The story that got me my degree was a piece I spent a lot of the back half of 2017 working on. It is a spin-off from The Elder Ones and it is one of the few pieces of official canon that is not present in the main series of novels. One day I intend to write more of these short stories that examine the backgrounds of characters.
For now though, I present the final piece of writing I had to do for my Bachelor of Writing. It is the one piece I had to do and so I consider it the one that allowed me to graduate.
Note: I realise there are errors inside, but this is presented more or less as it was when I submitted it.
Assassins and Shadows
Written by Timothy Connor
“Not a month goes by when I don’t have people asking me about me past and history with the Athenaeum. Truth is, there ain’t really much to tell. Once I left them, I didn’t have much contact with them and they did their own thing, and I did mine, eh.” – Taken from Abygail Qilbyrn’s confessions, circa 1578.
The following piece of work is as it appears in Curator Jorgen’s epic The Elder Ones, though in that work it is a far less extensive piece of writing and this version has additions made by Lyra Ignarsson, last surviving member of the Heroes of Terrus.
Wolves of the Sea
The white cliffs and golden sands that mark the southern coast of the narrow continent of Rylnaar are like a lighthouse on the horizon. All around tumultuous waves shatter on the hull of the Acheron, a two-deck merchant fluyt flying white sails. The merchant vessel is one of the most successful to undertake this particular venture on a regular basis, even in the midst of the storm season. A large part of this prosperity comes from the tenacity and the overbearing attitude of Captain Bjorn. Nothing he encounters has ever tested his resolve to the point of breaking and even as the stormy fog stretching out across the water lights up with bolts of tremendous chain lightning every few seconds, he has no issues making the trek along the narrow and winding Najdarr Strait. Nothing will deter Bjorn from completing this last journey.
The Strait always proves to be profitable of all voyages a merchant captain the calibre of Bjorn can undertake, yet even with all his experience, common sense and logic would dictate that the inherent dangers would outweigh any gains made. For forty long years, Bjorn busied himself with countless ventures and he plans to make this his last trek before a long and prosperous retirement. He does not lower his guard and he remains wary and vigilant for anything can happen at any given moment. A plethora of horrific scenes embedded in his mind serve to be a constant reminder of his narrow escapes.
There is no time to reminisce on history as large drops of salty rain whip into Bjorn’s face, propelled by the raging squall. He cannot hear his boots on the pine deck of the Acheron as he waddles across the teardrop-shaped hull. Bjorn’s stout frame and jocund features betray his cruel and hurried demeanour. For former seamen of his vessel and all the clients he worked with, serving Bjorn’s selfish interests took years off their life. Former employees will tell others that Bjorn holds little love for anything that is not valuable in his eyes.
The second to last port that the Acheron laid anchor was in the boorish port-city of Gyuldan. No more than two thousand people reside in the run-down buildings and on the dirt streets for good reason. Gyuldan as a city belongs to the continent of The Green Desert, itself the second largest landmass of Terrus. Gyuldan is one of the few seaside cities the Green Desert has across the thousands of miles of coastline and a direct result of seeing more sea traffic than the city looks to be able to handle, weathered beggars and filthy orphans constitute most of the population. The foreigners who make landfall tend to avoid eye contact with anyone who wears tattered clothes or has a covering of dirt over their skin in a Green Desert city. Rumours spread like wildfire in all other cultures, though they tend to be far more arrogant than anyone who hails from The Green Desert. Granted, a large portion of the continents population consists of prostitutes or thieves and even the occasional murderer.
Against his will and mere moments before he planned to hoist anchor and leave The Green Desert behind, a young orphan girl came into Bjorn’s care. The emaciated and sheepish runt did not interest him in the slightest. It would be accurate to assume this is a result of blatant sexism, but the Assassin Islands are staunch practitioners of equality. This does not spread to merchants and pirates as superstition dictates that females bring nothing but bad fortune to whatever precious shipment sits secured below deck on a vessel.
However, after a few choice words from an old, wizened and white-haired beggar, Bjorn changed his mind. With great reluctance, he found no choice but to give the girl passage on the condition that she works the entire journey. He wasted no time in pushing her aboard with his signature scowl.
The storm that blankets the Najdarr Strait around the Acheron rages without equal, but it never scares the young girl. She gives a cursory glance to Bjorn as he approaches her with the same frown he gives everyone. He never had the chance to learn her name, nor does he care to do so. In his mind, her being an orphan means that it is probable that she does not even have a name. Of course, Bjorn finds that her most defining feature, outside of her soot-stained face, is her short and dishevelled hair cut by a dull knife and gives her the appearance of a boy.
“Hey boy,” Bjorn yells.
The young girl spins on her heels with a grace unfitting of her look. She holds tight to one of the jib lines the whole time. “Yes, Cap’n?” she says with all the grace a street rat can to one of higher status.
“I’m surprised you ain’t blown off me ship yet. Hope you realise the storm’s gonna get worse. You think you can last the night?”
Before the orphan can respond to the captain, a heavy cannon boom sounds out over the rolling thunder and whistling winds the raging storm. A dozen identical eruptions follow the first and, while many of the iron cannonballs miss the Acheron, several puncture the double-thick hull of the merchant vessel. Bjorn whirls his head to the origin of the sound and he takes a step forward. A second after he moves, a cannonball slams into the deck where he stood to shatter the pine. Splinters bite and gouge Bjorn’s skin and leave valleys and craters of raw flesh visible.
“It’s pirates, captain!” the first mate cries out. An errant shot rips through his stomach. He screams when he sees his intestines splayed out across the deck.
Bjorn realises this is not a normal privateer attack as more cannonballs rip through the Acheron’s hull. A thousand scenarios play out in his mind, but none of them comes close to the reality of the dire situation around him. Huge fragments splinter off the ship and disappear into the roiling waters with a splash. Bjorn’s merchant fluyt, like most other vessels similar to it, possesses no weaponry to defend itself.
It would be wise for the Acheron, with its high masts and billowing sails, to outrun the heavier galleon, though both Bjorn and the orphan girl feel the weight of the sea gush into the hold of the fluyt and the power of the wind rips through sails that fail to move the deadening weight of the Acheron. While the captain worries about the hazy shape moving with ominous intent through the fog, the young girl uses the deepening darkness to sneak away from the captain and duck into the hold.
Once Bjorn comes to his senses and after shrapnel whines past his ear, he snaps into action. “To arms! Fight to your last!” he cries out.
From the ostentatious scabbard by his side, jewelled with emeralds and sapphires and trimmed with gold, Bjorn draws an old, tarnished sword. Sailors who start out as lowborn trash like Bjorn lack the necessary skill to understand the true value of a decent weapon. It is a common trap, and many others make the same mistake by focusing all their effort and earnings on ostentatious trinkets. A booming yowl comes from the fog and the massive three-deck galleon Prudence fades into view, complete with a dozen pots of flaming pitch ensuring the galleon and her crew remain dry.
