Assassin In Training #2
I spend the better part of the afternoon working in the garden, doing my daily chores, praying, and reading one of the books I recently found in an abandoned farmhouse.
I head for my workshop next, opening the heavy cellar door before I descend slowly, counting each step.
Fourteen. My foot touches the cold dirt floor.
The air is damp and heavy, thick with the scent of earth and oil.
Five steps forward and to the left bring me to the worktable and the waiting lamp.
I feel through the darkness until my fingers find the box of matches.
The wick catches with a soft flare, casting trembling light across the room.
I light two more lamps and place them along the workbench, pushing back the shadows until the space glows a steady amber.
Then I retrace my steps and seal the cellar door behind me.
I take some time weighing which mark I will ink next into my skin. Three sigils call to me, each promising, but I have not yet decided which will serve me best.
I first came up with the idea of tattooing the sigils from the Good Book on my skin years ago, but I warred with myself over how I might go about it.
Chemistry has never been one of my strengths.
In fact, it had been the only course in my youth where I hadn’t excelled far and above the other girls in the Order.
As a result, many of my early attempts to alchemize the elixir into ink were failures—ruined mixtures, wasted resources, and markings that faded into nothing.
It took months of studying high school workbooks and other resources before I could grasp the basics that had for so long boggled my mind.
In those early experiments, I used far more elixir than necessary, and even now, those first markings glow beneath the moonlight and are invisible by day.
Had those initial results not shown promise, I might have abandoned the pursuit entirely.
Thankfully, I discovered key phrases in the text that helped me decipher and better understand the meanings behind each sigil, written records of them gifting power when used.
The symbols for protection, strength, and courage seemed harmless enough for my first attempt. I doubted they would do anything at all. Yet afterward, the difference was undeniable—enough so that I couldn’t dismiss it as a coincidence.
In the years following, I experimented. I tried various liquids, inks, and substances. Then I began dialing back the quantity of elixir until I discovered the precise balance required to harness its power without overwhelming the body.
That is why my markings vary—some faint, some vivid, while others are more prominent. Certain sigils worked, while others did not.
Through deeper study, I discovered that the failures were not always due to flawed mixtures, but rather to the sigils in the Good Book being flawed.
It took comparing them against ancient texts, mountains of old scrolls I discovered in the basement of an old library, some written in Aramaic, Arabic, and others in Egyptian hieroglyphs.
It unsettled me, this discovery. That was what was written in the Good Book was imperfect.
With no higher authority left to guide me, I did not know whether I was stepping beyond my teachings or embracing forbidden knowledge. Was I courting heresy? Was carving these symbols into my flesh a sin?
But with no one to answer my questions, where did that leave me?
Without answers. Forced to trust my own judgment.
Trust my intuition. I reasoned that it was knowledge, outdated, yes, but also maybe as old as the Good Book or older, and though it might be somewhat outside the bounds of the Children of the Blessed’s religious doctrine, it still held knowledge and power that I might need to give me the upper hand in the coming battle against the Horsemen.
Would Grand Minister Judiah not demand that I use every weapon available to fulfill my purpose?
I couldn’t be sure, but instinct drove me forward.
The rewards were irrefutable.
Enhanced speed. Sharper hearing. Heightened sight. Greater strength and agility. The elixir alone could not account for such changes. The abilities multiplied once the markings settled into my flesh.
Tonight, the sigil I perfected—first on paper, and now destined for my forearm—grants balance.
I open the tattoo kit.
The process is slow and exacting. The needle bites into my skin with a steady, deliberate sting. Pain blooms, sharp and cleansing. I don’t rush it. A single crooked line would render the mark useless. Precision is everything.
Blood beads along the carved lines as the ink settles beneath the surface. I breathe through the burn, take breaks to clean the blood away, and refocus so my hand stays steady.
It’s a long and painful process. But necessary for my plan tonight.
Like the old rhyme I’d come across in a book once said: When the mouse is away, the cat will play.
