The coin glinted in the moonlight, mildew tainting its silver visage. The metal felt smooth in the assassin's gloved palm. They sifted it momentarily as they lay crouched upon the stone roof his stomach pressed against the rock. Rain poured from the inky dark as the assassin lifted their hood squinting eyes to make out the features of the battlement in front. They turned to their side where another figure lay below their brown clothes clinging to the putrid mud. Carefully the first lifted a hand as his fingers motioned through the damp air.

  Charred grass swayed in the wind as two soldiers marched along the furthest wall. Their red cloaks and bronze armour were drenched by the passing storm. Gold insignias lay embroidered on their chests like a shining star in the putrid dark. One held their torch high with the wood burning an orange hue through the misty night. The rays of light reflected upon the assassin’s muddied cheeks. For a second, the interloper held their breath as if hoping not to be seen, not to be found, cast into their spears.

  Yet the two passed, smiling faces oblivious to the horrors in sight. Each held their weapon tightly, newly minted arms bent toward the cloudy sky. One leaned on the spear shaft as they walked, making careless gestures as they patrolled the wall. The two were over fifty feet in the air while mortar and brick surrounded the city below. The mercenary below began to crawl and wriggle through the streaking mud. They turned to look at their companion to signal with emotionless eyes.

  In silence, the second assassin waited to slowly unsheathe a jagged blade. Hooded robes flew through the air as they leaped from the roof to barely latch against the castle's rough walls. The figure stood, feet dangling as the two guards stood barely an inch away. He could hear them now.

  One talked about the city's newest reform their thick accented voice steeped in fatigue

  while the other muttered about the city's weather. Neither saw the assassin's sword. In one swift movement, the mercenary tugged on the first soldier's robe sending them flying into the chasm below. Screams echoed as the second jumped back. The soldier waved their spear in frantic desperation yet was too late. The mercenary parried for a shortsword to clatter against the stone below.

  “That robe looks like it’ll fit you,” the voice hissed.

  The assassin turned to lend out a hand for their partner below. The other grabbed it, letting themselves be pulled forward. Water splashed along the smooth stone as they brushed back their hoods, brown hair drenched by the pounding rain. Crous stared up to have rain patter his face while Jana examined the corpse below.

  “The very least they could give us good weather” Crous smiled.

  They both paused, slowly changing into the still-warm imperial clothing. The cloth was coarse and rough, comfort exchanged for durability.

  For a second, the guard twitched, hand moving to have Jana’s sword slice through their armour. She seemed to grimace, her entire body freezing as her eyes shifted in thought.

  “This one feels different,” Crous remarked.

  “How? What do you mean?” Jana replied. She had her blade drawn staring at the wall's horizon.

  “It feels…odd,” he shuddered.

  Trees thrashed in the wind as hooded figures rushed along the empty trail. The city wall spanned for miles, expert masonry spiraling to the heavens as the fortress sat etched into the mountainside. Outside was surrounded by the city’s artificial peninsula, an ocean guarding them from attack. Snow draped its jagged peaks as watchfires burned into the night. Below, the marble streets of Kag came into view. Chimneys dotted red-brick houses as wicker lamps burned into the night. A few guards could be seen with their boots echoing along the pavement as they patrolled. Few citizens flocked to its mud-ridden streets as the destitute clung to open doors for warmth. Soon dawn would rise, and with it, usher in the city's crowds.

  The metropolis spanned the entire horizon. Tall glistening towers were complimented by disheveled shacks. Grid-like streets dominated a series of well-defined marketplaces, theatres, libraries and plazas. A merchant stalked the street below, a wooden cart bumping along the cobbles. Wares could be seen, an early rise to keep a profit within the capital's bustling bazaars. Aqueducts carried in fresh water from nearby lakes, galleons and ferries docked at Kag’s port.

  The two marched forward now, crimson robes perfectly emulating the dead. Jana held the torch, orange fire tearing through the skyline. Both walked in formation, each step a resurgence of their days in imperial ranks.