“Glory ‘nd riches lads! Take it all!” The Salt Sage roars.
Bjorn recognises the voice in an instant and any sailor worth his salt knows that the presence of The Salt Sage means the Ashaan Assassin’s Athenaeum are behind the attack. One should note here that The Salt Sage is nothing more than a title for the man who instills fear into the heart of his own crewmembers with his tenacity and recklessness in the face of overwhelming odds.
With seven words, a dozen shirtless pirates leap onto the Acheron and rampage across the deck, cutting down the skeleton crew with a flash and a whistle. The scimitars the pirates wield sever arms and leave deep gashes where they fail to cut.
While the Acheron comes under siege, below the deck and amongst the various barrels of gemstones, the young girl searches the few without lids. Each oaken cask bears strange marks that tell the dockworkers who unload them where they need to go. The one to the runt’s left displays a crown in a thorny wreath and the one her arm is buried elbow deep in possesses a crude engraving of a dagger. Another sign that the Athenaeum is involved in this attack.
The orphan girl gasps when her fingers wrap around the leather scabbard hidden deep in the jewels. She pulls the plain black sheath out and runs a finger along the hilt of the weapon before sliding the slender stiletto free. When she brushes the blade with a slender, dirty finger, it nicks her without issue and she gives a wry grin as she turns her attention to the deck above her.
Streams of watered-down blood stain Bjorn’s white shirt and track between his jiggling rolls of blubber. The misconception that he is a coward is a manufactured construct by Bjorn himself in order to throw people off the fact that he possesses respectable skill with a blade. He parries the swing of frenzied pirate with a crooked nose and replies with a quick slash of his own, slicing the upper layer of flesh in the pirate’s leg. Bjorn does not aim to kill any of his foes and his goal is to cause enough damage to scare them away.
While Bjorn uses his simple and self-taught fencing techniques to force the pirates away from him, the young girl clambers up from below deck. Thanks to the rain and the wind and the fighting, her steps are silent and in a few long, slender strides, she is upon Bjorn. Before the merchant captain can register her presence, her thin dagger pierces through his neck as though he was made of paper. A spray of blood spurts from the puncture wound in Bjorn’s trachea. He clutches at his neck in a futile attempt to control the bleeding.
The pirates take a step back to watch Bjorn drops to his knees. His sword clatters on the pine deck of his fluyt. With the last of his strength, he looks up to see The Salt Sage and the orphan girl looking down at him with stoic faces. The pirate lord has an arm draped over the young girl beside him. The realisation that he should have listened to his instincts hits him and he gives a last glance around at the slaughter of his crew.
“I knew it,” Bjorn spits with his last breath.
“None leave without permission,” the girl mutters.
The Salt Sage smirks and turns to her as his crew rip what remains of the masts down to use as kindling to burn the dead that they place in a pile. He gives a chuckle and pats the orphan on the shoulder.
“You’re now the newest recruit of the Athenaeum.”
“You don’t wanna know what they’re capable of, eh. The horrors and the pains that they subject you to are more than enough to ensure a lifetime of servitude, yet those of us that escape… we’re but a shadow of our former selves, eh. I was lucky, eh.” – An excerpt from Abygail Qilbyrn’s journal, circa 1543.
Initiation
The pale yellow orb of the sun crests the turquoise sky above Fuldarr, the capital city of Rylnaar. The warm and heavy beams of light warm the marble pathways that form the network of streets that criss-cross and zig zag through the city. The docks, which encircle three quarters of Fuldarr, serve as host to dozens of blacksmiths. Each specialises in one particular area in their chosen profession and this specialisation happens to be the name of their storefront. The light haze that shrouds the city reeks of brine, blood and sweat from thousands of civilians. The grey rooves of the buildings over the streets interlock to form a bland visage that does an excellent job of repulsing the arid temperature all year round.
The docks themselves consist of an impressive and planned array of short piers mixed with a series of medium length wharfs and a multitude of humungous breakwaters that stretch out several hundred metres into the ocean. The perpetual flow of watercraft brimming with sailors and precious cargo keeps the bakers and butchers between the smithies busy. The masts of several ships-of-the-line bob in the open ocean and the thick hempen ropes strapped to the steel bollards of the breakwaters rise and fall with the gentle waves. The billowing sails of the large warships stand out over the smaller galleons and fluyts strapped to the timber piles of the rickety piers with faded, frayed lines.
The northern section of the docks is the most important district of Fuldarr as it plays host to all manner of civilian class vessels. The dockworkers are able to unload a vessel quicker here than in other places while seamen gain critical and vital access to some of the most reliable artisans. No one complains about the speed of the work even if the quality of goods is not the best. The popularity of this destination attracts a large number of beggars after something as simple as a basic meal, or vicious vagabonds who seek a rich target they can con to get anything of value. On this day, the northern quays are the most popular location due to the presence of the three-deck ship-of-the-line, Alliance. The warship hails from the small militaristic continent of Aylaan far to the west and serves as the flagship of their fleet.
Of course, the warship does not belong to Aylaan itself, but rather to the Archduke of those people. His social status ensures that he would never consider disembarking in a city the likes of Fuldarr. It is the cruel methods of his soldiers as they shove weak civilians aside to clear a path that form the the sole reason that the stout and red-faced Archduke can make his way down the pier. He does not turn his head to look at any of the beggars lining the wooden structure as his stature in society dictates he does not need to give them attention.
The Archduke’s visit is part of an orchestrated and elaborate scheme of the Athenaeum to test the mettle of one of their prospective members. The recruit, who seven years prior was an orphan girl on the Acheron, is indistinguishable from the dozens of beggars and panhandlers around her. She wears a frayed brown robe that comes halfway down her thighs and, as is custom with the conglomerate of guilds that make up the bulk of the Athenaeum, her task is far from simple, though she does not know the full details.
She keeps her head low as she watches the procession from Aylaan pass by the section of the docks she utilises as a front. The heavyset and dark-skinned guards of the Archduke know to watch for any shady characters, though what they consider suspicious involves patchwork armour common among bandits. The guards look for the dark greens and sky blues favoured by these brigands and tend to ignore colours that are more mundane. This benefits the recruit as she in in the middle of a task that someone of her skill and experience would find challenging.
The details of the Archduke’s journey are not as important as the interactions between him and the blond recruit who now tails his escort from the safety of whatever cover she can find. Her footfalls are quiet but not silent as she uses the small oaks that grow in Rylnaar as cover alongside chest-high cobble walls. The autumn colours of the leaves help the robes of the recruit blend in without much hassle. The problem with tailing someone the calibre of the Aylaan Archduke is the fact that he possesses a healthy amount of paranoia.
