He recuperated his balance just in time. One of the few assassins unaffected by the smoke lounged at him, sword singing as it sliced through the air. Eldarion followed the strikes with his eyes—from a low stance, he observed an upward cut. With precise, measured magic he deflected the blow, augmenting the assassin’s upward impulse to send him flying. No longer a problem.

  He scanned the swirling smoke, his heart pounding and eyes darting. Six shadows converged, their movements guided by noise as they tracked him. He knew the smoke would clear eventually—they all knew it so he had to act now. A savage smile, one he hadn’t worn in ages, spread across his face—a smile so feral it nearly broke the concealment spell that made him appear young.

  With quiet gestures and whispered incantations, he manipulated the smoke, parting it to reveal one of the attackers. Caught off guard by the sudden change, the assassin’s guard faltered, yet reacted swiftly hurling a knife that flew true, nearly grazing Eldarion’s chest, as he charged the elf. In one fluid motion, Eldarion used his magic to catch his left hand and block an incoming strike. The clash of metal rang out as his enchanted defense met the assassin’s dagger. Not wasting another moment, the attacker dropped his weapon and threw himself at Eldarion, intent on forcing him to the ground.

  The old elf reacted faster. With a surge of magic, he seized the hood of the assailant and sent him face-first crashing into the floor with brutal force. Bone, blood, and flesh produced a sickening sound as the assassin went limp.

  A brief second of silence and stillness was shattered when the first attacker fell from the air with a crunch of broken bones.

  Two Down

  Another two shadows attacked. Cloaked by the smoke, Eldarion could only make out their shifting shapes. One appeared slightly unsteady—its form wavering under the haze. Once again, he channeled his magic to part the smoke, revealing one assassin bulkier than the other. With one hand, he concentrated the smoke into a dense mass; with the other, he used magic to propel a broken pew toward the first attacker. The impact was sudden—a heavy hunk of wood propelled the man backward with surprising force. The smaller assailant inhaled deeply of the clear air, as if to clear his lungs, and that was the signal Eldarion had been waiting for. He released the concentrated smoke in one torrential burst straight into the face of the smaller foe. A startled yelp filled the air as the toxic cloud seared deep into his body. Moments later, the attacker went limp.

  Three Down

  The attacker propelled by the broken pew recovered and charged once more, his mind ablaze with madness and rage—like a feral beast unleashed. Eldarion did not budge; he waited in stillness, every muscle coiled. Just as he was about to strike, he heard the twang of not one, but two bows. Moving like a shadow, he summoned his magic to repel the smoke around him and quickly searched his pocket. He retrieved a second flask—one he had hoped not to use. As the smoke closed in once again, he hurled the flask upward with precise magical force into the ceiling. It shattered, sending a cascade of reactive fragments into the air, the two clouds mixing and filling the old church. The charging man attacked the empty space he had been in, only to be caught off guard when Eldarion, with a fluid, controlled motion, cleared the smoke around them.

  The hooded figure charged again, and Eldarion met his advance head-on. With his sword raised high, the assassin was poised to strike a lethal blow. Eldarion did not deflect; instead, he concentrated his magic at his fingertips and swung his right hand in a slicing motion—not toward the assassin, but toward his blade. With a razor-like cut, he severed part of the metal. The attacker roared in defiance, grabbing the still-shredded sword as if to salvage it. Eldarion, with one steady hand, guided the assassin’s grasp, using magic to force him to hold tight to the hunk of metal. It pierced the floor, slicing through old, worn tiles.

  Before the attacker could recover, Eldarion conjured a simple lightning spell. Bolts of energy surged through the assassin’s body, coursing along the blade and into the ground. In a mere five seconds, the hulking figure convulsed, foam gathering at his mouth as his blood vessels sizzled under the relentless electric assault. With a final, shuddering spasm, the assassin went limp.

