First Strike, Part 2 (Ves Sithia & Ren Varadon Short Story)

Read Part 1 Here 

A scream of joy rips from Ves’ throat.

It is a silent cry. No words, no sound, just the endless, gaping thrill that precedes the moment of death. The gale of freefall rushes over them, through them, swallowing them whole. It pulses in every part of their being, flesh and metal both, encasing them in its song. They are one with the wind and the air, their magic surging as they plummet to the earth. Their body hums with wisps of bronze light, brightening to a searing beacon, and they puncture the wards headfirst. Vibrations crack in their ears, kaleidoscopic lines fracturing outwards across the invisible barrier, the only sign of the break in the defenses.

Bright enough to be of notice. Bright enough to draw the attention of anyone looking up.

Not that it matters. It is already too late.

It is ten heartbeats to fall from the peak of their ascent to their mark’s demise. They are as the wave crashes to shore, as the arrow is shot from the bow—unstoppable, inexorable, a force of nature. Once they have been released, it is a matter of seconds before they tumble from the sky and their mark’s blood waters the ground.

The courtyard rises up to meet them. Stone and marble and glass and tile hurtle towards them in the space of breaths. The geometric patterns distort to blurs of colour, the milling guests becoming nothing more than moving smudges. Their eyes water, stinging from the ferocity of the wind, tears freezing on their cheeks. Only the mark remains clear—this tall, proud, laughing man, blind to the fate that will befall him in a matter of seconds.

For all the untold strengths the gods have granted us, we have our limits. Regardless of whether we are Eleneid, human, dwarven. Blood matters not. We are all the same fragile creatures. We bleed the same. Die the same. Hardy, but brittle. Strong, but delicate. Fierce, but frail.

Uncle’s words. So long ago.

Time slows. Demophen rests a hand on his spouse’s shoulder, turning away in the midst of speech, his attention drawn by sudden movement. Behind him, a young girl leaps over a stone bench, clutching a small toy to her chest. She stops, dark eyes wide as she spots the bladed shadow tumbling from the sky. A question on her lips, innocent and curious, devoid of any understanding of the fate that is about to befall her father.

The child. The daughter. Seven years old.

There are a thousand ways or more to take a life, Ves, but you need only one. One cut. Quick and simple. One cut, and life will drain. Not all wounds can be healed. Even the most talented of brightwardens cannot bring back the dead.

Time stills. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of their mind, a memory sparks. The pits of the Narrows, red rock closing in around them, blue skies achingly out of reach. Phantoms in the air with dark wings and dark blades. They were about her age then, were they not?

Strike clean. Strike true. Life must be respected, even in death. To prolong undue suffering is the way of mercenaries and murderers. That is not what we are.

Time stops. The husband caught unawares, smile lines creasing with good-natured laughter. The child’s mouth open, the winged horse about to fall from her hands. Demophen frozen mid-turn, the affection in his eyes fading as he follows his daughter’s gaze.

He looks up.

Ves’ wings snap wide, pulling them out of the dive at the last second. They slam feet-first into Demophen, striking him in the chest, and he crumples beneath their weight. He collapses on the tiles, drowning in a sea of red and white robes, too tangled in his own garments to resist. They land on top of him, their knee pressing into his chest, a dagger slashing for his throat. His eyes widen. The last flare of frightened life before it is severed. They know it well.

Their hand stops.

The child’s shriek pierces their ears. She screams and she screams and she screams, the vibrations shattering them to the bone. They are frozen in place, pain spiking in deep within that intolerable place in their head. The dagger clatters to the tiles and they reel back, slamming their hands to sides of their face. Damp, sticky wetness lurches within the insides of their ears—

A wave of power hits them in the chest, throwing them clear across the courtyard. Their wings snap open, catching them at the last moment, and they land hard in a crouch half a foot from the southern wall, shadowed by the balcony a storey above. They grunt and raise their head, a curse snarling on their lips as they try to make sense of what has happened. Mere seconds have passed since they fell from the sky and now they are disarmed and their mark is alive. It has been a very long time since they have failed their first strike.