On multiple occasions, the eye of the Archduke catches a glimpse of the branches around the recruit rustling even when the wind doesn’t blow through them. Those few seconds when her target pauses and narrows his tired eyes at the subtle and suspect movements are some of the most intense and scary of her life.
What prevents the Archduke from spying the recruit is that her frayed garment, designed and perfected over many decades by the expert tailors of the Athenaeum causes her to blend in amongst the leaves and twigs even when the full strength of the sun shines on her. For the Archduke and an ordinary civilian, what the recruit wears appears as no more than wool yet for those with an eye keen enough, the thread consists of several materials that utilise complex stitching patterns to reduce visibility so that a recruit can go about their initiation task without worrying about how to hide themselves.
The docks disappear behind the first row of tall brick buildings and the broad streets give way to the checkerboard of crossed pathways. There are few landmarks to tell people where they are in the city, but the one thing that is always present in Fuldarr is the spire of the Lord’s Hall. The old building is ostentatious by the standards of realism possessed by the artisans of Rylnaar, but it serves to mark the location where the founder of Rylnaar seceded the country from the Ashaan hegemony.
The recruit stares in awe at the white marble tower of the hall as it reaches into the sky to reflect the brilliance of the sun like a lighthouse that works in the day. It would blind people if the polished exterior were still as new as the day that construction finished. The Lord’s Hall is where the Archduke makes his sole stop in the city. The recruits watches as he reaches the spruce door. His wide, tall body struggles to push in, but he manages to enter. His guards begin a sweep of the area to ensure there are no threats.
The Archduke’s soldiers search with a slow pace though they search every possible hiding spot. However, by the time they reach the bushes where the recruit hid, they do not realise that she is halfway through the sewers. The Athenaeum’s careful planning shows itself in the bowels of Fuldarr. The aqueduct-like pipelines that go from the mountains in the east and run into the ocean west of the city are spotless and devoid of any waste.
Several pairs of faint footsteps echo above the recruit as she makes her way to the waste disposal chute inside the Lord’s hall. Each metre she travels, two notable voices rise in volume. Due to the nature of the claustrophobic pipes and the thickness of the earth around them, the recruit understands few of the words spoken between the Lord and the Archduke. Because she picks up so few words, the recruit remains unaware of the context that the two leaders speak. All she can do is listen and inch her way along the sewer line while remaining wary of her own noise level.
“I don’t care how you do it. I know that damn guild is interfering in my business and they’ve gone too far this time. I could tolerate the minor infractions and the harassing of those not loyal to Aylaan. I cannot tolerate the murders and the thieving. I demand you make the guild answer for it,” the Archduke growls.
“I understand your anger, Archduke, but you must realise the guild you speak of employs and pays a lot of the people who make a living in Fuldarr. It is not a simple task nor would it be so easy to go after them as you might think and they could be listening to us right now. I assure you that they are not doing so, but I still cannot make a rash decision. You know as well as I do that with a single word, the Athenaeum could remove both of us from power and no one would ever know,” the Lord says.
The Archduke enters into a muffled tirade as the recruit reaches the chute that leads up into the hall. She takes a few deep breaths and pulls herself up. After a short struggle and an awkward climb, she manages to make her way up the sleek walls and crumples in a heap onto the floor of the laundry. The voices of the Archduke and the Lord are louder but no clearer, yet she knows she cannot delay her mission or she will face the wrath of the Athenaeum’s Inner Circle.
Much like the path through the sewer, The Circle plans every task they assign to their recruits, and they do this to such a high degree that success is a guarantee for even the worst of the recruits. This mission is no exception to that rule, and the recruit finds a servant’s outfit tucked in a small shelf above the door. She is thankful for the change of clothes, but as she pulls her frayed robe off, she cannot help but feel scared about what is to come.
The main thought in her mind as she redresses is the night she first assisted the Athenaeum. That was the night when The Salt Sage eliminated the fat, greedy merchant so he could not reveal any secrets of the Athenaeum to the wrong people. It is a natural thought process, though the way she recalls the gory details and how her dagger pierced through the merchant’s neck without resistance instil enough fear in her to know never to cross the Athenaeum.
It does not take long to dress herself in the skimpy outfit the Lord requires all his female servants to wear. For the first time, she feels ashamed of how she looks. The clothes might fit her without issue, but one glance reveals why the Circle chose her for this particular mission. The half-shirt makes her seem bustier than she is and the appeal of a female is what drives a lot of business around the Assassin Islands. Most, if not all, females from the Assassin Islands possess a genealogy that limits what they can do with their life and it is common for a majority of females to become prostitutes, thieves or assassins. Their wiry frames give them a low body mass while their formidable assets give them all the tools they need to subdue any individual.
With a deep breath, the recruit pushes the door open and the hardest part of her mission begins. The first thing she needs to do is locate the Archduke in the labyrinth-like building while evading the attention of other servants employed by the Lord. Once she locates the Archduke and gets close enough to him, she must steal the necklace that shows displays his status. It is when that particular object is in her hands that can she try to find a way out and manoeuver her way to the southern docks of Fuldarr to make her escape. The whole process sounds simple in her mind, but it is the most convoluted thing she will ever do.
The Archduke waits in a small, well-furnished room when he hears a knock on the door. He is not expecting a visitor. With a scowl, he opens the door to see the recruit standing there. Before he can tell her to leave, his eyes catch sight of her chest and his scowl morphs into a smirk. He steps aside and as she crosses the threshold of the door, a wave of fear rushes around her body. The door clicks shut.
“Well you’re a pretty little thing. You a local? Don’t answer that. I like it when a lady remains mysterious. I can see why you illustrious Lord tasked you to me. He must favour you, but tell me something. Does he treat you nice? Will he spoil you with the riches you deserve? I don’t think he could and he cannot do half the things I could,” the Archduke says.
The recruit tenses up when she feels him run his hands over her rear, but she resists the urge to slap him. Her ingrained nature takes over and she pushes herself into his grip. Other females would try to push the Archduke away, but for a female in league with the Athenaeum, lewd behaviour is a key tactic in their arsenal.
“I don’t know if he will m’lord. He don’t treat me right most days, but he give me good home.”
The recruits does her best to imitate a base-born servant. The Archduke pays no heed to her words and allows his eyes to wander over her body. He looks as though he will drool several times, but he catches himself before he does so.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, sweetheart. I think that we should get more comfortable and get to know each other better,” the Archduke says.
As much as the recruit tries to ignore the gruff-voiced male as she cleans the room, she gives the occasional glance in his direction. Between the Archduke’s sentences, the recruit’s ears perk up when she hears the faint echo of feminine footsteps lurking outside the room, though they do not seem malicious.