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  Four Down

  Not over yet. Eldarion heard the bows twang, the parting smoke and the light of the moon through the high windows of the church guiding their hands as the arrows found their marks—sinking deep into his thigh and shoulder. A mad rictus, both natural and alien, spread across his face as his muted green eyes shone like they hadn’t in several lifetimes. He invoked magic to slice through the wooden shafts, leaving the tips inside his flesh, much safer than ripping them out. Though he could feel the poisons coursing through his veins, he did not resist it. Grunting and panting, he let the smoke part as the arrows arrived from two directions; the assassins were lying in wait, hidden until now. In his raw and primal state he could feel their fear. Then, through the chaos, he heard the sounds of their bows being drawn once more.

  The noise guided him. With a swift motion of magic, he propelled a broken shaft toward them, imbuing the missile with a faint, ethereal glow. The assassins reacted in unison, their movements synchronizing like a well-rehearsed dance. Then, almost instantaneously, that glow illuminated the battlefield—revealing the precise locations of the attackers and the fallen bodies strewn about. Seizing the moment, he unleashed a torrent of magic, pushing bolts and arrows en masse toward the remaining two assassins. They barely had time to register the impending doom before death came crashing in. The force of the assault sent their bodies clattering against the stone wall, swallowed up by the darkness.

  Six down.

  Only one remained, and Eldarion knew that she hadn’t fled. His concealment spell was beginning to falter—the sudden surge of emotion, the rush of adrenaline, the way he had almost lost himself had thinned his magic in places. He was aware that he probably looked like a monster, and a part of him relished that thought.

  "Remarkable," came the woman's voice from somewhere in the smoke—uncertain, yet laced with derision. "Truly remarkable. I don’t know what you are, but the Guild does have a need for you." Her tone dripped with manipulation, a stalling tactic meant to let the poison work its course. Eldarion’s magically enhanced ears detected every syllable of her lies.

  "You do, don't you?" he countered coolly. "Consider that all of this happened because you attacked someone who merely wanted to talk. You need competence and people skills more than anything—or what? Do you try to kill everyone who doesn’t follow your orders? Who doesn’t follow your rules" His voice, dark and guttural, carried a weight that belied his youthful disguise, as he could feel the poison taking root and clouding his senses.

  "Insulting the one who's about to kill you is not going to help," she retorted, her voice a mix of hope and dread. "Besides, what is even worth something like this? Even if you somehow manage to escape—unlikely—the entire Guild will come after you."

  Eldarion felt a snarl building deep within him—a dark amusement at her futile attempts to stall the inevitable. "Please do," he growled, his tone laced with bitter irony. "I was beginning to grow bored." He had regained his breath and, with subtle magic, gathered as much of the remaining smoke around him as possible.

  "How are you even alive still?" she asked, almost to herself, as if she had expected him to have fallen by now.

  "I am remarkable, that's all I can say," he replied shortly. Then an idea struck him. Silently, he fished another flask from his pocket, uncorked it deftly with his teeth, and without dropping the cork, began to drink a basic antidote. He hoped it would buy him enough time to concoct a more specialized remedy. As he drank greedily, he used his magic to raise the corpse of one of the assassins right to shoulder level and then let it drop with a resounding thud.

  The impact sent a ripple through the room. The woman shrieked in relief—and perhaps fear—as she dropped from her hidden perch, sword first, over the corpse. Her face twisted into a mask of manic glee, the stench of terror thick in the air; it had likely been years since she had experienced such raw, unfiltered fear.

  As soon as her blade pierced the corpse Eldarion let the flask drop from his hand. The woman went stiff with horror and terror, frozen in place before she could comprehend what had just happened. In a final, decisive moment, a rock flew straight to the back of her head, knocking her out cold.

  All were down.

  But he was running out of time. Quickly, he knelt and produced his last flask from his pocket. With swift motions, he forced the sleeping potion down her throat, simultaneously using magic to check her vitals. Down, down, down she slipped into a deep, unresponsive slumber—for several hours. Enough. Grabbing the limp form he slipped through a lateral door, and into the dark underbelly of the city