Isaio hadn’t grown up with a family. There was no affection, no promises to hold onto. One memory stood out, though—the sun setting late one evening, dipping just below the horizon, casting a beautiful array of hues across the landscape.
He could remember holding a woman’s hand. Her skin was soft and warm, unburdened by the harsh realities most had faced. She had neck-length black hair, thin yet elegantly kept, and a gentle face.
Before them stretched stone walls—perhaps a keep, though the details remained blurry in his mind. They walked together until they reached a carriage. Isaio couldn’t recall the event, but he remembered the journey. It had been long and hot, beads of sweat pooling on his face, though he wondered if that was just the exaggerated memory of a young child.
When they finally arrived, the carriage stopped with a jarring rattle, almost causing him to jolt in his seat. He peered outside to see a city looming before them. It was grand, with towering walls and what seemed like dozens of soldiers—strong, imposing figures in his child’s eyes—standing guard.
As they exited the carriage, Isaio faintly remembered another man stepping out with them. His gray hair clung to a thinning scalp, the skin peeling in patches. But beyond that, the memory refused to clarify. There was more to this man—there had to be—but Isaio’s mind wouldn’t let him recall it.
The memories after that were fleeting, difficult to grasp. Like trying to catch a single leaf in a flowing river, each one slipped away the moment he thought he had it.
But his recollections always ended at the same moment. In the middle of a bustling fair, near the outskirts of a market, the woman had let go of his hand. A crowd surged between them, and through the gaps in the people, Isaio saw her running away. At first, he thought it was a mistake, screaming for her to come back, but his cries were drowned out by the noise of the revelers. He was lost. Back then, Isaio had believed it to be an accident, but as he grew older, the painful truth set in—she had abandoned him on purpose.
He hated this memory. This dream. It came every few weeks—sometimes farther apart, sometimes closer—but it always returned. Isaio flailed in his sleep, arms kicking out, still crying, still screaming for the woman to come back. Yet, as always, she never did. His sleep-induced tantrum raged until he was jolted awake by the firm shaking of two hands.
“Isaio—Isaio!” Rayla’s voice finally pierced through the haze, pulling him back to the present. Her hair was now unkempt, the pipe resting idly on the far table. The room had grown hot and humid, with the window flung open to let in a draft of cooler air.
Isaio swallowed hard, his heart still racing in his chest. But as his surroundings came into focus, he forced himself to calm—a skill he had mastered over the years. His breath slowed, and his body gradually obeyed the command to relax. Stoicism. Composure. It was a facade he had perfected, one that few others could maintain, at least in his mind. The act of suppressing emotion, even during chaos, had become second nature.
His eyes fixed on the ceiling; hands clenched into fists. But the source of his anger was evasive. Was it the abandonment? His presumed mother? He had accepted it long ago, pushed it deep down, and rarely thought of it—until the dream resurfaced.
Rayla’s face hovered above him, her expression soft yet weary. She placed a hand on his shoulder, “Still with me?” she asked, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Isaio leaned forward, sitting up straight. His skin felt sticky from the heat, and the room reeked of wet wood. Condensation clung to the warped glass window, the droplets from the rain—tears of the sky—must have fallen whilst he slumbered.
Isaio’s thoughts drifted, still locked within, so much so that Rayla’s question barely registered. “Your mother… was it about her?” she gently prodded.
Isaio pushed Rayla’s face gently aside, rolling out of the bed. His legs wobbled as he stumbled recklessly toward the window, squinting against the sunlight. It pierced through light clouds above, casting everything it touched in a pale white glow. The air stunk of fish and hay—typical of a Westfelt morning.
“We overslept,” he groused, his voice thick and gravelly, as it always was in the early hours.
Rayla, halfway through dressing in a clean chainse, glanced at him with a calm shrug. “I’m not due until tonight. You should be on your way.” She tightened a fabric belt around her waist. “The market won’t wait.”