The Inner Circle did not mention that for the duration of her task, the recruit would be under scrutiny from one of the youngest and most experienced members of the Green Desert’s infamous Assassin’s League. The footsteps the recruit hears belong to her handler known as Abygail Qilbyrn, the Shadow of the Green Desert, and whom many regard as the bogeyman of Terrus. Her frightening effectiveness in her various talents means that the mere mention of her name is enough to make a battle-hardened soldier scared. It is rare for those outside the Inner Circle to use their real names as their identifier, yet the experienced Assassin is one such person who can do so. Aby happens to be one of the few members outside the Inner Circle command the respect and admiration and fear to the extent that she can.
The Athenaeum hides details like this relates to the fact that the conglomerate obsesses over having utter control over everything that happens across Terrus. Any detail of the inner machinations learned by any member of the hundreds of various guilds that make up the Athenaeum is because the Inner Circle planned for the release of that information. The Circle are the sole group that knows the true details and value of the inevitable theft of the Archduke’s necklace. The recruit knows is she has one chance to snatch the jewellery.
With a deep breath, the recruit turns to the Archduke who, while she busied herself cleaning, sat down in a faded bronze chair. A wry grin crosses his lips when her eyes meet his. Unsure of how she should proceed, the recruit takes a tentative step toward him to test the water. The world seems to fall silent and from an unseen source, a bright ray of light shines on the Archduke.
“I must say you are hood-looking, m’lord. I am sorry I did not see it before. How might I make it up to you?” the recruit says.
The Archduke shifts in the chair in an effort to be more comfortable and hide his growing arousal. Males and females alike struggle to resist the supernatural charm that females from this side of the world possess. No one knows the reason behind this strange power. The recruit senses she is close to being in total control of the situation, but her nerves do not settle. With another step, she is on top of him. His smile grows wider when he feels her hand brush his inner thigh.
A man of the Archduke’s calibre, who is the sole reason that Aylaan remains a duchy outside the sway of the Kulvaan Empire, is an invaluable target for any number of reasons. Decades after the Ochenar bloodline conquered Terrus, the Archduke remain wary of everything. A thousand thoughts flood through his head, but the actions of the recruit settles any fears the Archduke has about the Athenaeum and in that moment, a single thought overrides his body and his base instincts kick in.
“Come here, gorgeous,” he says.
With a swift motion unbecoming of his size and age, the Archduke spins around to pin the recruit underneath him as raw lust overcomes him. This is not something that the recruit planned for, as she believed herself to be teasing the Archduke.
One should note that sexuality is a foreign concept all around Terrus. On any of the continents, there are now laws to forbid relations of any kind and so it is common to walk the streets of any large city and pass by any combination of couples. Unlike what she led the Archduke to believe, the recruit is one of less than eight-hundred thousand across the eighty-million strong population of Terrus to find themselves attracted to the same sex.
The recruit decides the best course of action she can take is do what comes natural to most of her gender. What she finds natural is irrelevant right now. A couple of minutes pass and the recruit finds herself staring up at the Archduke as he struggles to loosen his breeches. She ignores what his hands do and he finds herself fixated on the necklace that now sways from his broad neck. It appears plain and it depicts nothing more than a large male oxen. Anyone will recognise it as the national animal of Aylaan, yet it is not what it looks like that is of importance. The history and meaning behind the simplistic design represents more than strength and it serves as a constant reminder to the people of Aylaan of their terrible past and the cost of war. If anything were to happen to the Archduke’s necklace, then the warriors of Aylaan would do anything in their power to see the symbol of their freedom and their legacy restored to them. This is the crucial information that the Circle hid from the recruit when they sent her on this dangerous task.
“M’lord, do you think we should do this here?” the recruit asks.
That question should raise more concerns in the mind of the Archduke, but his mind is set on one thing and one thing alone. The recruit groans when she realises he did not hear her, and so she has to rely on quick thinking to call an audible in her plans. It takes an incredible person to change their plans on the fly, yet a dissonant amount of Athenaeum assassins and recruits possess the ability to do so. Most of the time, when one changes their plans on a task assigned by the Inner Circle, the complexities and intricacies ensure any deviations from the known variables will lead to failure. Yet there are the rare few who can execute a flawless audible.
The recruit manages to call her audible in a split second, and does so without a flaw. In a single, swift motion, she reaches up and yanks the necklace from the Archduke’s neck as she raises one of her knees between his legs. The suddenness of the impact causes the Archduke to double over and fall to the side of the recruit, freeing her from his grip. Men from Aylaan tend to be larger than most, and so they feel the effects of such an attack more than others do. Before he can make a pained grunt, the recruit scrambles to her feet and looks down at the Archduke with a wide grin. Her shoulders rise and fall as she takes heaving breaths.
“The Lord of Fuldarr sends his regards,” she says.
To anyone else, those words do not mean much, but the Archduke is old enough to understand the deeper context behind those seven words. Before the Kulvaan Empire unified most of Terrus under one banner, a brutal, bloody, and endless war occurred between the people from Aylaan and those of the original Ashaan Hegemony. Assassins from the Assassin Islands would, with alarming regularity, butcher prominent figures from Aylaan and leave a single note on the corpse with a single note giving the title of the person who ordered the deed sending their regards.
“You’ll pay for that, bitch. Guards!” the Archduke yells.
Before the recruit gives him a chance to rise to his feet, she spins on her heels, throws open the door and barrels over what looks like one of the many servants around the building. The recruit keeps running. The servant smirks as she raises her head. Her emerald eyes watch the recruit disappear into the darkness and the disguised Aby discerns what happened in an instant.
The recruit doesn’t look back as she barges out the front door of the Lord’s Hall. Before she considers going any further along the marble pathways, she kicks off the uncomfortable shoes she has on. She breathes a quick sigh of relief when her feet come free of their restriction. She sprints with unmatched agility and litheness away from the scene of the crime, but fails to realise she heads the wrong way.
The roar of the Archduke rings out over the hustle and bustle of the crowded walkways of the city. His soldiers toss civilians aside with wanton abandon. The recruit realises after passing a couple of familiar brothels that she is heading right back to where Alliance sits docked. She senses she will need to call another audible in the near future, but before she starts to formulate a plan, a slender hand reaches from a side alley, grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her into the dingy and dark space. A second strong hand clamps over the recruit’s mouth.
This is the first time I had such close contact with my closest living relative. We didn’t look anything like each other, and of course, I didn’t know who she was until years later. It seems a shame what happens to her.
“Don’t make a sound, eh. Wait for them to move on, eh.”
The recognisable accent and strange vocal tic belong to Aby. It comes as no surprise that the Athenaeum’s bogeyman manages to be one step ahead of the recruit, even when it stands to reason that there is no way she could anticipate the recruit to come this way. It helps that very few people understand the layout of the cities in the Eastern Hemisphere of Terrus better than the Shadow of the Green Desert. Aby lowers her hand from the recruit’s mouth and stands in front of her, with her back to the entrance of the alley.