They inhale a ragged breath, hazel eyes scanning the scene before them. Guests scatter for the exits, spilling food and drink as they clamber over each other for the fastest way out. Some are frozen in place, mouths open, their terrified eyes on the sky as if waiting for a second assassin to fall from the heavens. A noble in red scoops the screaming child into their arms and catapults over the decorative foliage, running for the doors. The child clutches at her rescuer, tears streaming down her face, her dark eyes boring into their own as she is carried away.

Air whistles in their ear and Ves spins to the side instinctively, shielding themself with a wing. A bolt glances off the bronze feathers and clatters to the ground.

Arbalists on the upper levels, levying their crossbows at the courtyard below. Not good. Ves may not be as vulnerable to arrows and bolts as other aeda, but the presence of any archer makes flight risky. They will have to deal with them. Where the fuck did they come from? There was no mention of additional guards in the reports—

Shit.

The minstrels, outed for the mercenaries they are. An unsurprising ploy—they should have suspected as much the moment they saw them on the balcony. Whoever hired them must be paranoid enough to plan for the worst or suspected the mark would be targeted tonight. Either way, this is a mess for the client. They have one job and one job only: kill Demophen Amestris.

Across the courtyard, the meissant lies crumpled on the tile, one hand clutching his heart, the other outstretched. Summoning such a concentrated blast of disruption magic must have winded him. He should never have gotten the chance.

Why the hell did they hesitate?

Above, a spiderweb of twisted scarlet lines crack across the invisible dome, plunging the courtyard into scarlet darkness. A gap in the network ripples visibly, marking the spot where they pierced through the wards. An alarum rings, the reverberations echoing through the estate. The source is deep within the house—they saw it on the plans—and far out of reach. It will be up to Ren to silence it before it alerts the city guard.

Five minutes at the most.

Ves grits their teeth. Their dagger glitters on the ground between them and their target, well within range of the arbalists. Demophen is struggling to his feet now, clutching at his husband. One dancer launches himself off the dais and rushes towards them, the glimmer of a brightwarden’s ward expanding outwards in a small bubble. The other draws a throwing knife from her coiffed hair, turning swiftly towards Ves with a dangerous gleam in her eye.

This is no longer the clean job the client wanted. They have no choice now.

Make quick work of it.

A snarl buzzes in the back of their throat. They throw out a hand, bronze light emanating around their fingers, and pull on the nearby crossbow bolt. It snaps into their hand like metal snapping to a lodestone, the wood shaft burning their palm. Thumbing the tip, they shut their ears to the shouts and screams and surge ahead.

A shower of crossbow bolts fall from the sky like rain. They push off the ground and throw a powerful pulse upwards. The bolts strike it, slowing their trajectory to a stop. Then they rebound, shooting back the way they came. A distant, nauseating thud resounds in their ears as the bolts hit their targets, the screams of pain that follow an unimportant addition.

Ves vaults over the fountain and lands on the far side of the dancer, gripping the bolt like a dagger. She spins as they lash out, darting out of the way, their strike hits nothing but air. She smirks, dark eyes triumphant, and flicks her wrist. The throwing knife glints and disappears in the dim light, its edge so thin it may as well be invisible. But the vibrations of its passage are too familiar, too easy to discern.

A wing snaps out and down, catching the knife between the bronze feathers. They rip it free and fling it at the dancer’s throat. It strikes true, plunging deep into the base of her throat. She drops to the floor with surprise in her eyes and a gurgle of blood on her lips.

There is too much momentum to stop now. Metal, blood, and wind. They are a force, they are a gale—unstoppable, relentless, unforgiving.

They leap over her fallen body, half-running, half-flying, and push outwards without a second thought. The screams of the remaining guests ring in their ears as they crash together and tumble over another like pebbles sliding down a slope.

