Shadows of the Crown
1. Chapter One
Chapter One
Ariella
M aybe I should fuck him before I kill him.
Not with my own flesh, of course, but the hilt of my blade would certainly do the trick. He deserves it after what he did to that woman. My lips curve at the thought. I could do it. My only instructions were that his death had to be caused by a blade to his heart, and nothing was mentioned about what pain I could inflict beforehand.
Fuck, I might just do it because of how long he's taking.
A chill sweeps through my bones as the coldness from the brick starts inching its way into my cloak. I spin my blade through my fingers with practiced precision—one of my better habits. Sighing deeply, there's a heaviness in my posture. Anyone who was unfortunate enough to see me would quickly turn the other way. Lucky for them, though, I’m never seen in the shadows.
“If looks could kill.”
If I had a copper for every time I heard that one, I could probably afford a night in the Eldorian castle.
Just one night is all I’d need to kill the king.
A quick stepping pattern pulls my focus, and I tilt my head to listen closer. These steps are hurried and moving with purpose. The thumping gets louder than the muffled conversations humming through Valoria, and I know this is my target. He always walks this alley home, though never with such haste. I roll my eyes, because of course someone had to tip him off that the guild was looking for him. It was probably Isolde, that bitch. She loves to push me to my limits, but I’m in no mood for these games today.
I close my eyes to the sight of the alley. There’s barely any light in this part of the city; but no matter, I can feel my target’s essence like the glove on my hand. My essence yearns to be released, and I nearly growl in frustration at its insistence. I’ve neglected it for too long, not releasing the building power, and now it's trying to fuck with my assignment. A masculine scent hits my nose, replacing the heavy, wet mustiness that’s been circling me these last hours. The target reaches me, and using the hand not gripping my blade, I tug on my umbral strand, weaving opaque shadows into existence, casting my target into complete darkness.
The hitch of his breath hits me like the most pleasant song. My shadows caress his sweat-licked skin, allowing me to see that this is indeed the one I've been waiting for. I once sliced the throat of a man who I thought I was to kill, but he turned out to just have the same hair color and build as my actual target. Unfortunate for him, but annoying for me, as I had to explain why there were two bodies instead of just one.
His pulse quickens, and I smirk at the adrenaline he has swirling through his veins, helping him focus on trying to find a way out of his fate. There is no way out, but I let him plan for a moment. Their expressions are so much more rewarding when you give them a chance to hope first. My leathers rub together, causing a light squeaking to echo through the silence. My boots come down hard enough to let him hear me, and his pulse quickens even more. His breaths strain—I scrunch my nose at the smell of whiskey floating from his direction. Of course he drinks whiskey. Seems to be the poison of choice for those who also enjoy raping others.
The reminder of his crime sends hot rage through me, tasting like burnt honey on my tongue. I want to get this over with; I’m tired and need to release some of my unused essence. But this man deserves a painful, horrible death. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t kill him. That is a kindness after what he’s done. I’d drag him back to the guild and do to him what he did to the girl. And unlike him, I wouldn’t be foolish enough to get caught. He would stay under my care for a long, long time, suffering a repeat of his crime every single day until I was satisfied with his punishment. That would likely be never, but that theory is negligible.
The target whimpers as I step closer, my lip curling at the sound. He feels powerful enough to use an unwilling woman for his pleasure, but I come into the picture and he immediately pisses himself to death? Pathetic.
“Please,” he sputters in the direction he thinks I’m located. “Please, I have a family. I have money I can pay. Just please let me go!” I chuckle lightly, and he spins around to face me, eyes widening when he sees my form directly behind him. I allow the shadows to dissipate some, giving him enough light to take in the face of his killer as I remove my hood.
He spits out some incoherent words at the sight of me, his body now trembling hard. A foul smell drifts toward me, and my eyes flit downward to see that he did indeed piss himself.
“By the Angel!” His legs give out and he drops to his knees, bones cracking from the impact. He can barely form his next words through his sweet fear, making me smile for the first time in days. “Silver Wraith, please, I beg of you. I beg for your mercy.” He lowers his head to the wet stone, bowing before me like I’m some Aether here to grant him pardon. I’m not known for mercy—no, the people of Eldoria know me for my darkness. My ability to be silent and unseen until my blade is in their throat. The last thing their eyes witness is my silver hair hovering above their nauseating faces.
He moves to kiss my boot. “For fuck’s sake.” I swing my foot into his face hard enough to send him careening into the brick wall. He curls in on himself, tears and snot covering half of his face .
Why did I have to volunteer for this assignment? Clearly a blind, elderly woman could have taken him down without any trouble. I just wished for a job that wasn’t one of the king's requests, though I likely will not be volunteering anymore because this is so much worse than being bored at the guild.
“You’re fucking pitiful.” I tilt my chin to the sky; maybe I should use my psionic strand to have him jump off the building in front of me. There’s no one around to see me weaving, and I really do not want to be associated with his death. It’s embarrassing, honestly. I groan—that won’t work because the guild was hired to kill Samuel, and it would be quite suspicious if he just happened to jump from the same building I'm tasked with waiting next to.
No, I can’t. There would be too many questions.
“Let’s get this over with, then,” I sigh and crouch next to his whimpering body. “You know why you’re being targeted, yes?” He shakes his head and I grab his throat, lifting him from the ground and slamming the back of his head into the wet stone.
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Samuel. You know exactly why I’m here. Now tell me.” A spark of hope lights his eyes momentarily, as if he thinks admitting his crime is my requisite for letting him go free. Imbecile.
“I—I hurt someone.”
