A storm brewed violently in the sky. Twisting and churning with flashing bolts of lightning that lit up the clouds in a brilliant blue. It had not even begun to rain yet. As if the world was holding back its tears, waiting precariously for the perfect moment to let it all out.
Wind whipped back and forth, carrying with it the damp, familiar stench of an oncoming storm. Filling the air with a sort of humidity not expected in fall.
The streets of Westfelt were a cobbled mess of mismatched stones. Stretching out into pathetic roads that led way from building to building. These structures were homes, perhaps shops. With dark wooden beams made from sturdy, yet now sunken material. The walls in-between were constructed of a smoothed rock, and their roofs were that of thatched straw.
Moonlight faltered downwards in a cascaded stream. Faintly illuminating the city in all its emptiness. Of what? People. They stayed indoors; homes securely shut. Never allowed out after dark, albeit to the kingdom's orders. Fearful of the punishment to which they would deliver onto them.
Isaio did not care, nor did he fear what the kingdom held over his head. His stride remained sturdy, unwavering even. With a set of gear to match it. Dark leather that seemed bonded to mail draped along his sides for all around protection. It caught the luminance of the moon, reflecting it outward.
A sword sheathed at his side was concealed cleverly. It bore the imprint of a certain guild, one that many politicians had come to disdain. For it laid upon them a certain forced reverence, that even Isaio, knew held corruptness, yet still followed its orders.
His boots, thick and protective, halted its rhythmic steps as he came upon a building. Larger than the rest, two stories in height, far less humble than most of the townsfolk. The torchlight flickering inside spilled out onto the street. Its windows were caked in grime, with deep scratches etched into the glass, the marks of years of wear and neglect, as if time had purposefully damaged it.
Isaio pressed a firm hand to his face, adjusting the black woolen mask that covered the lower half. It was stifling in the hot morning air but offered a welcome warmth at night.
His short, jet-black hair fell messily, naturally framing a jawline that curved softly downward. A scar traced along his chin—not permanent, but it seemed destined to stay.
"One chance," he muttered, his voice swallowed by the night. His gaze flicked toward the door, but that wasn’t his route, fearful if anyone watched from the inside. Instead, he glanced up, bent his knees, and leapt. His hands caught the edge of an overhang, and with a quick pull, he lifted himself up. From there, the city opened before him.
Buildings upon buildings, laid out loosely in an imperfect rectangle. Each with the same basic architecture, though their shapes and sizes varied. Each served a purpose, housing someone inside. Like a stomach. No. Not a stomach. More like a fortress, as all homes are, guarding those within.
Further on, the homes grew grander, newer. Not beaten down like the rest of the city. And at the center wasn’t a castle, but a sprawling manor, asymmetrical and crafted from fine wood, stone, and metal.
Facing the building wall, Isaio crouched, careful not to lose his footing on the slightly sloped overhang. He pulled up on a white-stained window, moving slowly, making sure not to make a sound.
The scent of ink and parchment greeted him as darkness lingered inside—no one was on this floor. He squeezed through the opening, but his pouch caught on the frame. With a quick adjustment, he slipped inside. The floorboards creaked beneath him with each step, but the sound was impossibly faint.
Voices. Casual but deep, drifted up from below. The floor was thin—fragile, even. Isaio reached to his chest, drawing a small dagger, no more than five inches in length, from its concealed place. His eyes shifted to the stairwell, where the handrail sagged, crooked from years of use.
Yellow light illuminated the path downwards. From here on, the darkness would no longer hide him, but it hardly mattered—he’d done this hundreds of times before. Still, Isaio waited, patient. Listening. Timing was everything—he'd learned that the hard way more than once.
The pair of voices became three, but only for a moment. Then came the sound of a door opening, followed by a sharp slam, leaving just one voice behind, muttering to itself.
“Cheap bastards,” it cursed, unaware of who was waiting. There was an air of entitlement in the tone—if a voice could even convey such a thing. It was raspy too, clearly belonging to an older man.
As the voice spoke, Isaio's grip tightened around the weapon. People like that—arrogant and entitled—never meshed well with their positions of power. Yet it was a somber truth he had learned to live with. The unfortunate reality was that most politicians, or those with great influence, were self-serving—narcissistic, even.