Several soldiers pass by the alley though, thanks to the overhang of several multiple story inns and brothels, very little light enters the passage. The pair of females stand with their busts touching in one of the corners. Aby relies on using the darkness quite often, but she realises if the sun catches the armour of the soldiers right, the light would shine on the duo. This never happens and the soldiers, believing the alley to be clear, hurry away from the alley. Their heavy boots fade into the distance and Aby gives a half-smile to the recruit before stepping back.
“Who are you?” the recruit asks.
Aby does not answer that, grabs the recruit’s hand, and almost throws her out of the alley. When the recruit turns around to thank the Shadow of the Green Desert, she is nowhere in sight. The recruit does furrow her brow and opens her right hand to see a crumpled note. She opens it up expecting some answers but all she sees is:
Trust No One
The words confuse the recruit, but she does not have much time to process the information before she turns and sprints away from where the soldiers went. Her method of escape is not subtle, but when compared to the armour clad guards she encounters who recognise her based on the ravings of the Archduke, she evades them with ease.
Though the commotion distracts a few people, most of the citizens and seamen pay little attention to the fuss around them, given they have more important matters to attend to. It might be coincidence the Inner Circle planned the recruit’s task to take place in one of the busiest ports on one of the busiest days of the month but it was not. Save for the time spent inside the Lord’s Hall, everything moved according to the whim of the Athenaeum. It is in their best interests to see their recruits succeed, yet as with any shady organisation, there are unspoken ulterior motives behind everything that occurs under their guidance.
Thanks to the careful planning of the Circle, the recruit makes her way to the evacuation dinghy with relative ease. The mute rower nods and begins to propel the craft with impressive speed before she even sits down. Out past the large breakwaters, the Prudence sits at anchor, ready to escort the recruit back to Ashaan to complete her task.
“All me life people ask me what I fear the most, eh. Truth is, there’s a lot I fear, but not because I find it scary. I have fears of things I don’t understand, you know. It’s the difference between success and failure. If you fail, then you’re scared of success. If you succeed, then you fear failure cause you do not know it, eh.” – From Abygail Qilbyrn’s last testament, circa 1581.
Revelation
The journey across the water to Ashaan is a peaceful one, though, through no fault of her own, The Salt Sage restricts the recruit to his quarters for the three-day trip. She knows this is for her safety, since the crew of the Prudence are, at their base level, pirates. It is rare for a female to be aboard any seafaring vessel, and the Athenaeum would not be too pleased should anything happen to her under The Salt Sage’s watch.
Her confinement is not all bad as each night she does have the opportunity to feast at the Captain’s table next to The Salt Sage and his most loyal crew. The quality of the stories that they tell amazes the recruit.
The first night after her escape from Rylnaar, the resident prophet of the Prudence and self-professed servant of a higher power, Righteous Uldr, decided it would be the best time to spew forth a long-winded tale of the first time he committed any form of crime and how he found religion. He mentions his life started out rather plain and few people bothered to pay any attention to him. A lot of ignorance is how he was able to get away with stealing things from under people’s noses. Soldiers caught him a few times in quick succession. The first he got off the hook with little more than a warning. The second time the guards caught him about a week later is when he lost his two little fingers. He shows off the calloused stubs of them with a proud wiggle. The third time he was caught stealing, he was to die by hanging. At the noose, he found his true purpose in life, and he describes how, when the hangman released him, he looked up and saw the rope break in two. A normal person might chalk this up to an old rope, but Uldr took it as a sign that a benevolent god saved him. What he does not remember is which god it was. He recalls every detail he can remember and the room bursts out in laughter every few minutes.
Of course, not everyone laughs at the chicanery and escapades of Uldr. The recruit sees out of the corner of her blue eyes The Salt Sage glance at her every so often. The captain of Prudence, not known for emotions, possesses grey eyes that display fear and sorrow on top of aged wisdom. As trustworthy as he is and as competent a captain as he is, the recruit senses the legendary pirate wants to tell her something, but the presence of the well-disguised Aby on the other side of the recruit causes even the privateer captain to hold his tongue.
Between the Shadow of the Green Desert and the Triaan-born privateer, there is a contrived and tumultuous history, but the greatest source of friction between the pair comes from the fact that, when Aby was still a teen, The Salt Sage did everything in his power to wed her. The most that he received from her was a black eye and a scar that runs from his scalp to his collarbone.
The Athenaeum do not dwell on what happens in the past, as all they care about is the future of their organisation. The immediate future does not feature The Salt Sage as rumours say that this is his last mission as a pirate. What he intends to do with his life afterwards is something no one knows. Many members of the various guilds of the Athenaeum cannot imagine life away from their trade. What The Salt Sage intends to do is remain a member of the conglomerate as the benefits and services provided by the Athenaeum ensure a support network that will not disappear.
Righteous Uldr finishes his tale by miming his first kill as a true pirate. His first time aboard the Prudence was the same night that The Salt Sage and his men raided three sloops in quick succession. Many surrendered yet the brutality of the Prudence’s crew ensured that they did not survive long. The final civilian left alive was under the care of Uldr, but at the urging and insistence of the other privateers and in full view of the deity he worships, Uldr drives a dull, rusted knife into the neck of the crying female kneeling before him. A cheer goes up as a spray of hot blood coats his arm in the red fluid.
On a pirate ship that is not the Prudence, it is customary after such a story to revel in cup after cup of ale, but the tight ship The Salt Sage runs dictates that such an act of debauchery is liable to result in keelhauling or the irresponsible party walking the plank. That means that instead of ale in their flagons, the crew tends to drink spiced fruit that cost more per barrel that any standard brew.
The night dies down after Uldr’s story and for a brief moment, the eyes of the recruit catch a glimpse of the emerald eyes of Aby as she goes to leave. The eyes of the rambunctious Green Desert native display a great deal of lust, though she will not follow up on these feelings, in part due to the sorrow and pain she feels for the recruit. The Salt Sage is the last person to leave the cabin and, seeing nothing else to do, the recruit lays down on the itchy woollen bedding afforded to her. She does get a porthole to see the myriad of stars illuminating the sky and soon the waves rocking the ship lull her to sleep.
Above deck, The Salt Sage joins Aby in gazing out over the eerie calmness of the Najdarr Strait. This is unusual as gale force winds blow across the surface. While there are stars in the sky, the absence of the moon means that all one can see is the salty blackness.
“Assassin,” The Salt Sage says.
“Still got sour feelings, eh?” Aby replies.
A frown passes The Salt Sage’s lips for a split second before he recomposes himself. His thin leather armour clings to his sinewy frame to give him the appearance of being large than he is. It might seem odd that people who wear armour and swing around heavy blades are quite lean and not muscular, but the way of armies around Terrus is such that skill is much higher on the chain of success than looks.