“You hurt someone.” It’s not a question. He did, but I want him to elaborate. All of my targets confess to their crimes before I take their life. And if they refuse? Well, the guild would have a temporary prisoner, I suppose. But my reputation always proves useful, because these bastards are too frightened of Eldoria’s deadliest assassin to keep their truth hidden for long.
“I hurt someo—” I squeeze his throat, and he looks to my eyes for any hint of safety or hope. He won’t find it. Even if I wasn’t here to kill him, he wouldn’t see either. My face is always the mask I wish others to see…nothing else. And right now? Samuel sees death in my gaze, and a promise that it will be much worse for him if he chooses to lie to me again. “I killed a woman.” Every bit of fight, what little he had, abandons his limbs and he goes slack in my hold.
“Now you get it,” I praise sweetly. “You won’t be leaving here, Samuel. I will not show you mercy, and I doubt the Angel will, either. Not after you raped and murdered Olivia.” I laugh to myself as my anger demands more than his life.
“You’re lucky the method of your death is not my choice,” I whisper sharply, and watch his brows furrow as his body registers the blade in his chest. I only nicked his heart, which will prolong his suffering for a while; it’s not enough to sate the hunger in me that wants to make him pay in full value for his crime, but it will have to do. This was not my revenge to have. I’m only the executor.
I pull the blade out, smirking when he drops to the ground with a heavy groan. I wipe the blood off the sleek steel using his shirt and continue to twirl it through my fingers as I lean back against the wall. Suddenly, I’m no longer annoyed with having to stay in this frigid, damp alley. The pained whimpering coming from my target is entertainment enough.
I close my eyes and imagine it’s the king’s life sputtering away in front of me, instead of Samuel. As soon as the light left his eyes, I would weave my forbidden temporal strand, taking time back a few moments so that I could watch the second he dies over, and over, again. Weaving that type of essence would ensure my death, if murdering the king didn’t first. That’s fine with me; preferable, actually. There’s nothing left for me here once I get my revenge on him. Maybe Isaiah, but he would easily live without me. He doesn’t need my protection anymore.
The muffled voices from a nearby tavern get louder—it must be later than I thought. Looking toward the rapist, I frown when I see he’s already dead, and I missed the best part. I bend to feel for a pulse, or spot any slight breathing, though there is neither. I sigh, frustrated with my wandering thoughts. I wouldn’t chance weaving my temporal strand on him, though, so I will just have to endure the disappointment.
The clamoring outside the alley increases and I stand to take my leave, almost feeling sorry for whoever finds this grotesque mess. But I’m not being paid to clean things up…I snort under my breath. I wouldn't despite being paid—Samuel’s body deserves to rot in this cold, empty place for a while .
I slip out of the alley, pulling my hood up to hide my easily identifiable hair. I’m fond of the color…it’s the same color my mother’s was, and it feels like I hold a piece of her with me. Unfortunately, no matter how much I love the silver strands, they’re very recognizable. Being the only person in the Eldorian Kingdom, in the physical realm even, with this color makes it difficult to go unnoticed anywhere I am. So I hide it most of the time, allowing myself to travel without the constant stares and whispers.
I wish I could weave my shadows everywhere, but no one alive knows that I possess the ethereal affinity. I cannot use any of those strands when others are around, because if I’m found out, I will be executed. Not only is the ethereal affinity illegal, my father told me to never report my third affinity. It’s bad enough that the kingdom knows I possess the other two, making me a useful object to the royals. But to be a universal weaver? There’s only one weaver in history who was known to possess all three affinities, and she was sacrificed to the realms for her essence.
According to the official documents, I have the living and elemental affinities, and can only weave the flora, aero, and kinetic strands from them. They've no knowledge regarding my ability to weave all the strands from each affinity, as that would also make me a big target in the eyes of the Eldorian royals.
So I keep my secret from everyone, including Isaiah, and allow the king to use me as his personal killer. He’s never met me, as that would look bad for his reputation; but whenever he sends an assignment to the guild, he always requests the Silver Wraith to complete the job. And I do. Gladly. One day, I will use his preference for me to my advantage; it may allow me to get close enough to sink my blade into his heart.
Killing him just like he did my father.
I push the consuming thoughts away and focus on the damp stone under my silent feet. The streets are nearly empty, as expected, which is a relief for me. Being around many others has never been a comfort of mine; I prefer the darkness and solitude. My thoughts keep me company enough, and these assignments allow me to move about the city without the expectation of conversation. I can just breathe in the empty space around me and bask in the city's quiet.
I stretch my neck, attempting to coax cool air into my cloak. It’s warmer than usual this season, though it’s my fault for deciding to wear my fleece-lined leathers instead of my regular ones. I always get hot in these, and yet just like to torture myself for some reason.
The sound of clanging hooves drifts from the corner of the next street, and I immediately duck into the shadows. I’m very familiar with the sound of the royal carriages. I watch as the large horses come into view, and my brow furrows. Why would one of the members of the royal family be out at this time of night, let alone in this part of the city? The crimson red and deep gold accents contrast the otherwise white carriage, the colors clear as day even under minimal moonlight. There’s a royal guard stationed on each side of the transport, wearing their signature black slacks, with a crimson jacket and gold padding at the shoulders. Interesting, though, that their uniforms are not the usual ones you see on the guards at the castle. These are form fitting, almost like the material gives them more freedom to fight. There’s no reason they should need them out here , I think, but then shrug as I remember that people like me exist. I’m the reason they need those hideous outfits.
It's surely just the king searching the lesser essence district for someone innocent to punish. Seems to be a favorite hobby of his. My fists clench, and I force my legs to move in the opposite direction, toward the guild. Otherwise I will do something foolish from my pent up rage and ruin all the work I’ve done these last two decades.
Soon.