Winter. And in Westfelt that meant temperate weather and a constant, ice-cold rain. It fell from the sky as though it wanted to freeze but couldn’t quite manage. The sky always seemed darker during that season, no longer the light blue streaked with sunlight, but a smooth, unbroken gray. Gloomy in every sense of the word.
Isaio sat under a small patch of trees by the Westfelt River, watching as the faint starlight reflected off the slow-moving water. Fish swam back and forth, their color different in the cold season—perhaps a new type entirely, with the usual ones migrating south for warmer waters.
“This a good one,” a young girl said, kneeling beside the riverbank as she sifted through the gravel and sand for stones.
Isaio barely glanced at her, holding out his hand. “This one will go far. Trust me,” he grinned.
“Mhm...” she hummed skeptically, then called out, “Renate, look at this!” A short boy with dark brown hair and tanned skin came running over.
“What is it?” His answer came as he spotted Isaio, stone in hand, poised to throw.
“What are you waiting for?” the boy asked eagerly
“Lining it up,” Isaio replied, shifting his feet and squinting at the river. The water flowed slower this far downstream, and the Westfelt wall stood half a mile away, still as sturdy and oppressive as ever.
With a flick of his wrist and the loosening of his fingers, the stone sailed through the air. It tapped the surface once, twice, and then—plunk—sank anticlimactically into the water.
“Dammit!” Isaio cursed under his breath.
Renate laughed with a wheeze, “See Anke? He’ll never top it.” His grin was ugly. Within a missing tooth, another one chipped, and a bruised nose. Isaio had realized after a while that Renate’s mother abused him. That he and Anke only ran out to play to have a moment away from it all, not because they truly liked some homeless, Westfelt ten-year-old.
“One day.” Isaio responded sorely, “And then I’ll push you in.”
Anke opened her mouth to speak, a finger in the air, but as if she were a puppet in a jesters show, she did not utter a word. Instead, the young girl's eyes fled over his shoulder, at a different presence that Isaio now felt closer and closer. He swung his body around, the orange-haired market owner with an angered expression walking with a limp.
“Isaio, who is that?” Renate asked, but soon he took a step back, “Anke, come on.” He nudged his sister, “We should go.”
However, she would not move, and neither would Isaio, who stared at him frozen in fear. Should he do something? There’s no way he’d be able to outrun him, even with the limp. Finally, his eyes began darting around, until landing on a fallen stick. Isaio scrambled to the floor, held it firmly in hand, then stood, holding it forward, “Stay back.”
The market owner froze, his eyes locking onto the sharp point now aimed at him. "Gonna kill me?" he squeaked, his voice trembling. "You owe me a day's worth of silver. Wait till I turn you in to the—"
Jab.
Isaio lunged forward with the stick, intending only to scare him, to make him turn back and rethink trying to catch him. But the truth hit harder than the blow itself—the man would never utter another word. Isaio grinned, still unaware of what he had done. He thought he’d merely shocked him.
The orange-haired man stared down at the stick, his eyes wide, mouth agape. It wasn’t until Renate screamed that reality began to settle in. He grabbed Anke’s hand, pulling her into a run while she stood frozen in shock.
Isaio’s eyes flicked to where he had jabbed the man. What he’d thought was a simple poke had been anything but. He realized, too late, how forcefully he had thrust the stick forward. His hands gripped the middle of the makeshift weapon, now lodged deep into the man’s stomach. Blood seeped from the wound, dark and spreading quickly.
It was a thick, heavy stick, and as Isaio looked back up, the man’s face had turned ghostly pale. Isaio immediately let go, stumbling backward. His foot caught on a rock, and he fell hard to the ground with a thud, the world spinning around him.
The orange-haired man staggered backward, his head tilting toward the sky before his eyes glazed over. He collapsed to the ground, but he wasn’t dead—not yet. His breath came in rapid gasps, his wide eyes locked on his torn stomach. “Oh... oh my god,” he panicked, his voice trembling. “Help me, please... get someone.”
Even as a young boy, Isaio knew the grim truth: the chances of surviving a direct stomach wound were slim. And seeking help meant risking being turned in by the dying man himself. The thought of grabbing a patrol was out of the question.
Isaio shook his head, his decision made. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, though his voice was so soft it was nearly silent.
“No—no, no, please...” the man whimpered, his eyes welling with tears as a thin trickle of blood escaped his lips.
Isaio felt breathless, his chest tightening. How could he have done this? The world around him spun, his vision blurring with shock. But instinct took over, and he turned on his heel, running. Behind him, the man’s screams of agony pierced the air, desperate, pleading for him to come back. His cries grew hoarse, weaker, until they faded altogether.