Isaio began his descent, step by careful step, making sure each placement was deliberate, the stairs betraying no louder creak that might alert the man below to his presence. The staircase led to a small platform, allowing it to turn left. Peering around the corner, Isaio spotted him.
A stout, older man with long, unkempt gray hair and a poorly maintained beard. He wore a black vest over a white undergarment—fashion typical of those trying to appear more elite or educated. Yet Isaio knew the truth: most of these influential figures inherited their positions through family, not merit. There was no schooling for common folk—only privilege passed down.
The room itself was open and spacious. A large table dominated the center, covered by a map with papers scattered haphazardly across its surface—an unorganized mess of what seemed to be important, perhaps even crucial, information.
Lanterns hung from thin ropes, barely clinging to the ceiling, casting flickering light over the dim space. The man stood with his back to the stairwell, hunched over one particular document, glancing between it and the map, as though trying to pinpoint something urgent.
Isaio tilted his head, as if pitying him. Who would want to hold a position like that? Fake power? Yet this brief, silent moment where he let go of awareness, Isaio stepped too hard on the last step, giving out a louder groan than he meant. The creak cut through the quiet like a snapped string, sharp and unmistakable. Isaio cursed himself silently, but the damage was done.
The politician whipped his head around, eyes widening in shock. His hand shot instinctively toward a knife at the far end of the table, knocking over a jar of ink and scattering papers in his rush to grasp it.
"Ah..." Isaio finally broke the silence. It hardly mattered now—he’d already been seen. "Balthild... I'm a big fan of yours." Isaio said, his voice a lazy drawl, as if they were sharing drinks rather than standing at the edge of a knife.
The politician gritted his teeth, refusing to acknowledge Isaio’s mocking tone. Instead, he gripped the knife tightly, holding it out in front of him with a trembling stance.
Isaio raised both hands, half mocking the pitiful weapon, half revealing the larger dagger in his grasp more clearly. Balthild’s eyes flickered to it, and his expression shifted. He swallowed hard, realizing the inevitable. "I'll call for a guard. There's a patrol just outside."
“Usually…” Isaio dismissed the threat with a casual wave, seeing through the bluff. “…I don’t take pleasure in killing. It’s dirty, sinful.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “But your policies, your acts of outright war? They’ll kill hundreds.”
They were inches apart now, a fact Balthild barely registered until he snapped out of Isaio’s speech. “Who sent you?” the politician demanded. “You owe me that much.”
“The Guild of Gold,” Isaio muttered, savoring the words. In a split second, he seized Balthild’s wrist, disarming the feeble grip on the knife. The weapon clattered uselessly to the floor as Isaio’s dagger flashed in the dim light, the cold steel kissing Balthild’s neck. The cut was swift, precise. Blood sprayed in an arc, but Isaio had already stepped back, watching impassively as crimson darkened the wooden floor.
"Why... m..." Balthild’s words were cut short, silenced by the blood flooding his throat. It pooled from his neck and filled his mouth, turning his attempt to speak into a wet, gurgling sound. Within seconds, his body collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, limp and lifeless.
Isaio scrunched his nose in mild disgust as the metallic tang of blood filled the air. Without hesitation, he wiped the blade clean against his sleeve, the crimson streaking into the fabric before he slid the dagger back into its concealed sheath. "May your soul live on," he muttered, his tone flat, bringing two fingers to his forehead in a gesture that felt almost mechanical. Without a second glance at the body, Isaio turned toward the door.
"The third lord speaks nothing of it as it is," a muffled voice said from behind the thick wooden door, presumably addressing another. "Yokonland barely has enough men to hold them off." The voice carried a hard edge, and Isaio’s muscles tensed as the door creaked open. A figure stepped inside, eyes widening as they took in the pool of blood, then Balthild’s lifeless form—his face still frozen in an expression of terror.
But Isaio was already gone. He had vanished, like a wraith into the night, slipping up the stairs, out through the window. No sounds, no trace of his passage except the still-warm body on the floor.
Shouts began to echo through the city, rippling outward like the first waves of a coming storm. Isaio felt a flicker of dread twist through him, cold and sharp, but he suppressed it. Orders were orders.