  At the center stood a monolithic keep with its crimson banners dancing among the clouds as the fortress kept a watchful eye on the city below. Archer towers were laid out in every corner as ballistae lined both the walls and inner fortifications. Its enormous carved stone walls acted as a testament to the archmage’s power, tiny watchtowers, inner walls, and entire garrisons imbued within the building's mighty frame. Gold and steel sat embroidered into every step, rivers of marble streaking from the city's heart.

  At last, they reached the inner gate, a direct approach to the keep. Iron bars had been lowered by winches to cover the main doors, yet the side door remained open. Crous pulled out his documents and placed the parchment into the nearest guard’s hand as Jana did the same. A swordsman barked orders from above to let them both pass and in a moment the two disappeared to vanish into the shadows.

  “Meet at the east ridge?” Jana muttered.

  The two walked along the garrison, blending in with the city's watch. The building was a coarse slab of marble, every inch fortified to withstand a siege. Small rivets of steel could be seen etched into the rock, hasty repairs from an earlier war. Smooth slabs of granite stuck out from the wall’s rough edges, a sign that magic had been used in repairs. The assassins nodded for a moment. Few soldiers stirred within the night. Their watchful eyes streaked with fatigue as idle hands rested on blunt swords. Haphazardly, Crous kicked a rock for it to fall into the city's sewer system, which was a tri-point series of tunnels which lined the marble streets.

  They turned to part, one going down each fork of the bricked path. For a moment, Jana stopped, cloak bending in the dark.

  “Don’t grow a conscious, it’ll only do you harm,” she whispered.

  With that, Crous shuffled past the first gate, slowly marching toward the unknown.

  He whistled as he walked, a familiar, eerie tune cutting through the night, high pitched, yet resounding—a memory lost in thought. It was strangely silent, hay matting his feet as he walked toward the streets. Crous made it past the first patrol, receiving nods from the unsuspecting guards as he continued to the city center. A few peasants clung to the mud-scuffed walls as merchants toiled in the marketplace. Tax officers had already set up shop, their white robes glinting in the lamplight as they prepared for the day ahead. At last, he reached an alleyway. In seconds, Crous tucked the soldier's gear forward. His eyes shifted as he approached the east wall. He stashed the clothes in a nearby barrel for a few rats scurrying away and disappearing into Kag’s sewers. It must have been just a few hours past midnight. Dawn was barely on the horizon as a few carriages were heard winding down the cobble roads. Crous methodically approached the wall. In seconds he latched himself to the rock, with his hands expertly scaling the smooth marble.

  The stone felt cold in his gloved palm. He heaved as he pulled himself over, and for a second, his eyes turned white. It was an unnatural sight, pupils dilating, veins crackling as he felt himself attune to the planet below. His hand jutted forward, tearing into the marble with inhuman strength. The material crumbled at the slightest touch, Crous treating it like dirt as he scaled above the city roofs. It was only then that a faint smile dawned upon his lips.

  This would be easy. This would be fun.

  Torchlight dotted the skyline as the assassin moved his hand through the humid breeze.

  Crous’s fingers curled around the rain, almost trying to catch the water in his palm. He still felt blisters on his hands from training as he searched for the hidden door. It could look like anything: a stone out of place, scratches on the keep wall, or a patch of gray moss. His eyes twitched for a moment, searching for a clue as his hands rested on the brick. At last, he felt it—a spongey material hidden among the hardened rock.

  Suddenly, a bell tolled across the night.

  For a moment, Crous froze, shifting his head to make out the source as his eyes went wide. It was a mixture of shock, confusion, and betrayal, yet strangely, he faced it without fear. This wasn’t according to the plan.

  “What have you done?” he muttered.

  Shouts echoed through the walls, as alarms pierced the stagnant air. Watchtowers burned a scarlet red. Crous placed his arm on the door again. This time, the wall had fallen back, revealing an enchantment which blocked the entrance.

  For a second the assassin kneeled, eyes transfixed on the city below. “What have you done?”