Isaio followed her downstairs, refitting his bracers and mask beforehand. When she flung open the door, it creaked with a drawn-out whine, then banged hard against the outer wall. Sunlight poured in, blinding him momentarily. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, blinking as they adjusted to the brightness.
“God, it’s hot already,” Rayla muttered, squinting against the harsh light. She shot him a quick glance. “You sure you want to wear that mask?”
Isaio’s brow furrowed as if the answer were obvious. “They’ll recognize me without it.”
Down the cobbled street, the market was already alive and working in frantic motion. Fish hung from hooks, spoiling under the sun, their scales dull from a week-long trip inland. The sharp scent of overripe fruit and vegetables carried with the air, clinging to the heat. Isaio’s stomach churned as a more potent stench cut through it all—the sourdough from Ullenbard’s Bakery, a tangy scent that hung profusely outside the shop, where a weathered sign swung lazily in the light breeze.
“Oh, come on.” Rayla leaned into him with a playful nudge. “The crowd will give you cover. They’re good at that.”
“Still,” Isaio’s tone remained flat. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
She gave him a mock sigh, pushing off him and stepping onto the cobbled path. “Just don’t stick around here too long,” she said over her shoulder, voice softening.
With a quick wave, Rayla was off. A small bag slung over her shoulder. Isaio’s eyes lingered on it for a moment. Curiosity flickered, then faded. Isaio watched her disappear into the crowd, her silhouette swallowed by the throng of people.
Every time someone left his sight, Isaio couldn’t shake the uncertainty that he might never see them again. Life had a way of playing cruel tricks like that. Funny, perhaps—but mostly tragic. Very, very tragic. On a planet where no one was ever truly safe, regardless of their location or power, it was impossible to know when their last moment would come. It could be over in an instant. Just like that. A snap of fate, and everything’s gone. If only it were quick for everyone.
Yet unlike many others—friends, enemies, colleagues, if you could even call them that—Rayla never truly disappeared. She always came back, always showed up when he least expected it. Reliability, he supposed. In a world where such a thing barely existed, Rayla defied the odds. It was strange, yet comforting. Against all reason, she was the one constant in a life where nothing else stayed. So, dependable in a sense, but he never depended on anyone, not truly.
Not wanting to linger, Isaio pushed down the thought, swallowing it like all the others. His foot shifted, and he began walking again, hugging close to the buildings. His eyes darted left. Then right. No patrols. Not yet.
So, he then moved deeper into the city, the buildings around him changing. They grew denser, more crowded together, their once homely facades giving way to structures that felt neglected. Many were abandoned, their windows boarded up, while others remained open but barely functioning. He had entered the Old District of Westfelt, a part of the city that had been left to decay for what seemed like the better part of a century. The architecture here was different—older, with intricate carvings and odd shapes, the kind of craftsmanship that had long since fallen out of favor. The windows were larger, but they too showed their age, their frames cracked, their glass clouded with dust and grime.
One building, however, stood out amidst the ruin. It loomed in the middle of the district, its roof stretching outward in both directions as if reaching for something unseen. The path curved awkwardly around it, as though the streets themselves had been forced to accommodate its presence. Two large doors were propped open at the front, and tall, skinny windows lined its sides, letting in streaks of sunlight that barely reached the ground inside. From within came the sound of voices—low chatter mixed with the occasional burst of laughter. Isaio’s eyes flicked to the sign. A tavern, one he knew well, as did many others.
Stepping inside, the atmosphere shifted. The light dimmed, though the sunlight still filtered in through the stained-glass windows, casting patches of color across the floor. The air was thick with the stench of beer, wine, and sweat. Poor souls slumped at tables or leaned against the bar, lost in their cups. The chairs were crudely made, as though hastily assembled, creaking under the weight of their occupants.