I may be remembering it wrong, but needless to say, to succeed, I must move with the balance and reflexes of a feline, and while the Serpent is stealing the hearts of the people, I will take something he values dearly.
This is my first true test—a measure of my readiness for what lies ahead. If I cannot accomplish this, then I have no business remaining near the city when the Red Horseman arrives.
The sigil’s power will not manifest immediately. It never does. Only through use does the ability awaken, slowly revealing whether the marking succeeds or fails.
It is a risk, but one I’ve had to accept.
When the work is complete, I return to the house and prepare a proper meal from what resources I have.
Then, I gather supplies and arm myself with light, easy-to-carry weapons.
The last thing I need for tonight's excursion into the city would be anything heavy that would hinder my ability to climb or get away rapidly if my plan goes south.
The journey to the city is long and arduous. I hope it will be the last I make on foot, though that depends entirely on tonight’s success.
I remain vigilant, choosing a different route each time I travel. Occasionally, I double back to ensure no one follows. It is another habit I have acquired—one of many safeguards to protect my refuge and provisions.
I am, after all, a creature of ritual.
My habits. My teachings. My discipline. I truly believe they will ultimately save or defeat me.
I enter the building through a high window in the stable.
After carefully easing it shut behind me, I lower myself and place my boot silently on the rafter below. The aged wood creaks faintly beneath my weight. I freeze, listening. When no alarm follows, I shift my balance and crouch low, surveying the interior.
Soft light spills from large glass-housed lanterns suspended from the beams, casting long shadows across the massive space.
The heavy scent of animals—straw, leather, and manure—clogs the air, making my eyes sting.
My nose prickles with the urge to sneeze, but I rub it fiercely and force the sensation down.
Below, the stable stretches wide into an immense L-shaped structure, half tack room, half livestock housing. Cows, lambs, hogs, chickens, and hounds occupy separate enclosures, their restless movements filling the air with low murmurs, snorts, and the occasional sharp cry.
And beyond them—the horses. Mankind’s only true means of transportation now.
Not merely common stock, but creatures unlike any I have encountered in all my years of study.
These are warhorses.
Born and bred for battle.
This is not the only building that houses them, either. At least four more stables like this exist within the guarded compound, each filled to capacity.
They stand no less than fifteen hands, all sleek with muscle. Their hides gleam like oiled velvet beneath the lantern light, coats ranging from midnight black to bloodred to blinding white. Their movements carry a disciplined intensity—each of them is alert, restless, and seemingly dangerous.
I discovered them months ago, but didn’t chance infiltrating this place until I had devised a failsafe plan with a reasonable chance of escape.
Because it’s not simply any horse I seek tonight.
Though any would do.
I am here for his. The White Horseman’s. The pale beast who was the first to breach the portal between Heaven and Earth. Since this stable has twice the guards, I figured it had to be the one housing him.
Below, stable hands move through the rows, tending to the animals in their partitioned stalls. Guards patrol the central walkway at measured intervals, while armed sentries stand watch at both entrances.
With food scarce and meat even more so, this place and the others like it are considered a gold mine.
Animals are transportation and food. The horses could mean easier travel, so some of the population could venture beyond the city limits to find a safer place to rebuild and harvest. But few know about what’s housed here.
How the Soul Serpent has managed to keep this a secret is a mystery.
My guess is with mind manipulation, but I’m not sure.
What I do know is that he’s not providing aid to his people as he has promised. All it would take for him to have a full-scale riot on his hands is to leak this location to a few random citizens. Chaos would ensue.
Sure, most people are growing their own food, but acquiring the seeds means money or the ability to make a fair trade.
Rarely do people have both. This is why the city is now rife with theft.
People are getting desperate. Which, in turn, has led more families and skilled farmers to take up arms to defend their food stores or crops, so the crime rate and public punishments have tripled in recent months.
Hunger makes monsters of men. And there’s no need for it.
I wonder how the White Knight intends to address such unrest—or if he will simply persuade the people to believe they’re not starving.