  Archers lined the streets, and entire battalions rushed toward the city armory. Plate mail was doled out to waiting arms and clouds of dust rose from horses that swept across the uncleaned roads. The city seemed to come alive. Soldiers spilled out of darkened homes. Quiet streets were lined with torches while what few citizens who wandered about rushed into the safety of open doors.

  Merchants drew swords, a small army marching toward Crous’s position. Horns blared over the darkened sky as magic light projected into the heavens. The shadows parted as Crous closed his eyes, shielding his face from view. Then, his spine seemed to shake as his skin twisted and he felt it churn. Eyes pierced like daggers into his very soul. It beckoned to him, called to him, screamed his name like an all too familiar kin.

  Light shone, and a blinding dark seeped into the ground. Blackened veins tore like lightning into the hazy clouds. Rain cascaded around them, droplets forming a protective shield.

  The figure stood with jet-black hair and a clean-shaven face complemented by a haunting feature. Their pupils seemed to glow and reflect like that of an animal. It was a stark, blinding white light, shining from the sockets.

  The sound of boots clinking filled the mercenaries' ears as four guardsmen rushed toward their position. Crous could sense the ambush, archers behind, as already, a trap had been laid.

  For a moment the soldiers halted for a single word of hatred to spew from their lips. “Assassin!” a lieutenant roared.

  Imperial cleavers swung forward. The first one landed a strike to swipe through the assassin’s bright blue clothes. Yet Crous pulled back, slashing them in the throat while dodging the second swing. He was half human, rage and fury bundled into one potent swirl of desire.

  Blood streamed like a raging river down the crackled marble. Red cloaks carpeted the ground as countless fell in seconds to the assassin's sword. Screams echoed as a lieutenant threw their spear, only for the wooden spike to fly through the air and pierce the stone behind, missing the target. Crous bent forward, readying to jump. Dust clouded the ground as the wall crumbled and more soldiers ran forward.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Fall back! Fall back!”

  Soaring through the air, the assassin retaliated and grabbed an oncoming guard. The soldier was helpless in his arms, slashing frantically as once-friendly arrows pattered their bronze-plated skin. Then, with the other hand, Crous seemed to shake. His eyes turned blue, streaks of colour swirling in a sea of raging stars. Thick plumes of smoke streaked from his crackled palm to scorch the corpse in front. Below, foot soldiers gaped in awe as a fire licked toward the heavens. They held back for a moment to watch the flame's unnatural movement. Three mages approached, cautious of Crous’s movement. This wasn’t regular magic; this was something different.

  Heat clung to the city's now ashen walls, yet there was no time to react. A soldier swung forward to chop at Crous’s cloak and force him to stutter back. The assassin parried with their feet barely able to keep upright as two more imperials joined the fray. One swung a mace to whack Crous’s arm, only for him to slash back. Another kicked at his legs, and Crous dodged instantly before sending a sword through his chest. Two more legionaries approached, spears drawn, only to have Crous cut their shafts. He picked up a javelin from a fallen corpse and blocked the swing of a swordsman with one hand while flinging the weapon into an oncoming guard. Below, an archer fired at the assassin’s head, only to have the arrow whizz through the night. Amazingly, Crous caught it mid-air and threw the shaft into the ground. Enraged, another soldier flung himself at Crous. He carelessly battered the assassin with punches and slashes from a bronze dagger. One caught Crous’s robe but he quickly blocked with his sword, chopping through two more guards before staring at the soldiers in front. Four more soldiers rushed forward this time, using their shields as they tried to encircle Crous. At first, he readied his sword, but then he raised his palm instead, conjuring more magic to engulf the soldiers in front.

  “Retreat!” a hoarse voice cried.

  Steel chestplates melted and warped under the blinding light as Crous tore into the night. The assassin raced with his legs sprinting at an unnatural speed. The air seemed to distort, bending as it slashed in the wind.

  “Retreat!”