The sound echoed across the landscape like a haunting bell. Someone had to have heard—someone would come. But by the time they did, Isaio knew, the man would be dead.
But as fate would have it, the man lived just long enough for someone to find him. With his last breath, he uttered the name of his killer. Telling a brutal story of his cold-blooded murderer—Isaio.
The news spread quickly through Westfelt. While most people hadn’t known Isaio personally, they recognized him as just another street rat, easily overlooked. But now, the city was searching for him relentlessly. And so, he hid beneath the foundations of buildings for days, and days. Until it all blurred together.
Isaio had long forgotten about that moment, and most of the days before The Guild. But when he saw the gap beneath the foundation earlier, that specific memory flooded back. Strangely, as he looked back on it now, the death no longer affected him the way it once had. In fact, it felt more like a distant, twisted nostalgia—something that, in its sickness, had shaped him.
Isaio had spent the night on the flat roof of a building, but it had been far from restful. When he woke, the sky above was thick with clouds, and a light drizzle had begun to fall. The rain tapped softly against him, soaking his hair and clinging to his skin. He groaned, stretched, then rolled over, nearly slipping off the edge of the roof before catching himself just in time.
The sun began to rise, casting a faint light over the city, and already people were out, fulfilling their daily roles in a society that barely gave anything back. But what choice did they have? Refuse to work and starve without money? Isaio had always thought of it as a sad existence, one that most endured—except for the powerful who sat in government, untouchable.
With one foot hooked onto a jutting part of the roof, Isaio hoisted himself over the slope. He slid forward, hanging off the edge with both hands. He swung forward once—missed. Again, and this time his feet caught on a windowsill. With quick movements, Isaio let go of the roof and dropped, landing on the streets below. His legs strained, a sharp pain shooting through them, and his wrists throbbed.
It wasn’t a graceful landing—rougher than most—but it would serve. A few passersby stopped to glance at him, their steps slowing for just a moment. But when Isaio’s gaze swept over them, they quickened their pace. Everyone feared the assassin, despite knowing they only targeted the important or dangerous. Still, Isaio was the only one brazen enough to show himself during the day. He didn’t care who saw him—unless it was a guard.
The clicking of boots on stone echoed from his right. Isaio’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the source. Men in black robes, solemn in their pace, led a carriage pulled by two mighty steeds with long, tan manes, their fur matching in color. The carriage was intricately designed, with a curved roof and a sliding door, the wood colored like polished bamboo.
The men in front carried a casket, and Isaio stepped back to give them space, the carriage rattling uncomfortably over the uneven road. As they passed, Isaio caught a glimpse inside. A woman in a black velvet dress sat within, her face pale and expression grim. Beside her, two children—a boy and a girl—worn in similar velvet, though their clothes were less pristine. Balthild’s family, Isaio thought. It made sense—he had died just a few nights ago. The entire thing stunk of fragrance, causing his nostrils to itch.
He wondered what the children thought. For them, it must have been entirely personal, not educated in the world of politics, not at such a young age. Their father to them was a great man, perhaps the greatest, and was now taken from the world by a killer. Isaio gazed away as the boy glanced at him. None of it concerned him. In fact, nothing in this line of work was personal, and one day he’d hope they would learn that. The guild carried out silencing once or twice a month. Keeping a firm, grimy hand over the situation.
Isaio found himself outside the Westfelt walls, heading back to his humble shack. Once inside, he stripped off his cloak, armor, and gear, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His skin, usually pale, was now reddened and sweaty, tanned from the relentless sun. He stared for a moment, his mind wandering back to years ago.
On one mission, tasked with killing a bastard son who threatened a politician’s reputation, Isaio had been caught. His face had been plastered on every wall, every building, every scrap of material in Westfelt for weeks. Yet that was two, three... four winters ago? So, slipping on a tunic, and ragged pants, keeping his boots, Isaio wanted to test if they still remembered his face.
The plan was simple: walk back into Westfelt, use the silver from his last completed task, and, for the first time in many years, shop like an ordinary citizen.
Isaio swung open the shack door, stepping out onto the grass. The world outside felt different. The air was smoother, the light wind cooling his skin, and the drizzle that fell was harder than he’d expected. Each step onto the main pathway brought him closer to the towering gates of Westfelt.
The gates stood wide open, their oppressive size looming as two sets of guards, stationed in packs of four, kept watch. Wheelbarrows loaded with crops creaked past, and men lugging buckets of water meandered around him as he approached.
As expected, the guards kept a close watch, stopping Isaio before allowing him to pass. After a brief conversation, they let him through. Strange. The Guild had always warned him that his face would never be safe to show again. In public, Isaio had never been seen without his gear.