Isaio moved toward the bar, steps all but slow. Behind it, bottles of all shapes and sizes lined the shelves, and skewers of meat hung from hooks, drying in the warm air. From a back room came the sizzle of cooking food, and despite himself, his stomach clenched with hunger. But he didn’t let it show. Hunger was a weakness here, and Isaio had learned long ago to hide such things.
“Lord Vauntot still hasn’t addressed it,” a man muttered from the corner, his voice low but sharp enough to catch Isaio’s attention. He clutched his cup tightly, his knuckles pale as he leaned in closer to his companion. Isaio, waiting for the tavern-keeper, could not help but listen in. “Bathild was our hope to push th’ law through, but now... well, seems like the other lords are seein’ his death as a sign not to escalate the war.”
His companion grunted in agreement, taking a long, slow sip from his own drink before replying, “Don’ usually say this, but maybe it’s for the better. War with Heladon? Load of horseshit, if ye ask me. We’d never win it.”
The first man slammed his cup onto the table with a loud thud, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Suppose yer right on that one, hah. But then there’s The Guild. They’ve been gettin’ real ballsy lately—threatenin’ all three lords if they push for war.”
Ballsy was not quite the word Isaio thought of. Ambitious? He supposed so. Yet it was a necessary struggle if they wanted the three lords to sue for peace with Heladon.
The tavern-keeper wiped a glass slowly, his eyes drifting toward the corner as the two men’s voices rose. The clink of mugs, the shuffle of feet—small, constant noises that underscored the conversation like the slow march of inevitability, “Back again?” The man spoke, pulling Isaio back into the moment.
Isaio’s gaze briefly flicked to the door behind the counter before he spoke, “Pint of ale, James,” he said absentmindedly, voice steady. “And check if they’re ready for me.”
James chuckled, though it held more irony than humor. “Gonna pay this time, Isaio? Or do I need to start chargin’ interest on yer tab?”
Without missing a beat, Isaio responded in a deadpan tone, “No. But I could always kill you and take the drinks for free.”
James exhaled sharply. “So that’s a no, then, lad?” he asked, raising a brow, knowing well enough this wasn’t a real threat, but not completely dismissing it either.
Isaio leaned forward slightly, his expression unchanged. “Once I get my earnings, I’ll toss you a few silvers. Fair enough?”
James’s face remained flat, but he begrudgingly agreed. “Fair,” he muttered, turning to grab a half-full tankard from the counter. With a swift motion, he poured the remainder into a wooden mug, then slid it toward Isaio. Some of the ale sloshed out onto the bar, but neither seemed to care much about it.
Isaio caught the mug, taking a long sip, the bitter liquid rolling over his tongue, the other hand brushing against the hilt of his sword, fingers steady on it. He did not feel threatened, nor did Isaio perceive the place as entirely dangerous, it was merely a habit made over time.
The tavernkeeper cast a final suspicious glance at the gossipers in the corner, then slipped into a backroom, leaving Isaio seated with his ear half-perked for anything interesting. Most of the talk around him was mundane—a woman complained about her bastard child, another lamented the upcoming Fallfest and the merchants who'd travel miles just to cheat them. Even the tavern's old lantern seemed to join in, groaning overhead, hanging by a rope that swayed from the tall, shadowed ceiling.
“He was seen again,” a young voice drifted from a table near a grimy window. Isaio's gaze subtly shifted in that direction. A boy, his face pale and sun-bleached, was speaking with unwavering certainty. “The Traitor.”
“Agh,” his father spat, slamming his cup onto the table, shaking his head. “It’s nothing but a damn fairy tale. Drink your fill, boy.” He grumbled into his mug, clearly tired of the topic.
But the boy, undeterred, pressed on. “It’s true! Ask Alanauf! Dressed in a pure black cloak, with huge wings!”
Smack. The father’s hand came down hard, leaving the boy’s cheek red and silencing him instantly. The man's voice dropped to a growl, “I told you not to speak of it. People get wary.”