  Six more guardsmen rushed forward, a captain and three lieutenants running along the wall. They braced for attack with tower shields in front in the hopes of boxing their enemy in. A troop continued from the back, more soldiers bashing their spears against the tall wooden shields, in the hopes of creating a phalanx. Bravery shone through their scarred faces, soon-to-be-dead eyes shifting with hatred.

  Sparing no time, Crous jumped off the ledge, leaping onto the first guard’s shield. Wood splintered as the soldier roared, spit flying into the air. Swinging with full force, they seemed to fight like animals. Crous slashed, cut, and parried, eyes turning paler, blending into a crystalline hue with each passing second. The mercenary punched forward, a bare hand crushing right through the captain's armour to send him flying. Two others rushed to his defense, slashing widely to soon be cut down by the assassin’s blade. In the distance, archers had reached a ballista, squinting in the dark as they attempted to make Crous out from the crowd.

  “Inhuman. Inhuman! An abomination!” the first soldier barked.

  In seconds, they hid behind their tower shields, backing away with spears drawn.

  “Archers, fire!” the second screamed.

  Behind, a contingent of legionaries waited, fifteen or so roused from the nearest garrison. They bore hemlora bows, thin spindly wood tempered for the art of war. Steel and red features glistened in the moonlight as they let loose a final volley. Arrows pierced through the murky haze, wooden shafts bouncing off the assassin’s path to land in the shrubbery below. Crous dodged, feet slipping on the cobbles as he felt the arrows brush past his head.

  Miraculously not a single one had hit.

  Hands working as fast as they could muster, the group reloaded, seeing their enemy not a few meters away. Yet, to their horror, the mercenary turned and stood on the inner-city ledge. He cursed under his breath, letting himself trip along the shattered marble. The assassin could only pray Jana was smart enough to retreat.

  Twenty full-plated soldiers now rushed down the wall’s ramparts, crossbows, halberds, and swords glistening.

  Gasps of shock and awe were heard as the assassin jumped, clearing twenty feet to land on the roof of an inn below. Crous seemed to sail through the night, gliding to safety.

  The mercenary grasped at the fleeting tiles, tearing off pieces of the roof to have them shatter on the ground below. He lifted himself up and then continued, tearing through the city rooftops. Twelve more legionaries jumped forward, hands digging into the plaster as they scaled up houses, structures and walls, all giving chase upon the darkened streets. They bore axes, sharpened knives and shortswords, all glinting in uniform sheathes. An archer on the street below took their mark, a steady hand shaking as they threaded arrow after arrow into the dark. The first almost hit, Crous deflecting it with his sword as the others pattered the wall behind.

  The assassin looked behind, increasing his pace as he flew through the night.

  In a few moments, the keep was in sight, and six knights stood on guard, flanking the back door. Fear was instilled in their eyes as they wielded their broadswords, firelight reflecting in the blades. Beside them marked two more worthy foes, mages with their crimson garb indicating them of the highest order. Golden insignias sat on their shoulders which revealed their archmage status. Crous had managed to evade most of the arrows that still rained in tiny barrages, careful not to hit the people of the street below. He jumped from rooftop to rooftop with his legs sprinting on chipped tiles. At last, he saw it, a more defined entrance to the castle's lower halls.

  Torches sat on their side of the balcony as a thin wooden door blocked Crous’s view. A few runners traced his steps on the ground below in the form of scouts relaying positions to more soldiers. In one giant leap, Crous scaled the keep’s side, with his hand crunching into the mortar as he fought those above.

  Lightning spewed from the first mage’s hand, with the bolt streaking past the assassin’s cheek to crumple a nearby wall to dust. The protective enchantment on the building shuddered as blue rays of power crackled where the projectile landed. Crous dodged, swinging his whole body to the side as the air stretched and burned. Another mage pressed forward, with vines sprouting from the ground to grab at Crous’s feet. Yet the assassin threw his sword, cutting down the imperial to jump into the other’s arms. In seconds, the assassin struck twice, his hands lashing, claws streaking through the air. In a blinding flash, four lay dead. The ground seemed to wilt in his presence, an almost putrid dark etching from his very soul. Blood trickled down the mercenary’s cheek as the last captain rushed forward, her blade gleaming with orange fire. She clutched an enchanted weapon that was an accolade to a nameless campaign in now-nameless lands. Fear struck in the assassin’s eyes. The first strike landed hard, with their weapon whipping sparks into the air as the edge crushed forward. For a second, the mercenary locked eyes with their own kind. They were both killers, one for glory, the other for greed.