“Not between us, no. About the girl? Yea. She had this strange look during the feast and I fear she suspects something is amiss. Then again, I don’t like the plan the Circle has in place for her.”
Aby nods at the mention of the Circle and their plan. She might have quite a lot of pull around the Assassin Islands, but even she cannot change any decision made high up in the Athenaeum.
“She doesn’t suspect anything, eh. Well, nothing the Circle didn’t tell her. I’m more concerned about what happens if she doesn’t act as they expect her to. You know as well as I that the recruits are becoming more brazen and random in the actions they perform, eh,” she says.
In the sky, amidst the twinkling stars, a dull blue meteor with a brilliant and long tail moves out from behind a fluffy cloud. The unique sight draws the attention of the privateer captain and the assassin. While both are ruthless and callous murderers, they still possess a modicum of superstition. They give a sideways glance to each other and, while Aby smirks as she believes it to be a sign of good fortune, The Salt Sage believes it to be an omen of death.
“I know. The Circle can’t control the recruits as they once did. There’s nothing we can do though. We should buckle down and look ahead at what is to come,” the captain says.
Aby nods and for the rest of the journey to Ashaan, the duo say nothing else to each other. This is evident as the next night, Aby is absent from the Captain’s feast. Unlike Uldr’s story the previous night, the tale Slow Piet says does not draw the interest of the recruit. Her mind is more concerned about the look The Salt Sage gave her the previous night. The captain does not repeat his mistake and remains wary of her scrutiny and so he does not act any different around her.
On the dawn of the third day, the Prudence crests a tall wave and in the distance, the green, gold, blue, and teal rooves of the port town of Birrg break the monotony of the horizon. Birrg is the personal dock of the Athenaeum in Ashaan and, while the colour scheme might seem overt and flashy, the colouration displays what to expect in the location. Green symbolises fertility in the land and healthy supplies of foodstuffs, while gold reveals the location of a fence for all manner of purloined items. The blue colours serve no purpose, but they do provide a welcome change from the repetitive white marble of the buildings they cap.
Several dockworkers rush aboard the Prudence before it comes to rest next to the longer of the two piers. The crew of the vessel exude more patience and disembark when the movement of the ship ceases. No longer restrained by the rules of The Salt Sage, the raucous crew fills the street and, considering they will be ashore for a few days, they enter the sole tavern in the small town. The recruit, Aby, and The Salt Sage remain aboard the Prudence.
“This is where we part ways, child. If we do not see each other again, know that it was an honour to have you aboard my ship. I wish you the best,” The Salt Sage says.
As a token of his goodwill, and to disguise Aby, the captain allows the assassin to escort the recruit as a member of his crew to protect her on the road. This is legitimate reasoning since brigands tend to prey on females that travel alone. The laws of the Assassin Islands are quite lax in the first place, but in Ashaan, this lack of order is evident outside of urban centres.
The recruit does not have the opportunity to say any form of goodbye before Aby spurs the horse they both straddle into motion. They speed along the road and the recruit looks around in awe of the rolling green hills. It takes several hours of hard riding past abandoned camps, ruined buildings, and acres of farmland before the walls of Nilber, the unofficial capital of Ashaan, to rise above the horizon. This is the birthplace of the Athenaeum, yet people do not realise that the Inner Circle congregates here every few years.
Today the Circle prepare to gather and meet to discuss and review the tenets that guide them in what they do. The streets of Nilber are full of farmers guiding their oxen-pulled wains through the streets at a crawl. People barge into each other as they pass, deafened by the ceaseless construction. Since the rise of the Athenaeum, Nilber grows in population each year and the streets are nigh impossible to navigate without bumping into at least one person.
Aby and the recruit pass under the crumbled archway that marks the southern entrance of the crowded city. The inquisitive guard tasked to protect this entrance looks up from his desk and he rolls his eyes when he sees the bronzed skin of Aby. However, when his eyes fall on the fairer recruit, he gives a sky smirk.
“You there, halt,” he says.
Aby pulls the reins and the horse comes to a halt. The guard cannot do much to her, but she decides to rile him up and see if she can get a reaction from him. She turns her head away for a moment and takes the opportunity to adjust her tight bodice she uses to hide her ample chest. What she wears is a necessary article of clothing that the assassin hates with a passion, but it maintains the illusion of her being a pirate.
“What seems to be the problem, eh?” Aby says and turns her head back to the guard.
“Afraid there’s been some changes around here. Entry fees and such,” he says.
Aby knows what the guard says is a complete lie. She possesses far more experience than he does and knows how to play the game of lies better than he can. While she gives off the appearance of a male, her mind is still feminine. As such, she brushes some of her black hair away from her eyes in a flirtatious manner and adjusts herself in the saddle so that the guard can see her formidable assets. She does this to display that she is calling his bluff.
“Entry fees, eh? Why don’t you tell me what it’d take for you to waive them?” she says.
In a society with order, any guard would react in a negative manner to such a suggestion, but every guard in Nilber is corrupt and under the influence of the Athenaeum.
“You don’t wanna pay the toll? Fine. All it’ll cost you is ten minutes alone with me. Same goes for her,” he says with a nod to the recruit.
Aby clenches her jaw and narrows her green eyes. She did not expect this answer, but she takes it as more of a challenge of her skill than anything. The assassin swings out of the saddle and whispers for the recruit to wait for her. A natural curiosity tries to take hold of the recruit as she watches the guard and Aby disappear around a corner. Before she can think of what might happen, a shout and several loud punches ring out seconds before a gargling sound comes from the guard. A body crumples to the floor.
“There’s your entry fee, eh,” Aby says as she comes back into view with a dagger covered in blood.
In a few strides, the assassin mounts the saddle behind the recruit and without a word, the pair continue into Nilber. They pass by a general goods store in such a state of disrepair that the recruit gives a curious look and wonders why the proprietor does not attempt to fix it. It fits with the style of Nilber, since almost every building looks to collapse at a moment’s notice.
One building in Nilber breaks the convention of disrepair and as aby and the recruit approach the pristine white chapel near the western edge of the city, the crowds disperse. They avoid this place as the presence of cloaked and hooded figures watching like crows from the walls and rooftops highlight that this is where the Circle of the Athenaeum meet.
“This is where we must part ways, eh,” Aby says.
The assassin swings down from the saddle. She reaches up and with a gentle, loving grip, hoists the recruit down. For a few seconds, a couple of inches is all that separates the two. The recruit feels Aby’s hot breath on her face and for a brief moment, feels the urge to lean in and kiss her. The assassin clears her throat and pushes the recruit away with a firm nod.
“Right, I should thank you for getting me here,” the recruit says.