The second dancer—the brightwarden memorable in their vivid serithan—glances over his shoulder, his shield half-formed. It’s too easy to take advantage of his distraction. They throw the bolt, propelling it ahead with enough magical force to rival a crossbow. It sprouts between his eyes with a sickening crunch and he drops, his ward evaporating in the instance of his death.

Ves reaches the centre of the courtyard and their foot connects with their fallen dagger. They kick it into the air and pull it into their hand without a second thought, gripping the familiar hilt with ease. They push off the ground and ascend into the air, arcing across the courtyard like a bird of prey. The alarum blares in their ears, the red lights dancing in their peripheral vision. How much time has passed since it was triggered? Seconds? Minutes? Either way, Ren should have silenced it by now.

Where is he?

It doesn’t matter. Let the alarm continue. Demophen will be dead and their business will be done here.

“Wait!”

The scream cuts through their thoughts. Ves pulls out of the dive and stills mid-air, bathed in red light. Their dagger lies heavily in their hand, its sharp edge lethal and bright. Air rushes over them as they hover, the mechanical joints of their great wings whirring with every flap. They know what they must look like to the cowering men below: myth and monster brought to life, come to dole out punishment. Not a judge, but an executioner.

It is the dwarf who has thrown himself on his hands and knees before them, protecting the exhausted Demophen. One more person in their way. One more person electing to die.

The chapter will be furious. Because Uncle will be furious. Because his superiors will be furious. This is sloppy, careless, the work of an amateur. And the Erebian League does not have time for amateurs.

“You know what I have come for,” they call. “Stand aside.”

The dwarf hesitates, fear in his eyes, but he is immovable. His hands shake, his shaved head shines with sweat, his mouth trembles, too terrified to call on whatever magic he has at his disposal. They can name more than one Swiftmark who would laugh at his desperation and call him pathetic.

Ves knows better. This is not an act of weakness, but one of love. True love, perhaps. Most would choose to run. It takes a special fool to stay.

“I cannot,” he says. “I will not.”

“You cannot stop this.”

“I beg you, please. Leave us be—”

“No.” The word vanishes on the wind. They cannot be reasoned with, they cannot be bought. There is nothing here but their blade, their mark, and their duty. Even so, if there are things they wish they could tell him. How heroism borne of love is futile. How he will orphan his children if he continues down this path. They have already suffered the loss of one parent, and they will suffer a second. They do not need to suffer a third. “Stand aside or you will fall as surely as he will.”

There is mercy here. Take it, you fool. I will only offer it thrice.

“What do you want? Crowns? Favours? Guarantees? House Amestris makes a powerful friend.”

“We are beyond the need of powerful friends. Stand aside.”

The second offer.

Understanding crosses his face. “You’re an agent of the League.”

“I am.”

A voice croaks behind him. Demophen stirs weakly, still crumpled on the floor. “Theren, please.” His voice wheezes, his breath brittle. The hit to his chest must have injured his ribs. “Do as they say—”

The dwarf shakes his head, his fear bleeding to anger. “Then tell me,” he shouts. “Who hired you? Who seeks his death? Our ruin?”

“I cannot say. Stand aside.”

The third.

“A name, please. That is all I ask—”

It should not have come to this.

A shiver creeps across the nape of their neck. Familiar, like an embrace. The dark corners of the courtyard, now absent of wisps, coalesce in their vision. It is impossible to tell where the natural dark ends and the dark violet of his magic begins, if it is even there at all. Ren will appear only when he is needed. His is the realm of shadows and silence; theirs is of light and clamour.

Glinting metallic wings snap close and Ves plummets from the sky. Their blade descends. Theren Amestris sinks to his knees, hands pressed against the scarlet gap gored in his throat, and crumples face-first on the ground. Ves lands on blood-soaked tile and steps over his corpse, their gaze locked on their petrified mark.

