The narrow corridor, the noise growing louder by the second. Azrael had hardly been able to raise his head when his door burst open with a resounding crash. Splinters of wood flew across the stone floor as two cloaked men stormed into the darkly lit room.
"We have an assignment for you," the taller of the two declared. His voice was cold and sharp, like steel.
Azrael's dark eyes flickered to the vial the man slammed onto the table in front of him. Inside, a liquid glowed faintly, its sinister red pulsing as if it were a heartbeat.
"You must kill the king tonight," the second man said, without feeling.
The tall man nodded toward the vial. "That is the enchantment drug. You know what to do."
Said that, they swung and hastened to leave the room, slamming shut the door behind themselves and left them to their words. For a moment finally, it was silent, as if the echo had finally reverberated itself out.
Long still, with gaze set fast upon that glowing vial, Azrael's visage was all grimaced, and his countenance, razor-keen edged, pale by years of training and enclosement.
His head was framed with a tumble of dark, messy hair; some strands fell just above his eyes, intense and black, a window to his soul, or what was left of it-cold and calculating, with not even a hint of weight in the thousands of lives he had taken.
A scar, in the form of a gash, cut across his left eyebrow, forming an awkward angle, courtesy of training so hard and unrelenting. His wiry frame was lean but deceptively powerful, forged in a ceaseless regimen of combat exercises. To anyone who would look his way, Azrael was a predator-a wolf circling his target.
He leaned back in his chair, running a hand over the rough stubble on his jawline. "What is wrong with these people?" he growled in a low, gravelly tone. "I can wrap my head around all the messed-up things they've made me do, but why on earth would they want me to kill the king? His own father?
The question hung in the air, but no reply was forthcoming. Not that Azrael expected one-he was a tool to be used, nothing more than that. A blade to strike wherever their whimsy took their bidding.
Azrael thought about his past-the memories well-worn as the numerous crosshatch scars of every size that mapped both skin and muscle. He had been a child, taken into their ranks from the city's streets and honed into the perfect killer.
It had been the prince's personal overseeing that had pushed him to the edge of death and beyond. Day after day, unspeakable acts were committed, his hands red with blood before he even knew what it meant to kill.
They had shattered him, piece by piece, until he was an empty shell. Then they'd reconstructed him in their own likeness-an instrument, molded for the sole purpose of serving the crown.
"Not that it is any of my concern," Azrael said aloud, pulling himself back into the here and now. "I have little choice, anyway.
He reached for the vial and held it up against the weak light of the candle. Inside, the liquid was alive, it pulsed as with its own heartbeat.
"At least this will help boost my air-bending capabilities," he grumbled. Being a Rank-G magical user, he was limited; the very lowest grade one should ever attain, his actual capabilities seemed to be under a minute ceiling. The Enchantment drug alone allowed him to somehow stand up to most mission tasks.
But this medicine was different; it was darker in color, and something sinful in it sent a shiver down his spine.
"Today's medicine looks creepy," he thought, shaking his head. "But it is not like I can refuse."
Taking a deep breath, Azrael jammed the needle into his neck and depressed the plunger. With an acrid hiss, the liquid seared into his veins, putting every inch of his body aflame in burning pain.
Dropping onto his knees and clutching at his chest, he screamed-a scream torn from his throat. The veins throbbed in his arms with a faintly glowing sheen; the drug was coursing through his body like molten lava. Every single fibre of his muscles burst and reconstructed in agonizing torment.
The pain ebbed suddenly, replaced by a cold, predatory calm. Azrael rose to his feet, twisting his neck with an audible crack. His eyes shone dimly with an unholy red overlay on the black. He flexed his fingers as power surged through him.
"Well," he growled in a much lower guttural voice. "Let's get this over with."