Isaio flicked a glance at the scene, then turned back to his drink, deciding it wasn’t worth his attention. The tavern was full of gossip, but that particular tale was no concern of his. He sipped the ale, its bitterness grounding him in the present. Moments later, James returned, tapping a finger against Isaio’s table, his gaze also lingering on the boy with a tired sigh, as if this was a regular occurrence.
“They’re ready,” James said, voice heavy with boredom.
“Great,” Isaio replied, setting down his mug without a second glance. He pushed the stool back, the legs scraping against the floor with a sharp screech. He paused, then nodded toward a nearby seat. “Just so you know, James,” he added casually, “there’s a shit stain on your chair.”
James rolled his eyes, but Isaio was already moving. He slipped behind the counter and approached a small, discreet door. A quick glance over his shoulder, then he cracked it open, revealing a stone stairwell descending into darkness. Cobwebs clung to the arch above, spiraling down like old, forgotten threads. At the bottom, faint torchlight flickered, casting shadows across the damp walls.
“Better hurry up then,” James muttered, now standing behind him, arms crossed.
Isaio gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, nothing more, then started down the steps. Each footfall echoed loudly in the narrow stairwell, the sound bouncing off the stone in a steady rhythm. The descent took about a minute before the space opened into a long, dimly lit hallway.
Ducking beneath a fine archway, Isaio entered a cavernous expanse. The sight would have been extraordinary to anyone else, but to him, it was just another familiar sight.
The cavern was vast, with an unnaturally flat floor—almost as if some colossal force had smoothed it out. Three large buildings stood in the center, dominating the space. To the far left, a disused mine entrance yawned open, its rusty supports barely visible in the gloom. Though the mine was often inactive, its use was sporadic, an on-and-off operation.
Isaio didn’t slow as he moved through the cavern. This was familiar ground, the hidden heart of Westfelt's underbelly.
The air carried the pungent scent of minerals and dirty, poisonous water. Large stalactites stretched from the cavernous ceiling, dripping the same toxic liquid, but never quite reaching the floor.
The structures within resembled much of Westfelt, except for one key difference—the roofs were made of thick, packed mud bricks rather than thatch. Whether this design was better or worse, Isaio neither knew nor cared. Yet, despite the shelter, the air here was as stifling as the world above—trapped, stale, and hot, the rocky walls imprisoning it with no escape.
He knew the stories. The Old Tavern had been built above an old mine, once serving as a place for workers to grab a drink between shifts. But, over time, it was abandoned and forgotten, transformed into a perfect hideaway for those who knew where to look.
Isaio’s boots crunched on gravel as he walked, his cloak flowing behind him. Calm under pressure, he rarely let nerves show, but now, standing before the decrepit building, his heart quickened. His breathing grew heavier, though still controlled. Whatever waited inside was enough to make even the strongest men reconsider.
He stopped at the door. Silence reigned until, from the corner of his eye, he noticed a curtain flutter closed. Someone was watching. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a woman. Older, her hair grayed at the edges like salt scattered through it. Her skin glistened with sweat, her frail hand gesturing him inside. Her fingers, thin and veined with a purplish hue, pressed against his chest. No more than skin-wrapped bones.
“Your boots,” she whispered.
“Ah...” Isaio muttered, kneeling to untie and remove them before stepping inside.
She led him down a stone corridor, soft rugs muffling their steps. Tables and paintings lined the walls, doors scattered throughout. The paintings depicted old warriors and assassins of the guild—perhaps many were exaggerated legends, but Isaio knew there was truth in them. For a brief moment, he imagined his own face among them, a legend immortalized for changing the fate of Westfelt and beyond. Yet, he knew the truth—one kill after another only shifted power in the short term. The elites’ grip on power was the only thing that made lasting change possible.
The corridor twisted and turned until they arrived at what once must have been a grand archway. Isaio's eyes, however, were drawn to the room beyond. It was a mockery of Lord Vauntot’s throne room, with large pillars curving into a dome overhead. A carpet led to a throne, yet no one sat on it—at least, not yet.