To his credit, Demophen does not weep. He does not cry. With his final ounce of strength, he raises a hand and pushes a weakened wave of energy outwards. It rushes over Ves, its power barely palpable, faintly moving their loose hair. They blink, unbothered, and continue their steady walk onwards.

The end of a life is a strange thing to witness. The terror in the eyes, the pathetic final struggle, and—at last—acceptance of their fate. Though some of their chapter brethren delight in the final stages of the hunt, it puts a foul taste in Ves’ mouth. They despise when it comes to this.

Strike clean. Strike true. Those have ever been Uncle’s words. They failed him tonight. There is nothing clean or true about Demophen Amestris’ death.

The alarm blares. The red light glimmers. Demophen crawls away, scuttling across bloodied tile, one last attempt to escape. Unusual for a meissant to put up such resistance. The servants of the Meissandium are more amenable than most, understanding their fate and reaching for the Hexatheon in their final moments. But he slips and scrambles, dragging himself on hands and knees as far away as he can manage.

Futile.

By the time he reaches the fountain, his robes are smeared with blood and dirt. He grips the lip of the fountain and pulls himself up, standing shakily on his own two feet as he faces his doom. Abandoned by his guests, his family, with those who remain powerless to do anything by look on. What was to be a night of celebration has turned into a night of horror.

Ves’ blade is heavy in their hand, its edge dripping with unwanted blood.

“I know you,” he says. “I know who sent you.”

“Then you know more than I.”

“Ah. Of course. League sensibilities. Keeping their tools blind.”

The tip of their wing flicks impatiently. “I am not blind, meissant. I know what my actions have wrought.”

“Do you? And yet you continue with unquestioned devotion, freeing yourself of any guilt. Anyone else would have broken beneath the weight of their conscience.”

“Think what you will. I have no obligation to explain my conscience to you.”

Demophen steps back, his knees hitting the edge of the fountain. The terror he displayed earlier has vanished, replaced by cold defiance. “Abandon this farce, Ves Sithia,” he says. “Before you are lost forever.”

Ves snarls. To hear their name on the lips of a target is new. Unusual. He has made this personal, and that is a dangerous ground to walk.

They pause, the trickle of the courtyard fountain pulsing in their ears. The alarm continues to shriek, the web of red light refusing to fade. Where is Ren? How did he fail to disable the alarm? It has gone on for too long now; their five minute allowance has run its course and all they have to show for it is a handful of dead bystanders who were stupid enough to interfere and a mark who is decidedly not dead.

Ves has approached their life with conviction and certainty. It is unusual for them to be left in confusion, but tonight…

Tonight nothing makes sense. There is a horrible feeling deep in their gut that something is slipping away from them, but they cannot say what.

Mist coalesces in the corner of their eye. It lingers in the shadows, spilling across the tile. The hair raises on the back of their neck.

Finish it. Finish it and report to Uncle and maybe he can make sense of this mess.

Ves surges forwards. Their wings flare, carrying them as they push off the ground and propel through the air. Demophen waits, vulnerable and exposed, his dark eyes locked on them. He will not try to stop them. He has accepted the inevitability of his death, like all the others.

They raise their blade.

It glints, flashing in the red light.

It descends.

Dark violet mist bursts into existence, coalescing into a man. The remains of his portal clings to his dark clothes as he appears in front of Demophen, shielding him from the strike. Beneath his hood, a familiar pale face and dark eyes bore into Ves’ own, simmering with cold hatred.

In the moment of recognition, their mind shrieks one word.

Stop.

Ves collides with Ren, their dagger slicing across his throat in a strike meant for someone else. They crash into the ground, Ren’s limp form beneath them, his eyes glazed over. Their mind fuzzes, staring in confusion at the line of red on his pale skin shimmering like rubies. His breath is shallow, his chest hardly rising, but his eyes are as bright as ever.

