift, precise arc that sliced through the man's neck. The guard's crimson cloak billowed like a macabre flower, and he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
The echoes of their battle had not yet faded when Zelkor felt the thunderous pounding of booted feet approaching. He knew he had little time. The nobleman's room was just ahead, the air now thick with the coppery scent of blood and the sweet aroma of victory. His heart hammered in his chest, a war drum driving him onward.
With each step, the tapestries lining the walls whispered of ancient battles and forgotten heroes, as if urging him to claim his place among their storied ranks. His blade, kissed with moonlight, gleamed with the promise of retribution. The guards before him were mere shadows, their eyes wide with fear as they realized the fate that awaited them.
One by one, they fell to Zelkor's swift and silent strikes. Each death was a move in this game of shadows, and he was grandmaster. That noble's room was slowly closing into view, filled with expectations almost palpable. A warning from his friend that the Royal Shields were so elite did little to persuade him otherwise against Zelkor's smug resolve. He understood that to be the darkness blade for the unseen storm that took down even those at full strength.
He took the last turn, his steps softer than a whisper, and found himself face to face with the nobleman's chamber door. It was an elaborate affair, studded with iron and adorned with a griffin's snarling head as the knob. Zelkor paused, listening for any hint of the nobleman's presence within. The room was eerily quiet, except for the faint ticking of a clock that seemed to count down the moments of the nobleman's remaining life.
He turned the knob with the dexterity of a locksmith; the door opened with a silent groan that sent a shiver down his spine. The room was dimly lit by the glow of a single candle, casting a warm halo around the bed where the nobleman lay, his chest rising and falling with the heavy breaths of a troubled sleep. The scent of fear was palpable, thick like a fog that clung to Zelkor's very soul.
He slipped through with the agility of a cat, the chainmail whispering against the velvet curtains as he moved inside. The eyes took in the outline of the room: tapestries as heavy and concealing as a winter's night; furniture fine enough to provide cover but ornate enough to trip over. He had no time for caution now and no room for error; his mission was clear.
Zelkor approached the bed with a stealth that defied the very fabric of the night. The nobleman's sleep was a mockery of peace, twitches and gasps escaping his lips as if he could feel the shadow of death drawing closer. As Zelkor reached the bedside, the nobleman's eyes snapped open, a look of horror crossing his features.
The nobleman attempted to sit up, his hand blindly feeling for the knife he kept under his pillow, but Zelkor was quicker. He pinned the nobleman's hand to the bed with a vice-like grip, his blade poised against the soft skin of his throat. The nobleman's eyes went wide, the candlelight dancing in them like a trapped bird seeking escape. Zelkor's gaze was cold and unyielding, the weight of his mission etched into every line of his face.
The nobleman's eyes flicked up and down against Zelkor's; he was looking for leniency or a fleeting glimpse of humanity, finding only the chill, implacable set of the man who was on some sort of crusade. Zelkor whispered his words. "You might have known better," soft hiss down the nobleman's spine, and as he watched, he very quickly cut the artery-there would be no saving light in those eyes from the dark that followed its departure.
The room fell silent, the candle flame seeming to hold its breath in the sudden stillness. Zelkor took a moment to listen, ensuring that the cries of the dying man had not alerted any remaining guards. Satisfied that he was still alone, he wiped his blade clean on the velvet bedcover and returned it to its sheath. He scanned the room for some traces of his existence and left without a trace, almost as carefully as he took the nobleman's life.
Turning, a flicker of movement in the corner drew his eye to the figure stepping out from the shadows. She was a young, beautiful woman, her eyes wide and filled with fear and accusation. She wore the finer clothes of a noble family, but a tremble in her hand betrayed the fear that sat within. In that instant, Zelkor saw his own reflection in her eyes, the monster he had become.
For a heartbeat, he was frozen, the weight of his actions bearing down upon him like an invisible burden. He could hear the echoes of his own past, the nights spent shivering in fear, praying that the shadow at his door was just an image of his imagination. But he was no child now, and this was the daughter of the man whose blood now stained his hand.
He stepped back, the woman's fear palpable in the air. "Don't scream," he whispered, his voice gruff with the unspoken apology. She was just a bystander, a pawn in a game she had never chosen to play. The mission was clear, but something in him rebelled at the thought of silencing her.
Her eyes searched his face, seeking any sign of compassion. But he saw her hand sneaking towards the bedside; she was reaching for that knife that had fallen over there. He knew exactly what she was thinking as well: the same indignant fire that had roared in his heart while facing the injustice of the past. But she is not trained, not at all like him.
Zelkor raised his hand, stopping her. "I don't wish to harm you," he whispered, his voice soothing yet firm. "But I must leave."
The woman's hand lingered above the knife, wariness battling with fear in her eyes. She nodded slowly, her eyes not breaking from his gaze. He stepped back, letting her have the space she needed to breathe, to live. The silence became a living thing in the room, pulsing with the echoes of the final moments of the nobleman.
Just as Zelkor was turning to go, the sound of racing footsteps from the corridor was getting louder. The guards had found the murdered Royal Shield, and now they hunted for her. Her eyes widened even farther as she suppressed a whimper. She knew that if they caught her here, inside her father's castle with his blood drying on the floor of her bedchamber, it was certain to be her fate as well.
Without a moment's hesitation, Zelkor melted into the shadows, letting darkness envelop him completely. He waited as the guards ran into the room, shouting and making the noise of their armor shatter the silence like a storm. They combed the chamber frantically, their eyes passing over the spot where he had been standing a moment ago.