"Well," he growled in a much lower guttural voice. "Let's get this over with."
And this by night: Whereas Azrael moves in shadow, quiet, fluid as ghost, the king travels on a-foot-incog. he fancies-in a cloak of night with garrison of four, themselves torch-bearing, and light upon the narrow path of forest way; their little flames cast flickering shadows about the trees.
Azrael crouched low, his body melting into the dark. His high-tuned senses picked up the soft crunch of their footsteps, the clinking of their armor, and the steady rhythm of the king's breathing.
He waited until they were close before striking.
The first one didn't even have time to react. Azrael moved with an unnatural quickness, his hand cutting through the air with deadly precision to crush the man's throat. The guard crumpled to the ground, his torch snuffed out as it hit the dirt.
"What the—" another guard yelled, tugging his sword free. But Azrael was quicker. He dived forward, his fist connecting with the guard's chest in a bone-jarring blow. The man flew backward, slamming with a sickening crunch into a tree.
The other two guards closed ranks around the king, their swords drawn. "Show yourself, coward!" one shouted, his voice shaking.
Before them stepped shining eyes belonging to Azrael, and a shiver ran down their spines.
"Who goes there?" one of the guards asked-voice unshaken while his hand was tightly coiled on the hilt of the sword.
Azrael didn't say a word. In but an instant, he sprang forward, dodging the wild swing of the man and planting his elbow right into his throat. Gasping for air, the guard fell to the ground, life slipping away from him.
But the last one did not attack. He wavered, his face contorting in terror. "Please… don't," he pleaded, dropping his weapon and raising his hands.
Azrael cocked his head to the side, his face unreadable. For a moment, it almost seemed as if he might spare the man.
Then he struck, faster than the eye could see. With a nauseating crack, the guard's neck snapped, and he fell limply to the floor.
The king was alone now, his eyes wide with terror. He stumbled backward, voice shaking as he demanded, "Who sent you?!"
Azrael smiled, eyes aglow as his gaze reduced to slits. "Your worst nightmare," he said coldly.
In one smooth motion, he plunged his hand right into the king's chest through flesh and bone. The king gasped, body jerking with convulsions as Azrael twisted his hand.
"It is not personal," Azrael said, cold and voiceless. "Just following orders."
He drew his hand out, letting the lifeless body of the king sag onto the floor. Blood began pooling in his lifeless form as this strong ruler had now become only a shell, lifeless and cold.
Azrael melted back into the darkness, his mission finally completed
As he ran on, though, there would be but one thought held floating behind his mind's back:
"Why did they want him dead?" he whispered softly to himself.
As sure as that stride inside, where the air thick with the anticipation, elders were wrapping themselves up in majesty, dignified solemnity, and upon their chairs of state.
Great halls tapestried, hung with gold chandeliers, and full of taps of power and tradition-He stopped once, an almost invisible smile tagging his lips, and drank the room in.
He cleared his throat for their attention, and then, in a smooth, mournful tone, he started talking. "The king is dead," he said, the words hanging in the air. Gasps and murmurs of disavowal rippled around him. He raised his hand and silenced them.
"This is a painful truth that has just reached our ears tonight. He was ambushed by assassins on their way home from a journey. That's fact, and there is nothing anybody can do to alter it."
The elders looked at one another with discomfort. The murmuring swelled. "Sorrows! Sorrows! Prayers!" the prince went on in tones mock-serious.
But in sorriness I am heir to crown, and so, awhile, without more noise, to-morrow shall I be crown'd king in mine own right in front of the whole land.
The words fell deep into the grave, the room falling silent in consequence. Then, one by one, the elders rose to their feet, bowing their heads. "Long live the king!" rang out in a unified tone across the grand chamber. The prince, his body full with the moment, oozed a satisfied smile on his face.
In but a moment, the guard blew into the room, surged to the prince, and leaned in urgently, speaking low in his ear. For one swift moment, the prince's face clouded, and then he straightened, the mask of confidence slipping back into place.
"I will see you all tomorrow. Make the necessary preparations," he said shortly, striding out of the throne room, the guard following fast behind him.
He fairly ran down the circling corridors of the castle, feet ringing against the marble floor. The guard ushered him to the back of the castle, where walls gave way into open night sky. Rain was heavy in sheets onto the cobblestone path they reached: a small, sequestered courtyard.
Behind him, the castle loomed, spires tall, to pierce through storming clouds; gargoyles scowled from edges of roofs, their grotesque faces flickering into view in quick flashes of lightning. The air was thick with rain and earth, and in the silence could be heard the sound of trickling water from stonewall edges.
Wet as a drowned rat and well beyond his usual poise, Azrael came to a dead stop in the center of the courtyard, his shoulders bunched, breathing heavily with his silver hair plastered upon his face, and those ever so cold and calculating gray eyes pleading.
"My prince!" he called in a choked voice.
The prince took another step closer, his lip curling coldly. "You address me as your king now," he corrected him.