For hours, he had paced back and forth in the emptiness of his cell, waiting for her.
But Aaliyah did not return that night, or even the nights thereafter. He had earlier realized that she would that she would not be returning at all.
Although she was long gone, the sound of her voice still lingered. ‘I can get us out of here’, she had said.
By what means? Had she thought that if she offered her body willingly, their captors would agree to release the two of them? It was a fool’hope. They would have raped her again and again. If she were not already dead, she would soon wish that it was so. Meanwhile he was left to rot in this cage, helpless and unable to do anything.
A priestess. She had told him once that she would have been a priestess. He laughed bitterly at the memory. Truly, what justice was there in this world? One such as her did not deserve a fate such as this.
With a final yell of frustration, Severin fell back against the stone wall, and slumped onto the floor. His body was trembling, he realized, either from rage or grief he could not imagine.
With vacant eyes, he looked to the spot where she had stood days before. With one hand outstretched, he grasped at the air, reaching for an essence of her that remained--or so he had imagined.
Aaliyah, he whispered her name. Solitude was once something he readily embraced. But now, for the first time in his life, Severin understood the true despair of being utterly alone.
Then, there was a clatter of a lock turning as Severin jerked his face toward the light. A dark figure entered his cell; the man known as Szeth. Another followed closely behind him with a torch in hand.
“Come,” Szeth commanded in a toneless voice, “You have been summoned.”
So, his time has come. The general followed them without resistance, certain that he was being marched to his death, but a quick death was preferable to a slow one.
His attention shifted to the man standing by the furnace, a tall figure clothed in crimson. His heart skipped a beat as he realized just who it was.
Titus.
.
Ashara
The Battle of Adhashim
( Flashback ) 530th Year of the Morning Star
Facing death on the open battle field was different from facing death in the dark alleyways of the city. Skill had little to do with anything when you were caught in midst of the enemy’forces, with nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. Planning, valor, strength--irrelevant. That was what made this mission all the more challenging. He could come out alive or he could succeed, but not likely both.
By now, the assassin understood what the eve of battle felt like, and knew of its taste. For the past year, he’d been inserted into the growing forces of the Drustanis army. That day, he wore their traditional armor with the image of a serpentine dragon engraved on the front of his breastplate. In the far distance, black banners flew in the desert wind.
In a swift motion, the assassin plunged his sword in the Asharan soldier’s chest and pulled it out as crimson droplets painted the hardened earth.
He was a tall, slender youth of sixteen years; no longer a boy, not yet a man. But his eyes had never reflected the innocence of youth. Even when surrounded by blood and death, his hands did not once tremble. Despite his age, he was without doubt the most proficient killer in the Ebon Hand.
He swung his heavy blade, weaving a silver thread through the air. And one by one, he cut them down without hesitation.
Out of the corner of his vision, he caught the precise moment which the Drustanis Emperor was thrown from his horse.
Immediately, his eyes sharply narrowed on the dragon insignia of the Emperor’tabard. The assassin’gaze flickered to his bare throat, which lay exposed.
This was his time. This was the moment he had waited an entire year for--the opportunity. Warmarshal Varesh and his sons were on the opposite end of the battlefield, leaving the Emperor unguarded. Vulnerable.
.
His task was clear--when the time has come, the Emperor must die, struck down in battle by all appearances, a consequence of the war his forefathers waged.
The assassin gripped in one hand his sword and a hidden blade in the other. He was near, within paces of striking distance. The Emperor’back was faced to him, oblivious to the threat which loomed so closely behind.
But a leader who fought alongside his men deserved better than a knife to the back. The assassin would deliver his death blow face-to-face. He would look into the eyes of the person he killed.
And so he waited--
Then, the Emperor’gaze was fixed on him in recognition. At that moment, his eyes widened. “Look out!” he shouted a warning as his attention shifted to a point just beyond the assassin’shoulder.
The Emperor lunged forward as the assassin turned around to address the threat. With his focus on the target, he hadn’t noticed the three approaching Asharan soldiers.
The Emperor slashed one attacker, but the other two got through. Cold steel plunged into his side and he doubled from the impact.
Instinctively, the assassin lodged his throwing-knife into the enemy soldier’s throat, and effortlessly brought down the other.
The Emperor had fallen, clutching onto his wound. It was serious, but not fatal. He would have lived.
I could kill him now, the assassin thought as he stood looming over the body. His fingers curved around the sword which he held. It would have been easy, but a welling pit of shame prevented him from doing so.
Instead, he had carried the man to safety, away from battlefield, and waited for the medics to arrive.
“I have never seen anyone fight like that before,” the Emperor remarked between haggard breaths. “What is your name, soldier?”
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