From the overhang, Isaio peered down, watching as guardsmen—cloaked in heavy silver armor—flooded the area below. Their movements were swift, organized, like a hive reacting to an unseen threat. With silent urgency, he pulled back from view and scaled higher up the building, his fingers finding purchase on cracks and grooves in the weathered stone. Handhold after handhold, until he hauled himself onto the roof.
The thatched straw beneath him was rough and brittle, reeking of decay, the acrid stench of bird droppings and damp filth sunk deep into the surface.
Moving carefully toward the opposite side of the roof, Isaio began his descent. He froze momentarily as a man hurried past below. Once the coast was clear, he let himself drop, bending deeply at the knees to absorb the impact. The thud echoed louder than he had hoped, and he cursed under his breath. Without hesitation, he began a slow, deliberate walk away, hoping no one had been alerted.
A bell began to toll, its eerie sound echoing as if it could be heard across the entire world. The high-pitched chime signaled death, a warning for high-ranking officials to stay protected. It was a familiar sound, heard every few weeks—a bell once used to the kingdom's advantage, now a harbinger of fear. No longer just an alert for patrols, it had become a warning to all who dared cross the Guild of Gold. The guild had kept the kingdom in check for some time now, yet always remained just one step behind.
Isaio meandered down the uneven cobblestone path, each step causing him to bob slightly with the rise and fall of the stones. His under-cloak, peeking out from beneath his leather gear, trailed behind him, swaying gently in the wind as it skimmed the ground.
Isaio moved quickly down the winding path, then veered left. Spotting a patrol rushing past, he pressed himself flat against the wall of a nearby building. With some luck, they either didn’t see him or chose to ignore him. Without pausing to breathe or relax, he continued on until he reached a smaller building—a modest home. Its newly thatched roof sloped gently into a neat line, with a single window at the front. Lacking a porch, knocking on the door was simple.
The door creaked open just a crack, enough for a faint orange light to flicker through. An eye, soft and blue, peered out at him. After a brief moment, he heard the sound of an unlatching mechanism, and the door swung open. A woman stood there—her brown hair tied neatly in a bow, her face gentle, with thin lips. She wore an outfit similar to his, though lighter in color.
"It wasn’t smart to come here afterward," she muttered in a panicked whisper, her eyes darting to the outside. As Isaio brushed past her, stepping inside, she shut the door and secured it with a tight metal latch. "Remember last time?"
"Hello to you too, Rayla," Isaio replied dismissively. The air inside was stale, carrying a faint musty scent. A fire crackled softly at the back of the room, casting flickering light over a simple table with two chairs. To the right stood a small, makeshift kitchen, and to the left, a narrow stairwell led to the upper floor.
Rayla was young, around his age, no more than twenty winters. Her expression softened when it became clear no one had followed. "Did you do it?"
“It’s done,” Isaio confirmed with a click of his tongue. "I’ll report to The Guild tomorrow. They won’t let me in this late."
She sighed—not out of exhaustion but worry. "The Three Lords are getting closer to stamping the guild out. What’s one dead politician supposed to change?"
"Everything," Isaio replied bluntly, his gaze hardening. "Those policies? The mandatory servitude for the Heladonic War? They would’ve wiped out countless lives." His hand clenched into a fist as the thought gripped him. "I don’t claim to be a master on these things, but The Guild knows best."
Rayla nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. It was a simple conversation, yet it touched on the complexities of their world—and human nature itself. It was also a familiar refrain between them, so she let it linger no further. Not wanting to continue, she offered a weak smile. "There’s hemp upstairs," she said, noticing Isaio’s eyes widen. "Enjoy a pipe with me?" She motioned toward the stairs, sliding her hand elegantly against the banister.
Isaio followed with a quick, abrupt nod, taking each step lightly as he climbed the stairs with ease. At the top, another room unfolded before him. The upper floor, though modest, had its own quiet charm. A feather-softened bed was tucked into one corner, a single window on the far wall letting in faint light. To the left, a small table with a cushioned chair sat beside a rug in the center of the room. At the foot of the bed rested a chest, with a mirror propped up beside it.
Rayla, holding a candle from downstairs, began lighting the room’s fixtures. The flames crackled to life, casting dim shadows against the walls that flickered and danced like wild beasts.