  The sound of an army filled the soldier's ears. Reinforcements were mere seconds away.

  She pushed back, causing the assassin to shift their footing, tattered clothes fluttering in the wind. The second knight raged, broadsword crashing down, yet the mercenary was too fast. White eyes glistened as he grabbed the sword, forcing the hilt from the soldier's hand, only to plunge it into their open chest. More mages watched in awe, spewing more lightning from their brown cloaks as the assassin swept forward. He punched the first knight, sword flinging from her hand to be kicked across the battlement. Then he grappled the second, dodging a gauntleted fist to throw them over keep’s ledge.

  A soldier ran forward, blocking Crous’s attack before dodging behind the now crumbling wall. Crous struck back, sword clanging against the carven stone as sparks flew into the night.

  Then with one last show of his deft hands, he unleashed his full fury, parrying their attacks to slash at their robes.

  The mages could tell he was different. Crous moved unnaturally fast as his eyes filled with the same pale white. A firebolt whizzed past Crous’s head and he dodged it in an instant to kick two mages off a ledge. Another caused the bricks to sweep out from under his feet as he desperately flailed to stop the attacker's advance. They swiped forward, causing a wall to smash near Crous’s head. He vaulted over the structure with a strange web of energy protecting his head. The mage swung forward with lightning arcing from his hands to crackle the ground below. Crous used his sword to unnaturally deflect the bolt and slash his attacker. In an instant, the mage fell back to heal the wound with his power as he cried out for aid. He could see legionaries in the distance, hundreds—if not thousands—marching to the keep’s aid, yet it would be too late. The assassin smiled, haunting lips contorting as he opened the back door.

  Servants sprinted past Crous to the safety of the storm as he stalked the grand chamber.

  Red robes carpeted the golden floors while blood sifted along the carved stone. The assassin stood with his hands shaking, eyes bulging, an arrow sticking out of his back as he marveled in amazement. Pillars streaked into the carven sky as thousands of precious stones lay imbued into the twisting floor. Magic pulsated from the keep’s heart as blue fire licked the vaulted heavens. Every inch, every scrap of rock was a masterwork of old, a testament of power. Within its center, the wail of a child could be heard.

  The abomination.

  Crous’s mind wandered. All that time—all that preparation—only to reach their goal with brute force. It felt empty…wrong.

  The assassin ran his hand along the thin granite. He felt the electricity crackle, and flow within his heart. Fine vases and paintings glistened in the firelight. Ancient relics lined the walls, each one precious in its desire, yet portrayed like a child's toy.

  The pale white robe of the archmage matted Crous's feet as he approached the altar, a gigantic stone slab held within the city's center. The chiseled black rock had a thin blue tinge, energy pulsating from its core. It taunted him and beckoned him as whispers filled his ears. The assassin carefully took off his glove to let his sweaty fingers trace along the rock's edge.

  At the slightest touch, Crous began to tremble. He nursed his burnt finger, eyes lighting up as something sealed the gaping wound. He stared at the young creature lying at the center of the altar. It glanced back, with its tiny head shifting in curiosity. It appeared to be a small human, a baby, dressed in the ceremonial cloth of a channeler, white twisted in a cacophony of gold.

  A circle of candles surrounded his victim, a protective web of magic devised with an eerie masterwork. Crous readied his hand.

  Something was wrong. Crous knew no human could devise something this perfect.

  Jana should be here.

  The thought raced through his mind, yet he took the opportunity to strike.

  For a moment, light filled Crous’s eyes once more. Energy crackled as the altar began to shake. In seconds the spell vanished. Once a monolithic achievement, it became a fragrance of the passing wind.