His mouth moves, but they do not hear. It doesn’t matter. They know the shape of their name on his lips intimately.

The dagger remains aloft, their fingers pressed so deeply into the hilt their nailbeds have turned white. Their hand is shaking. For the first time, the weapon does not feel like an extension of themself. It is foreign. Alien. A sickness to be expunged. They would throw it away if they could—

He did this.

A moment of clarity. A moment of anger. This was no accident, this was on purpose.

Ves drops the blade and it clatters to the ground a foot from Ren’s head. “Why?” they spit, grasping him by the front of his tunic and lifting him up. He flops uselessly, too weak to resist, too weak to hold himself upright.

A faint smile—no, a smirk—cracks his lips. Blood trickles across his throat, pulsing from the wound. He’s lucky—in their confusion, they struck badly. A poor cut. A weak cut. His life remains in the balance. Should they be thankful for this? “For… me,” he croaks.

They curse and their fingers brush the base of their throat. His blood is bright. Thick. How did he let them do this him? “Explain.”

“This… is over, Ves. Done.”

“What the hell are you on about? What have you done?”

His dark eyes meet theirs, the smile only growing stronger. Proud. Satisfied. Fulfilled. His lips move, but no sound comes out. His mangled throat will not allow it. There will be no explanations.

The alarm shrieks in their ears, throbbing, throbbing, throbbing. But there is more, something behind it. A subtle change in the air, the distant rush of a dozen feet on tiled floor. They are out of time. The city guard is here.

Get out. Get out. Get OUT.

Anger burns in their veins. With a snarl, they shove Ren to the ground and kick off, shooting into the air. They rise quickly, steadily, the scarlet web searing their vision as they hurtle towards the gap in the wards. They push through and out to the other side, wings furled wide as they vault through the air, up becoming down and down becoming up. They drop onto a nearby roof, winded and rattled, the impact sending pain spiralling through their legs and spine.

Below, Ren lies crumpled on the ground, their bloodied blade discarded at his side. Demophen Amestris remains collapsed by the fountain, still clinging to life. They should have killed him before taking flight, but it is too late now. Their mistake. Ren’s mistake.

He got in the way.

It will not matter. The client will be furious, and so too will Uncle and the League. Someone will have to bear the punishment.

A deep ache pangs in muscle and bone that no longer exist. Ves’ wings twitch, the metal mechanisms scraping against each other. They crouch and cling to the shadows, folding their wings tight against their body as they watch the scene unfold below.

The guard floods the courtyard, bursting out of every nook and cranny like insects shaken from their nest. They flood the perimeter, some rushing to the bodies of the dead, others to those who remain alive, and work with cold efficiency. Demophen is helped to his feet and ushered inside the estate. Ren lies unresponsive on the ground. Ves’ lip curls upward as they watch them strap his hands in glowing chains. They know the kind—vile things that disrupt natural magic, preventing dampening or outright preventing its use. When he comes to, he will not be able to portal to safety.

Gods know where they will take him now. Gods know what they will do with him. Gods know what secrets he will reveal.

A League operative would rather die than be imprisoned.

Was that his intention? It couldn’t be, could it? That would make him…

Their hands are shaking, their fingers sticky with blood. It coats their skin, lingering, absorbing into their flesh. Ren’s blood—and not Demophen Amestris’. How did it come to this? A world where it was Ren they struck down, and not their mark?

He planned this. All of it. And you were too blind to see.

“Shut up,” they hiss.

He betrayed you. He betrayed Uncle. He betrayed the League.

Ves snarls and kicks off the roof, ascending into a cloudless night sky. Twilight has come and gone, and a bright moon now rises above the city, casting its silver glow across the rooftops. A harsh breeze rips at their hair and tearing tears from their eyes, comforting in its familiarity. It may be a cold comfort, but it is the only comfort they have.

A wordless shriek rips from their throat and they give themself to the wind.