Isaio was ten when it happened. The day was bright and unbearably hot. The sun, larger than he’d ever seen it, bathed everything in a golden light. The smell of rotten meat filled his nostrils as the dirt beneath his forearms dug into his skin. He lay prone, hidden in a small gap beneath a shop’s foundation, his eyes locked on a rack of freshly skewered lamb. Juices dripped from the meat, drawing in bugs that buzzed around it. Each drip only made his hunger more unbearable.
The market owner, his shaggy red hair disheveled, haggled with a woman over a slice of the fine meat. His voice was scraggly, laced with desperation, but she was clearly unimpressed and began to walk away. As the owner followed after her, Isaio's lips twisted into a smile.
Wasting no time, he scrambled forward, kicking up dirt as he squeezed out from under the foundation. The rough wood scraped against his exposed skin, but the pain was barely noticeable—his mind was fixed on the prize.
Twisting his head to the left while still running, Isaio saw the man stubbornly pestering the poor woman. Perfect. He skidded to a stop in front of the rack and quickly stretched his tunic forward like a makeshift sack. Without hesitation, he began piling the meat into it, one piece after another, until he couldn’t carry any more. The juices soaked through the fabric, but Isaio didn’t care.
"HEY!" A voice pierced the air, cracking with frustration. Isaio didn’t look back—he bolted into a sprint. They wouldn’t catch him. They couldn’t. The wind whipped through his long black hair, pushing it back as he ran.
A hand reached out, nearly snagging his shoulder, but Isaio reacted in a flash. He dropped into a slide, skidding on his legs and back under the foundation once more. The cobblestones chewed into his skin, scraping it raw and bloody. He tumbled into the dirt, the stolen meat falling in a pile beside him.
Peering back toward the entrance, he saw the man trying to squeeze through, but his stomach was wedged tight. "Come here—come here!" the man shouted, but it was all in vain. Isaio didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed a piece of meat, brushing off the dirt, and leaned closer to the struggling man as he took a bite.
Juices flooded his mouth, the flavor rich and overwhelming. Saliva rushed in, his gums tingling with satisfaction. It was incredible. His hunger was always a constant back then. The only constant he remembered.
Isaio blinked the memory away, finding himself once again in the dimly lit tavern. The day had worn on, and the usual crowd had long since departed, replaced by the drunken souls who had nothing better to do. The plate before him was no different from any other meal he’d had in recent months—meat and bread, bland and unremarkable.
He took another bite of the bread. It was chewy, even a bit rubbery, far from the best he’d tasted, but it was safe here. The tavern, the Old District, was a place where guards and patrols never bothered to look after.
There were no conversations. No words. Only loneliness answered back. Isaio always found it depressing to visit the tavern so close to sunset, yet somehow, there was a comfort in that silence.
“Huh...” James muttered from behind the counter, eyes fixed on a scroll delivered earlier. He scratched his chin with long nails. “Lord Andru of Southfelt isn’t coming for Fallfest.”
“No?” Isaio replied, more out of habit than curiosity. He didn’t care—at least not until James continued.
“Lord Vauntot has only requested the presence of Northfelt. Perhaps a dispute, eh?”
It was unusual for the two lords of Yokonland to meet without the third. It had only happened once before, at least to his knowledge. “Sickness, most likely,” he said aloud, dismissively, though his mind was already working through the possibilities. “Southfelt’s always plagued by something.”
“Maybe, lad,” James sighed, turning toward the basement door.
“Wait.” Isaio spoke abruptly, his voice louder this time.
James turned back, his brow raised in confusion. “Aye?”
“The Guild Leader and his elite are at The Sovurn. Why?”
For a brief moment, James’s expression turned grim—so fleeting that most would have missed it, but Isaio had a knack for reading people. “Unsure,” James finally replied, “but whatever it is, Assassin, it’s not your concern.”
“At one point, I was nearly in his inner circle,” Isaio gritted his teeth. “I may not be now, but I’m still part of the guild. So why are they there?”
James hesitated, his face paling despite his usual tan complexion. “The sister guild is breaking off, lad. They’ve gone to clean up the mess, but... alas.” His words slowed, almost reluctant. “It’s hopeless. They’ll return by tomorrow.”
“Hm,” Isaio responded simply, taking a long drink from his cup before glancing outside. The sun was beginning to set. “Ondark’s probably waiting for me.”
“I’ll check with Elizabeth,” James offered, disappearing behind the door.
Breaking off? That was unheard of. No one in their right mind would challenge The Guild of Gold. But then again, The Sovurn was growing stronger by the day. Heladon was a place of far greater chaos—a harder territory to influence through fear and control. Perhaps the sister guild saw an opportunity, wanting to focus on that rather than Yokonland.
James returned sooner than expected, catching Isaio off guard. Ondark was ready. Without a word, James led the way down to the basement, and from there, back into the cavern. The familiar echoing sounds and the stench of damp stone filled Isaio’s senses as he followed.