A man stood at the foot of the throne's stairway. Dressed in a golden velvet robe, his eyes were sunken with age, his chin protruding sharply, his frame frail and malnourished, though Isaio suspected this was by choice.
“So,” the man’s voice echoed through the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls, “he is dead.”
Isaio nodded, stepping closer with each word until he stood at the base of the stairs.
“Hungry?” the man asked, his voice betraying a false sense of concern.
Isaio shook his head.
“No need to lie for the sake of pride—not to me,” the man continued, gesturing toward a table in the distance. Old cheese and bread, remnants from yesterday’s meals, lay upon it. Isaio’s stomach churned at the sight, his appetite fading.
“No?” The man smiled knowingly. “Well, it was worth a try.”
“Ondark.” Isaio spoke abruptly, leading to an uncomfortable silence, “Where is Aelir?”
He let out an exasperated huff. “You soldiers, always wanting your leader,” he muttered, the words laced with bitterness, as though his second-in-command position was never enough. “If you hadn’t noticed, no one’s here. He’s taken all the Elite Guilders to The Sovurn.”
“The Sovurn?” Isaio raised an eyebrow. “What are they doing there?”
Isaio’s tone shifted sharply, from weariness to open disregard. Ondark, after all, was nothing more than the guild leader's lapdog—not someone Isaio felt threatened by.
Noticing the change in Isaio’s demeanor, Ondark’s face twisted into a snarl. He ran a hand along the old stone banister, stirring up a cloud of dust. The particles floated in the air, thick and heavy, as if the very air itself had become dangerous to breathe.
“You’re laden with disrespect. Especially for one so loyal of his attention.” Ondark grasped Isaio’s chin with the tip of his wrinkly fingers.
"Ah," Isaio uttered, tilting his head slightly. "You're nothing more than his fool," he added, his aggravation clear as he pushed Ondark's hand away. "I'm here to collect my payment and receive my next task."
The stonewalled room fell into a heavy silence. Ondark stood in wide disbelief, as if Isaio’s blatant lack of respect was treasonous. Yet, Ondark knew better than to press further.
"Elizabeth," he called to the woman who had guided Isaio in. She stood still, as attentive and commanding as ever. "Tell the cooks to prepare the Sodd."
"Sodd?" Isaio muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow as the dusty air caused his nose to run. From a room to the left came the sharp bang of a cleaver chopping meat, over and over—a steady, resounding noise that filled the chamber.
"Tonight, you'll receive your next task... for now..." Ondark's voice faded as he fumbled with his bag, revealing a smaller pouch. It reminded Isaio of street performers, playing dirty tricks for pity coins. Ondark tossed the pouch, and Isaio caught it with ease.
The pouch was coarse and small, tied with twine the color of sea foam. Isaio loosened the knot and peered inside—half-filled with silver, maybe ten pieces. "Thanks," he muttered, tucking the pouch away. "Save some ‘sodd’ for me."
"Fix your attitude," Ondark scowled. "You may be an assassin, but your loyalty is given to everyone but me."
Isaio’s eye twitched, and he couldn’t hold back a retort. "You were the bastard son of our ex-leader, never trained in the assassin’s art." His steps ceased, but his back remained turned. "And yet, you were thrown into this position, made his right-hand man by blood alone."
"Cease your feeble words," Ondark growled, his voice sharp with anger. "You will return tonight, and that’s the end of this."
Isaio shifted his gear more comfortably, deciding to stay silent. His boots thudded against the stone floor as he made his exit, the sound reverberating in the cavern.
Minutes later, Isaio reached the entryway, climbing the stairs back into The Old Tavern. He slipped the pouch into a hidden pocket within his cloak for safe concealment.
"Not the best look on your face, eh?" James remarked, noticing Isaio’s frustration.