He followed the winding path back toward a smaller market on the opposite side of the Old District. This part of town was different—less about food and the haggling for sustenance, and more focused on clothing, trinkets, tools, maps—everything you could imagine. It was a place Isaio rarely visited, but when he did, the smells always struck him as foreign. Freshly made rugs, parchment, perfumes—all scents unfamiliar to the life he normally led.
This part of the district had a different energy, too. It was quieter, more refined, and frequented mostly by women, though Isaio couldn’t help but feel that his observation sounded slightly patriarchal. Yet that wasn’t the reason he came.
Rayla. She stood before a stand, currently within an empty vicinity. On its shelves, racks, and tops were clothing. Red and blue, yellow or green, most of them brown or white. Purple was out of the equation. If you were found selling that, it’d be considered ‘treason’ against the royal elite.
On a fake silver plate stood a red candle, crafted messily from different herbs and dyes, the wax pooling over onto the wood. Hardening like a fine mold. It caused the air around the stand to smell strong of what they called ‘ruby’ but really it was some random plant.
Her eyes dropped groggily to the cobblestone road, the white chainse she wore now streaked in grime along its hem. Like blood soaked into old floorboards, the dirt clung relentlessly, refusing to be washed away. Her hair was frizzy, tangled from sweat pooling at her hairline, making her look more disheveled than usual.
Isaio’s hand instinctively reached for his cloak’s pocket, only to remember with a flash of unease that it was missing. A sudden vulnerability crept in, a sense of exposure that made his eyes dart to the surroundings. Women and children wandered by, their expressions indifferent, but not far off, guards loitered near a shop window. Their faces were flushed from the heat, mugs gripped tightly in their hands, half-metal boots caked in mud. They spoke in quick, low tones, yet no smiles broke their grim faces—how could they?
“Isaio?” Rayla’s voice pulled his attention. She took a moment, studying him as if seeing something unfamiliar. Her eyes widened, and she almost stumbled backward, her steps quick as she rounded the small market stand between them. “Where are your things?”
“What?” he raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “It was hot out.”
“And if someone recognizes you?” she scolded, her voice low but sharp. “You’re always so worried about that.”
“I know,” Isaio muttered, flicking his tongue over dry lips. “But it’s been years since... I think it passed.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he leaned against the stand, quickly switching topics, “Tonight... a representative from Southfelt is to be killed.”
“Killed?” Rayla’s eyebrows furrowed, and she glanced nervously around the bustling market. “We can’t talk about this here.”
Isaio made a cutting motion across his neck, his lips curling in a bitter smile. “Like that... but I’m not sure if it will...”
“It will happen,” she cut him off, “Southfelt won’t let it slide.”
“I know.” Isaio's voice tightened. “The Guild’s usually right about these things, but this time...” He trailed off, hesitation creeping into his tone.
“Then don’t do it,” she urged firmly.
“You know I don’t have a choice.”
Rayla’s gaze lingered on something distant before she turned back to him, her voice softening. “They won’t kill you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“After what Westfelt did...” Her words faltered, “There aren’t many of you left. Assassins, I mean. You’re one of the last they can count on.”
Isaio clenched his jaw. The Lord of Westfelt had wiped out many of The Guild’s men, publicly executing them to send a message. But those like Isaio—careful, elusive—remained untouched, though lately, his mind kept wandering to whether his time was running short, especially with his new recklessness.
“Last night, someone came to me,” Isaio said abruptly.
Rayla frowned, “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know... exactly. The gates were closed. I had nowhere to go. Then out of nowhere... this figure appeared. A sorcerer, Rayla.” He watched her reaction, but her expression remained unchanged, so he continued. “He warned me not to kill him.”
She let out a weak laugh, “Maybe that’s a sign?”
“Why are you so insistent?”
Rayla hesitated with a heavy sigh. “I left The Guild.”
For a moment, he was silent. A breeze swept by, momentarily cooling the heat that clung to his skin, but the relief was brief. “That was unwise,” he finally said, “The Guild doesn’t look kindly on those who abandon it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Rayla whispered, stepping closer to him, her voice barely audible. “Just... be careful, okay? And stop being so damn foolish.” Her eyes flicked to an approaching figure, and with a quick, dismissive wave, she disappeared behind the counter.
Isaio turned, walking away in the opposite direction, his thoughts spiraling. How could she leave The Guild? It wasn’t just dangerous, it was reckless, borderline suicidal. No matter what Rayla believed, the Guild wouldn’t let her go so easily. They’d send people after her. Of that, Isaio was certain.
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