Isaio tugged off his black gloves, tossing them aside, then untied the half-mask from around his neck, letting it fall away. One by one, he removed the bracers from his arms, placing them gently on the ground. The relief was immediate. No matter how many times he wore the gear, taking it off always felt like a weight lifted.
He sat on the edge of the bed, which groaned under his weight as it sank to its frame. His eyes followed Rayla intently as she moved to the desk—a rich brown in color—and opened a drawer. From it, she pulled out a pipe, already beginning to pack it with ground herb. The smell was sharp and potent, sticky and sour, filling the room in seconds.
Holding the pipe's end to the flame, it began to smoke, the tendrils curling around them like a warm embrace. The smell shifted from sour earthiness to something sweet, as if the fire had transformed it into fine sugar. Rayla couldn’t wait to take a puff. She inhaled deeply as she walked to the bed, sitting beside him. Letting out a slow breath, a white plume of smoke drifted from her lips, her muscles loosening, eyes softening.
Isaio took the pipe from her hand as she offered it over. It was short but smooth, with a light-colored wooden exterior, warm to the touch. He brought it to his lips and drew in a deep breath. The smoke filled his lungs, heating him from the inside. Isaio exhaled slowly, then fell back onto the bed, which rocked gently beneath him.
"You know..." Rayla started, her voice cracking before she turned away, coughing softly as her face reddened for a moment. Swallowing, she continued, "They finally gave me a task today... but, like the guild always does, it was menial."
"Don't think too hard on it." Isaio suggested calmly.
"Yes, I know, I know... still," Rayla muttered, letting her hand fall onto the bed recklessly, her fingers splaying out as if even the act of relaxing required too much effort. She leaned back fully, her head sinking into the worn mattress. "You and I have served them for so many winters... yet I’m treated as no more than obsolete."
Her voice softened, trailing off as she took another slow puff from the pipe, the smoke curling lazily above them. "And the market isn’t doing so well. Everyone’s too busy readying for the Fall Fest..." She chuckled, a light, almost bitter sound escaping her lips. "Sometimes I dream of living by the shore instead. Far from the borders. Can you imagine it?" Her voice lifted; her eyes gleaming for just a moment. "Salty winds, the smell of fresh fish..." She turned to face him, her cheeks flushed from the smoke and her sudden enthusiasm. "Fresh, Isaio!"
He grinned at the word. "Ah... that would be nice, huh?" Isaio sighed, his tone wistful. "Maybe one day, after my service to The Guild is done, but..." He sniffled—not from sadness, but as if something clogged his nose. "I wouldn't want to stop until... until I’ve proven myself a hero."
"A hero?"
"Yeah..." He nodded, glancing at her. "Or... something." Isaio took another long drag from the pipe. "Then, sure. The beaches would be a nice place to settle... as long as no one recognizes us."
"Recognizes you," Rayla corrected flatly. She rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand, eyes now fixed on Isaio. "I’ve managed to keep clear of any sightings, thanks in part to the Guild throwing me tasks far and few between... but still."
“Perhaps...” Isaio began in an overly serious tone, “...Perhaps just be better.” He grinned, and Rayla hit the back of his head.
“You dalcop.” She muttered in response, only slightly amused.
“Ugh...” Isaio groaned, rubbing the back of his neck, his fingers tracing the lingering soreness. “Still bruised there,” he muttered, his voice heavy with weariness. He took another slow drag from the pipe, though the smoke was beginning to lose its strength.
It didn’t matter. The two of them were already out for the count, their bodies sinking deeper into the soft bed, their voices relaxed and low. The slow burn of the herb had dulled their reactions; their eyes were reddened, and their thoughts drifted lazily. Even their hearts had fallen into a methodical, slow rhythm.
"Maybe... The Guild isn’t good for us..." Rayla spoke softly, though minutes had passed, it felt like mere seconds to her. "I always think about running away... finding a quiet life. Don’t you?"
She turned to look at Isaio, only to find him already asleep. Rayla huffed quietly, sliding off the bed. Gently, she moved his legs up and repositioned him, so he lay more comfortably. Her eyes lingered on his face, studying his features. The thought of escaping together gnawed at her. She wanted it. So very badly.
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