Isaio shrugged nonchalantly, masking his irritation. "One less silver than I expected," he lied, then held out his palm, letting three silver coins drop into James's hand. "Good enough?"
James thumbed the coins and nodded. "For now, yeah."
“Good.”
Isaio didn’t linger much longer in the tavern. After a few more casual remarks with James, he stepped outside, the sun immediately washing over his skin, digging into his appearance. Yokonland was a peculiar nation. The northern regions were cold, yet just south of them, where Westfelt sat, the heat was relentless. Isaio often wondered how the world could be so contrasting in such close proximity.
He slipped through the unmoving crowds, maneuvering deftly between the narrow gaps and tightly packed buildings. Small alleyways and field paths led him toward Westfelt's entrance, where people came and went freely. The guards paid little attention to who entered. After all, few outsiders reached Westfelt—only locals or those with enough prestige to merit a carriage ride braved the oppressive heat. Winter, perhaps, but summer and fall? Unbearable.
Pulling his mask up to cover more of his face and keeping his head low, Isaio crossed the threshold into the outside world. Bright green plains stretched out before him, with scattered clusters of dark-barked trees grouped in threes and fours. The air carried a different scent here—not the staleness of the city, but the earthy smells of manure and fresh grass. To his left, a river flowed gently, lined with docks for easy transport. Farmland surrounded the outskirts of Westfelt’s walls, small buildings forming a patchwork network of villages where the farmers lived.
Isaio took one of the diverging paths, walking further away from the city until he reached a small, weathered shack. It was a simple structure, no larger than a couple of rooms. Time had clearly taken its toll—one of the windows was shattered, and the wood creaked under his touch. Without hesitation, Isaio barged inside, passing through another doorway into a room with a feather-cushioned bed covered in stained blankets. A gear rack stood to the right, awaiting his equipment.
He began dismantling it all. The bracers came off first, followed by his chest piece, leggings, draped mail, and cloak. Each piece was methodically removed, leaving him feeling lighter, his skin finally free from the weight of his gear.
A mirror hung on the wall near the entryway. Dressed now in nothing but a simple tunic, Isaio took a pace toward it, staring at his reflection. His body was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, yet muscular in its own way. Not the robust kind of strength but lean, with some areas sunken from mild malnourishment. Dirt clung to his skin, grimy and thick. When was the last time he’d washed himself? Perhaps two, no, three months? Time became hard to trace at times. 24Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkZwPTlPiT1
Lost in thought, his eyes narrowed. A knock came at the door—once, then again, and again. Isaio sighed but didn’t respond. He was too cautious for that. Instead, he moved quietly into the main room, peeking through the cracks to see who it was... but no one stood outside.
Isaio frowned, then quickly masked it with a stoic expression.
Perhaps everything was getting to him—the killing, the endless back-and-forth, the isolation. He never let anyone in, not truly. His deepest fears were buried deep, locked away as though he were trying to contain a wild animal clawing at the edges of his mind. A ghost that lingered in the graveyards of his thoughts, restless and ever present. Maybe after all this time, Isaio was beginning to go mad? No. It wasn’t possible. It had to be the stress, or even the wind. Anything could have made a knock.
Isaio stumbled out of his humble shack, heading further into the grassy fields, away from Westfelt. The distant outlines of the Farmers' Village gradually faded behind him, dimming with every step. He walked for a long while until, exhausted, he collapsed against a tree, seeking its shade.
The rough bark scratched at his skin as he slid down, settling onto the grass. The blades pricked the underside of his legs, but Isaio didn’t mind—or at least, he didn’t show it.
It was here, with no other life around and no duties to fulfill, that Isaio, in his self-destructive loyalty to the guild, waited all day until nightfall for his next command—whether it came from Ondark or not. There was nothing else for him. Perhaps that’s why he made a good assassin. Or maybe it was because of his disposability, his unimportance to the world, that the guild kept him around.
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