  Then closing his eyes, he drew his blade one last time and raised it above the creature's head.

  “You’re alive?”

  The assassin turned to have terror strike his jaw. He was normal now. human. Exposed.

  “You tried to have me killed,” Crous replied.

  Jana stood only a few feet away. Her blade was drawn, orange tip smeared with poison. “I’m sorry Crous, but I saw my chance. And I took it,” Jana said.

  “You made a deal with the archmage,” the assassin growled. Crous sprinted down the stairs toward the channeler's white cloak. He tripped on the first step to have his hands frantically pulling at the carrion below. At last, the corpse rolled back to have ash splinter in his open palm.

  “Lies, lies!” Crous screamed. Horror streaked across his brow as his accomplice laughed.

  She began to step forward, staring at the sea of jewels above. “Wealth is a beautiful thing Crous. So much greed. I can feel it, etched into every wall of this…tomb”

  From the shadows, thousands poured into the room. Full-plated soldiers, archers, crossbowmen, spearmen, mages. Countless eyes pierced like daggers into Crous’s skin. Their swords glistened in the torchlight. Lightning gleamed as sorcerers itched to unleash their power. An entire army stood within the hall. Every exit and tiny gap of wall was crowded with the readying songs of war.

  “You have extraordinary talent with the blade Crous,” The archmage spouted.

  Shadows parted as the soldiers bent into formation. An aura of hatred darkened the shattered hall. In front, a young man emerged, his beard spotted with flecks of grey as their face lit up with amusement.

  “Irwain,” Crous breathed. He readied his blade, itching to react. An arrow pierced into Crous’s back, stinging. Yet the assassin breathed.

  “You must realize your failure,” Irwain pointed. “A simple assassin like you could never get through the Altar’s aura” He laughed.

  Crous backed away as he cast an eye toward where the child lay. It was unguarded and open to any strike. He could feel the watchful eye of the archers above and hear their panicked breath.

  “Jana saw the right path. Let’s put an end to this misery.” Irwain moved forward, carefully stepping over the corpses in front. He seemed to study them as he bent down to dip a finger in the pools of blood below. He stared at the putrid mixture, feeling the liquid stain his palm. “You killed over a hundred of my soldiers tonight. They were loyal, hardworking labourers of our master.” Fire brewed in the archmage’s palm, clean wisps of blue protruding from the blackened skin. “Yet, you showed me something greater, something more…”

  Jana could be seen edging forward, her own sword angled at Crous. He stared into her brown eyes with thought flaking into memory. How long they had travelled together. How many times had they traded lives?

  Her face steeped with regret, yet Crous could tell it was one coin had already healed .

  “Who paid you?” Irwain asked. “Jana only had half the information; you hold the other”

  He had been wise to keep it from her.

  “Who paid you?”

  Crous fixed his gaze, ignoring the Archmage's cries.

  “Who paid you?” Irwain shrieked. The archmage wheezed, seeming poised to strike, ready to unleash the fury of the gods.

  Then, to their horror, Crous walked forward, eyes shifting as they shimmered white. He could feel his veins thickening, pulsating as a fire crackled within. Pain trickled down his spine as his hands began to contort. Electricity breathed through his metal flesh as cold white eyes stared toward their prey.

  The archmage stopped as his eyes transfixed in sheer terror. Soon, his pale face contorted to a mixture of horror. Behind, four spearmen quavered as they sprinted for the open hall.

  “You didn’t consult the dead, did you Irwain?”

  With one free hand, Crous reached toward his back, grabbing the arrow to pull with all his might. The shaft parted, yet to the horror of those who watched, no blood tainted its steel tip.

  Metal wheezed as the steel plate fell off Crous’s back to clang against the hall. It was tempered copper twisted in a mixture of bloodied flesh.

  “Your soldiers—the ones who fought today—did you hear them speak?”

  The assassin stepped forward, sparks flying from the gaping wound as wires twisted around its steel core.

  “Did you hear them scream?”