Sorcerer's Shadow

The exceedingly affluent man guided his cart up the slope towards the fortress. This fortress was in reality a solitary, russet-hued stone building, half submerged underground, with the other half forming a lone tower.

A widespread misconception exists that those belonging to the House of Lurivox have no physical entryways or exits to their residences, the idea being that if you're incapable of teleportation, you don't belong. This belief holds almost true, save for the fact that their servants are not required to be adept in teleportation. There are generally one or two doors reserved for the delivery of items that the wizards and enchanters of the fortress consider beneath their dignity to fetch themselves. Mundane things like food, beverages, and hitmen. These items are delivered via carts to a designated receiving area at the back, where they are received in their own unique manner.

Naturally, the hitmen aren't typically anticipated and, ideally, go unnoticed. Their predicament is indeed pitiful, with no household servant aware of their arrival to announce their presence. Moreover, they're incapable of announcing themselves, being concealed in a barrel labeled "Bluehills Wine, '735."

They are most definitely not going to be announced by the extremely wealthy and equally frightened Baku who delivers them and who, presumably, wishes to live long enough to relish his newly found wealth.

Nobody was present to observe the various humiliations I endured during the unloading and storing process, so I choose not to detail them. It's sufficient to say that by the time I managed to break free from the darned barrel, I was luckily neither inebriated nor intoxicated, if you catch my drift.

So... time to emerge. Stretch. Inspect my weapons. Stretch again. Observe my surroundings. Avoid any rustling noises while retrieving the floor plan, because it's committed to memory. It is committed to memory, right? Ponder for a moment—this is either that room or that room. Either way, the door leads out to a corridor that takes you to... hold on, it'll come to me... ah, right. Goodness. What in the name of your ancestors' gods are you doing here in the first place?

Ah, right: wealth. Darn.

"Are you alright, boss?"

"I'll manage, Opal. You?" contemporary romance

"I think I'll pull through."

"Good."

The first task is to open the door. Anatole might not be aware of someone utilizing sorcery within his fortress, but I'm not going to gamble my life on it; not unless it's absolutely necessary.

So, I took out a small container of oil from within my cloak, uncorked it, applied its content on the hinges, and tested the door. No, it wasn't locked, and yes, it swung open silently. I stowed the oil away, ensuring it was properly sealed. Liora had imparted that wisdom. This is how assassins manage to move around so silently: we cheat.

The hallway was devoid of light, and there shouldn't be any stray crates either, as per Thorne's source. The room I chose to hunker down in until the pre-dawn hours I had picked was guarded by my preferred type of door (an unlocked one). With a bit more oil, I was inside. There was about a ten-to-one chance against anyone intruding this room. If someone did, Opal would alert me and I'd dispatch the trespasser. No big deal. Assuming no complications, Opal would keep track of time for me and wake me at the correct hour. I spread out my cloak, shut my eyes, and relaxed. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

* * * *

The city of Avandryl primarily constitutes County Blancridge, a narrow swath of land stretching along the southern coastline. The term "Avandryl'' translates to "bird of prey" in the cryptic dialect of the House of Cetan, a language that has faded into oblivion. The folklore goes that the initial sailors who spotted this region along the crimson cliffs likened it to such a bird, with its bright red wings spread high, its head stationed at sea level where the Moonrise River sliced through the terrain.

The flat expanse around the river is where the docks were constructed, and the city proliferated from there, expanding until the majority of it now stands tall above the docks and extends significantly inland. The two "wings" of the bird bear little resemblance to wings these days, given that the northern wing, named Kieron's Watch, fell into the sea a few centuries back.

The southern wing provides numerous ideal spots for observing the waves crashing and ships sailing in and out, and the like. I recall being seated there, engaged in such observation and not focusing on anything in particular, when a Cetan—a presumed Imperion and likely a mariner—stumbled up beside me.

I swiveled and assessed him, concluding he was inebriated. He was fairly aged, I believe. At the very least, his visage had shriveled like a prune, a phenomenon that typically befalls Cetans only once they've lived for at least a couple of millennia.

As he approached, his gaze landed on me and I instinctively backed away from the cliff edge, driven by a deeply ingrained Haze distrust of Imperions. He took note of this and chortled. "So, whiskers, not in the mood for a swim today?"

When I remained silent, he demanded, "Answer me. Are you up for a swim or not?" Unable to conjure a response, I stayed mute, merely observing him. He growled and threatened, "Maybe you should just scram, whiskers, before I force you to take a plunge regardless of whether you want it or not."

I'm unsure why I didn't just leave. Certainly, I was petrified—this man was significantly older than the louts I usually dealt with, and he appeared tougher as well. But I just stood my ground, monitoring his moves. As he advanced a step in my direction, likely just to intimidate me into fleeing, I drew my Malel from my trousers and clutched it at my side. His gaze fell on it, then he burst into laughter.

"So, you think you're going to smack me with that, do you? Here, let me show you how to wield one of those things properly." And he lunged at me, hand outstretched, intending to snatch it away.

What I recall most distinctly is the chilling surge in my gut as I realized I wasn't going to let him seize my weapon. This wasn't a gang of youths looking for a cheap thrill and an outlet for their frustrations—this was a fully-grown man. I knew I was committing myself to an encounter that would have far-reaching consequences, even though I couldn't have articulated it in those words back then.

In any case, as soon as he was within arm's reach, I gave him a solid thwack on the side of his skull. He staggered and dropped to his knees. He looked up at me, and in his gaze, I saw that the stakes had escalated beyond a mere brawl; he would take my life given half a chance. As he began to rise, I lunged at him with my Malel. I missed, but he lost his balance and toppled over, rolled, and regained his kneeling position.

His back was to the precipice, a mere couple of steps away. When he attempted to stand again, I advanced and, with calculated force, pushed him backward using the Malel.

His screams echoed as he fell, drowned out by the roaring waves colliding with the cliff.

I stowed my Malel back in my trousers and made a beeline home, contemplating whether I should be experiencing some sort of emotion.

* * * *

done.co