Aby steps aside to allow the younger female to move past her. The assassin keeps her eyes on the recruit as she walks up the twelve steps into the chapel. Each step represents one of the tenets of the Athenaeum. As a reminder, the words lie engraved in the slate stairs and from high banners hanging from high pillars inside the plain building. The number of registered guilds varies each month, but the main body of the Athenaeum will always consist of ninety-six.
As the recruit passes the archway of the chapel, the high ceiling and thick marble pillars reaching like fingers dwarf her. A dozen oversized pews sit in silent lines facing a lectern holding a large, burned book. Stained windows depicting gruesome murders and the faceless visages of iconic rulers send a feeling of dread through the recruit. The dead silence of the world allows her ears to pick up multiple voices close by. Her size allows the recruit to remain quite nimble and light on her feet even as she moves with clumsy agility toward the voices. As she gets closer, she makes out a few of the words.
“She’ll never know our true plans. I doubt she knows that this isn’t the entrance to the headquarters,” a masculine voice whispers.
“It seems like a waste of potential to depose of her, but she’s already arousing suspicion and we can’t have her interfering in the Athenaeum’s future plans. You know that is how it is as well as I do. A new world order must be established and the Athenaeum is the one chance that the world has to be united,” a feminine voice returns.
The recruits stops and crouches behind one of the pews as a side door opens. A figure enters through the stream of light whistling a loud tune. Even though she lacks formal training, the recruit recognises that the nonchalant nature of the obnoxious and boisterous man is bait. She ignores the attempted distraction and thinks hard on what the other voices say to each other.
“I still don’t understand how she can pose such a large threat. She’s a fifteen-year-old recruit after all. Hell, she does not have much skill in anything,” the first voice says.
“It’s not about how well she is trained. It’s about who she is, who her parents are. All her life we’ve led her to believe that her parents died at an age she could not remember them at. What would she do if she found out Lady Arcensteyn is her mother? That is where her real power lies. She needs to die before she realises what she is capable of doing. She needs to die before she finds out she is the heir to the Athenaeum,” the second responds.
“If it must be done, so be it,” the male says.
The recruit gives a silent gasp as she figures out that she almost walked into a trap. She peers over the pew. She sees the boisterous man with his back to her position, the recruit half-walks, half-runs her way to where she entered the chapel. What the recruit fails to see during her escape is a silhouetted figure slip in as she slips out.
The figure is Aby who, to her chagrin, follows her orders. The Green Desert native, who prides herself on being the best at everything she does in all aspects, sneaks up on the two hidden Athenaeum assassins. Her footfalls make no sound and her mastery of breathing ensures even the best-trained ear each could not hope to hear her.
“She should be here by now. Unless The Salt Sage disobeyed his orders,” the female voice says.
“If he did, then I’ll be the first person he hears from,” the male replies.
Aby draws on of her many daggers and twirls it around in her fingers for a few seconds. The blade, made of rare Black Steel, catches a ray of light at the right angle to flash on the ground between the other two assassins. By the time they turn around, the Shadow of the Green Desert is nowhere in sight.
“Someone there?” the female says.
“No-one you need to know about, eh,” Aby whispers into her ear.
The suddenness of the voice causes the smaller female to jump and she makes a wild swing behind her. Her partner grunts and she feels a spray of hot and viscous liquid splash on the back of her head. Horrified, she turns her gaze to him. It is the last sight she ever sees. Aby’s dagger cuts through the air with unnatural speed in a flurry. Each impact is a precise blow aimed at a key artery in the neck. The attack is over in under a second and, true to her nickname, Aby disappears into the shadows. There is one item left on her checklist: The Recruit.
“The hardest parts of my life came at the end of an Athenaeum mandated task, eh. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the work I did and the terror I could generate as a result of my intervention in places the Circle deemed to be running too slow. There’s a reason I was the first contact for the difficult, often emotional cases. Only one ever got to me, eh.” – Taken from Abygail Qilbyrn’s confessions, circa 1580.
Shadow of the Green Desert
After many long hours of searching and countless favours, the recruit slips inside one of the hidden entrances into the Athenaeum vault. One thing is on her mind and that is finding out the plans of the Inner Circle while discovering her history. In all her life, she has never felt more determined to achieve something.
The white walls of the sanded, sterile hallway tunnelling into the ground offers no twists or turns and the sconces that line the walls light her path in scant fashion. The sounds of rushing water and bubbling liquid emanate from the left wall and follow her. Skittering feet scratch on thin metal plates above her head every fifty metres though she is unsure what type of rodent they come from. The compacted earth bearing down on the tunnel causes it to creak every few minutes, yet there is no sign of failure in any of the seams she comes across.
The end of the passage is nothing more than a pine door engraved with a single word:
Caution
With a deep and protracted breath, the recruit pushes the heavier-than-it-looks door open and steps through into a cavernous, bright, bunker with a myriad of steam-powered machines adorning the space. A massive generator to her left radiates so much heat that she begins to sweat while to her right, a series of pumps brings in the vast amount of water required to keep the crude electrical system working.
The array of glowing glass tubes hanging next to a network of pipes along the roof is daunting to the recruit at first. Various coloured liquids go from machine to machine, each as strange as the last. The hum of electricity increases in volume as the recruit walks down a skinny walkway toward an important looking room overseeing the complex. Several times someone in a bulky suit crosses the path in front of her and stops to stare at her with cold, dead eyes as she passes them.
“Soldiers! Raise right arm!” a booming voice cuts through the machinery.
The recruit was so fixated on the room above her that she failed to notice a thousand emaciated citizens in the middle of the cavern. She gasps when she sees them naked, strapped to heavy ropes and with cruel probes attached to their bodies in strategic positions.
At the behest of the voice, almost all of the people do as instructed, their eyes unmoving and staring at nothing. The recruit hears a low buzz runs along the wires of the probes. She watches the skinny bodies convulse as the crude electric shock course through those who did not follow orders until they give in and raise their right arm. Those being shocked have very few scars on their bodies.
“A thousand faces here, yet a hundred days to train them all, eh,” Aby says.
The Shadow of the Green Desert scares the recruit and the younger female jumps back. She clasps a hand around her crude dagger. All Aby does is smile at the teen and step closer to those being tortured into subservience.
“What is this place?” the recruit says.
“This is where people go to be forgotten, eh. This is the heart of the Athenaeum. I was wondering how long it’d take you to get this far. They always end up curious as to what lies beyond the door, yet they never heed the warning. I will give you credit though, for it was well done. Far more efficient than others like you. I do like the way you dealt with the Archduke. I should thank you for that. Saved me a lot of trouble, eh,” Aby says.
“What does that mean? I got the necklace from his neck. Without your help.”
Aby disregards the fact that the recruits draws her weapon. This is a familiar sight for a trained assassin, and without a care, she persists with her methodical steps as she moves between the recruit and the army-in-training.