Isaio carried himself through the winding corridors of the middle building, twisting left, then right, navigating the now-familiar path. At last, he reached the grand, yet dilapidated, archway that led into the mock throne room.
The room was more populated now. Protectors of The Guild—few in number, but present nonetheless—stood patiently in their leather and mail gear, stoic and overly serious. Their silent presence filled the space with a quiet intensity.
Elizabeth, who had greeted him moments earlier, led the way through the room and into the kitchen area. The scent of sourdough rising in the oven interjected with the raw, bloodied meat laid out on a stone table, ready for chopping. The Guild, it seemed, never spared when it came to food.
They continued down another corridor, eventually arriving at a room with a long table stretching across it, chairs arranged neatly along each side. The table was a rich, light-brown wood, its seats unpadded and plain. The room was sparsely decorated, with the majority of its light provided by candles scattered about, flickering shadows dancing along the walls.
Ondark sat at the head of the table, in the seat usually reserved for The Guild Leader. It was larger than the rest, and the sight of him there frustrated Isaio, but he held his tongue. With a gesture, Ondark motioned for Isaio to sit in the chair beside him—his usual seat. Isaio complied, lowering himself into the chair and leaning back, his eyes never leaving Ondark.
"So," Ondark began, his head tilted upward toward the ceiling, though his eyes were locked on Isaio. "Westfelt's been quite stable recently. A good sign... hm?"
Isaio all but nodded in response.
"Mmm, yes, except..." Ondark raised his hand into the candlelight, casting flickering shadows across his face. "News has come from Southfelt. It’s no coincidence that the Lords of Westfelt and Northfelt met without Emperor Vaznurat."
"Emperor?"
"Yes, emperor," Ondark replied, the word rolling off his tongue with bitter disdain. "He’s broken off. Turned Southfelt into his own little game. The Vaznurat Empire, he calls it. Silly old sott, really. They’ve been building their military in secret for years."
"That would..." Isaio’s voice faltered, and he noticed the sharp look Ondark gave him, catching the hesitation. "That would put Yokonland out of balance... I mean..."
"Precisely," Ondark cut in. "There’s a representative of Vaznurat’s here, in the city. Spying, listening in. He must be dealt with, or news could make its way back to Southfelt—sorry, Vaznurat—and we could be looking at a siege."
"Would killing their representative not spark more—"
"Nonsense," Ondark interrupted sharply. "I’m not tolerating any more disrespect, Isaio. Last night was already an outright violation of policy." He leaned across the table, his face closer to Isaio’s, making sure his point was clear before easing back into his chair. "Intel says the representative, Herman Foxe, will be leaving Westfelt by sundown tomorrow. Make sure he doesn’t. You’ll be rewarded after the kill."
"Like always," Isaio added. He opened his mouth to question further but stopped himself. Why question The Guild’s authority? They had always maintained the balance of power in the region—deciding who lived, who died. His hesitancy was likely nothing more than a facade. The Guild was never wrong.
And those words remained with him as the meeting finished, and he found himself leaving The Guild’s hidden cavern, all the way through The Old Tavern, and onto the raggedy streets of Westfelt. All of it spun around and around in his head. How could Southfelt break off into its own state? It would take years and years of planning, and resource building. Perhaps, that’s exactly what they did. Ex-Lord Vaznurat was never very public with his plans.
Isaio took a slow step—not intentionally, but for the first time since his first kill, he felt a flicker of hesitation. Wipe it away. Purge the feeling. It was treasonous to even allow it. Push it down, deep into a dark abyss. Hide it from the world. Don’t let anyone see.
He inhaled deeply, trying to compose himself, but the unease kept building in his chest. His eyes shifted to a nearby street, and Isaio began treading down it, forcing himself to appear calm. Guards passed by. Their eyes briefly locked on him, but did not interfere.
Up above, the sky faded into a blackness as night settled upon the land. It was clear for once. As if the earlier storm from two moons before had never existed. Millions of stars, some white, others a faint blue or red, dotted the sky like a painter's canvas, or fireflies floating about.
His wandering led him to Rayla's home. For a moment, Isaio didn’t even realize where he was—lost in his thoughts, or perhaps in the act of trying to suppress them.
"Did you want to come in?" Rayla's voice broke through. She stood in the doorway, the entrance half-open. The door creaked with even the slightest movement, and the moonlight fell perfectly to illuminate it. What a coincidence.
Isaio snapped out of his mind, eyes locking onto her. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings, and realized, in his distraction, he must have ended up here. "It seems so," he replied quietly.
Her eyes scanned him, searching for something—anything. Isaio was hard to read, and most of the time, the only emotion she could pinpoint was, well, nothing.
"Are you alright?" Rayla asked.
Isaio stared at her, absentmindedly. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the words feeling strange, as though his body rejected them. To his right, he could hear the fading sounds of the market as stalls were pulled back for the night. Curfew would soon be in motion.
"That’s not an answer. Yes, or no?" Rayla pressed.
Isaio remained silent.
She huffed in frustration. "I can’t help you if you just brood around, keeping everything to yourself. It’s so... irritating." She emphasized the last word.
"Can I come in or not?" Isaio asked, his tone flat.
"Not tonight..." She hesitated, then added softly, "I’m sorry."
“Fine.” Isaio responded simply, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword for comfort, “We’ll talk later.”
“Don’t be upset.” Rayla called as he began to walk.
"Never would be," Isaio lied easily, quickening his pace. It was her place—she had every right to refuse him—but still, why would she?
He pushed a hand back, his cloak whipping into the air with a sharp whoosh. His armor pressed uncomfortably against his body as he scanned his surroundings. The streets were empty; everyone had already locked themselves tightly inside their homes. The market stalls stood abandoned, the usual smells of fish and fruit long gone. The only sound was the distant shuffle of boots—guards on patrol. Dammit.
Isaio slid backward, his feet skidding against the cobblestone with a faint scraping noise. He ducked behind a barren market stall, crouching low, though his head still stuck out slightly. He hoped the black of his cloak would blend with the night. He held his breath. One second, two seconds. The guards had orders to detain or harm anyone caught outside after curfew. Three seconds, four seconds.
At last, the sound of boots faded into the distance. Isaio slipped out from his hiding spot, his heartbeat steady despite the risk. He moved faster now, his steps light, making his way toward the entrance.
The soft hum of crickets was the only sound that broke the stillness, their rhythm filling the air with a quiet song. Above, the moon hung high, casting a pale glow over the rooftops and bathing the cobblestone streets in silver. His armor reflected it, shining faintly in the darkness.
He cursed softly as his eyes fell upon the Westfelt entrance. Closed. The gates had been shut tight for the night. Well, it was to be expected. Isaio glanced around, searching for alternatives, until his gaze landed on it—a gap beneath a foundation. A place he hadn’t been in years. Curious that they still hadn’t patched it. Perhaps he could still fi—
“You should stop,” a voice whispered from behind.
Isaio froze, his foot sliding back as his hand instinctively found the hilt of his sword. He saw only darkness, reaching out like decrepit hands grasping for something, anything. Then, from the shadows, he saw him—a man. As if on cue, the figure stepped into the moonlight. He wore the cloak of an assassin, yet nothing else—none of the usual gear or protection. This cloak was different. Jet-black, leather-padded, and impossibly pristine.
“Thinking about that night is, well...” the man’s voice trailed off with a weak laugh, “destructive to the mind. Besides. The guild tried so hard to beat it from you.”
Questions funneled through Isaio’s mind, but a gnawing suspicion took hold. His muscles tensed further, ready to escalate into a fight. “A common experience... ex-guild member?” he pressed.
“A mediator,” the figure replied, his voice unexpectedly middle-pitched, the opposite of what Isaio would expect from such a shadowy figure. “I’m not here to pick a fight.”
“Then why lurk in the shadows?”
“Really? With all the guards patrolling and this place so populated... it’d be foolish not to,” the figure said, stepping closer. Isaio mirrored the movement, muscles coiled. “Good soldier,” the man remarked. “They trained you well.”
“You take yourself too seriously.”
“And you don’t, assassin?” the voice replied, almost monotone. “Listen carefully. Do not kill Herman Foxe, no matter what they tell you.”
“Ah.” Isaio’s lips curled slightly. “So that’s your angle? Get me to disobey the Guild?” He sighed, shaking his head. “They’d kill me if I ever did that.”
The figure tilted his obscured head. “But you wouldn’t dare even think of it, would you? Too loyal to the Guild, right?” His tone shifted, colder now. “This isn’t a request. It’s a warning. Kill Herman Foxe, and so help me, even Vollith won’t recognize you.”
Squinting his eyes, Isaio could make out someone taller in height, yet the man's build suggested that of someone tough, possibly a worthy fighter, “Is that all?”
“I’m giving you a fair chance to stop all this. The Guild—”
“Only plays to maintain power.” Isaio finished his sentence, “Uses factors of fear to influence decisions. If Westfelt stays, The Guild remains influential. It doesn’t matter. Either way,” Isaio added, his voice a touch quieter, “we’re helping people better than the three lords ever could.” he paused, correcting himself, “...Two lords ever could.”
The figure remained silent for a while, then suddenly shrugged, almost humorously. “You lead your own life, assassin.”
With that, the figure unsheathed a blade. Isaio snarled, drawing his own sword in response, but as the blade swung, it wasn’t aimed at him. The arc cut through the air, seemingly aimless. Isaio blinked, and the world blurred—where there had been a man, there was now only shadow. The figure dissolved into nothing more than a faint shimmer. Isaio exhaled, gripping his sword tighter. Sorcery. Lucky bastard.
Isaio sheathed his sword with a soft screech. His breath steadied, but that didn’t stop the knot in his chest from tightening, inch by inch. He had no choice but to follow the Guild’s orders—no choice but to trust them. Afterall, that’s how they raised him.
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