“Are you sure you got the genuine article, eh?” Aby says.
“It’s right here. I almost died to get this, so yes, it is genuine.”
The recruit fumbles around inside her bodice for a few seconds before she pulls out the silver chain and charm that fit the profile of the Archduke’s necklace. Aby smirks and clicks her tongue as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out an identical necklace.
“No, it’s right here, eh. That one you got there is a cheap forgery. You can tell because it’s hollow and there ain’t no jewels on it,” Aby says.
The recruit furrows her brow and gives the necklace she holds a squeeze. It crushes in her grip and her heart sinks in her chest. She stares doe-eyed at Aby and tightens the grip on her dagger.
“I know how to use this. Tell me who you are and,” the recruit pauses to swallow her fear. “Tell me who you are and what the hell you want from me.”
“It does not matter who I am, eh. As far as what I want, I don’t know. There’s a lot in the world I yearn for and a lot I wish I could have, but nothing in this particular moment interest me in the slightest,” Aby says.
The recruit’s knuckles turn bone-white. Beads of sweat roll down her face, glistening in the yellow flickers of the lights that span the Athenaeum’s core. Her eyes never leave Aby even as the Overseer continues to bark orders at the silent and starved soldiers.
“I don’t want any trouble with you. All I want is to know what the fuck is going on around here.”
Aby quirks a slender brow at the recruit and gives a sigh. The recruit knows of the existence of Aby, but the identity of the Athenaeum’s bogeyman is unknown to her.
“This is what must be done, eh. We’re destined to serve a higher power whether we like it or not. So tell me, are you gonna use that? Make sure you are precise and swift with your strike, eh.”
The recruit’s eyes widen. With a flick of her wrist and a forward lunge, she attempts to drive the point of her dagger deep into Aby’s neck as she did with Bjorn years ago. She misses after a casual sidestep from the Shadow of the Green Desert. A line of blood forms and Aby furrows her brow. She deflects the second attempted strike of the recruit. With a strong hand, she pulls the other female into a stiff embrace.
“What the–” is all the recruit can utter.
Aby’s Black Steel dagger press down into the recruit’s neck between its fourth and fifth discs. There is no time for her to gasp before a flood of hot and sticky blood mixed with spinal fluid seeps out from the wound. The hilt of Aby’s dagger meets flesh and the Green Desert native mutters a short unheard prayer as her latest victim dies in her arms.
“I’m sorry for that, eh. Wish it hadn’t come to this. I wish we could’ve gotten to know each other, sister.”
Aby lowers the limp body of her sister to the ground as she says these words. If it was any other kill, she would believe it to be business and nothing more. This time is different as, in her heart and the back of her mind she knows she lost a part of herself. The cruelty of the Athenaeum dictates that there is no room for compassion in any form. This kill was a test to ensure that Aby remained loyal to their tenets, but as she reflects on the hundreds of people she’s killed over the years, a realisation hits her that what she does for the conglomerate is not what defines her or who she feels she should be.
“Soldiers! March!” the overseer booms.
Aby turns her gaze to the dim overlook where the overseer is. She glances down at the blood-soaked blade in her hand and with a newfound vigour in her soul and a fire in her heart; the assassin rises to her feet.
Years of careful practice ensure Aby remains hidden even in the brightest flicker of the sconces that adorn the walls of the narrow corridor that leads into the facility overlook. She hears no voices outside the occasional cry of the overseer.
“Time to end your reign of terror, eh,” Aby whispers.
“All that’ll be ending is your life!” a grating voice says.
Aby leans backward as a sharp sword whizzes over her head. The wielder of the weapon is a scarred and muscular soldier from this very facility with a permanent scowl etched on his face. She adjusts the dagger in her hand and her new foe comes out from the small alcove and makes another attack. She deflects with her left arm and her own weapons slices his throat as she steps past him. Her feet remain silent as she rushes toward the door.
“Soldiers! Halt!”
The door busts open behind the overseer with such gusto that the burst of air kills the flames in the lights. Before the overseer can say another word, Aby is upon him with two daggers pressed to his throat.
“Not another word from you, eh. You didn’t see me here. You’ll free all those people down there. The Athenaeum will blame you, but if you do not take the fall for it, then my last act on this world will be to hunt you down and feed you your own entrails,” Aby hisses.
The overseer nods as a rumble of thunder booms outside. A bright flash of light reflects off the sterile white walls, blinding him for a brief moment. When his vision returns, Aby is nowhere in sight, but her Black Steel dagger sits embedded deep in the single wooden chair in the room.
Several hours later, Aby is aboard the Prudence as it makes its way across Lake Kulvaan to the city of Druusys. Her hair, which was halfway down her back, is cut above her shoulders, looks much lighter than her normal jet-black. The Salt Sage approaches her with a stern face.
“You doing okay? I know how hard that type of mission can be,” he says.
“I think I’m fine, eh. It’ll be a hard adjustment to a life without the Athenaeum, but I think I can manage,” she says.
“Well the omens are good for the future. The seas are calm and the wind is in our favour. I know that you’ll do well, but if I may ask, what will you do from here on out?”
Aby thinks hard for a few moments as the midday sun beams down with hot and dry rays. In the distance, the imposing Druyaan Peak, the tallest mountain Terrus has at over twenty-five kilometres high, looms amongst the Dragon’s Spine Range. The assassin surveys the snow-covered peaks with her emerald eyes.
“I might visit the mountains, eh. Maybe see the place that governs the whole world from a fresh angle. Maybe I’ll get a fresh perspective on my life. What about you? What’s The Salt Sage, legendary privateer, bane of the oceans of Terrus, going to do with his life after we reach Kulvaan?” she says.
The Salt Sage takes a deep and raspy breath as he looks around the skeleton-crew of his ship. The white sails billow in the breeze alongside the flag of Triaan. There is no sign of his privateer colours.
“I’ll wait around the coast. I know you’ll need my help, Lady Qilbyrn. You’ve changed the course of history. Time will tell whether it was worth it,” he says.
Lady Qilbyrn. It feels strange to me after all these years. I’m used to people calling me shadow and assassin. I guess I still am those things, but the Athenaeum knows what I did. I don’t think they’ll send anyone after me. After all, what am I? A name. Nothing but a title to them. And I did what they wanted me to do.
Aby looks up to see multiple clouds gathering up into a tall cumulus column. Seers say this type of cloud heralds a great change in the near future, yet whether it is good or bad, none can say.
“I appreciate that, eh. I’ll need all the allies I can get.”
“That’s why you wanted to go to Kulvaan, isn’t it? For her?”
Aby does not dignify The Salt Sage with an answer. The two watch the city of Druusys grow larger on the horizon. The privateer captain places a hand on her shoulder and they both breathe a sigh of relief.
Fenrir's Lair 
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