II - Sigh of Smoke

Chapter 43 - Wings of Stone

-Atlanta-

The deep, hollowing cry from the warning signal was like her own bones shattering inside her, a tremor so loud and grieving that it made her eyes shoot up to the assassin stalking towards them, unsheathing the curved blade at her hip like the fangs of a predator. Atlanta cursed under her breath, trying hard not to frown at the situation.

What had she expected? Aleksandra could not make a quiet entrance, even if she had wanted to. And with Heather bringing them to a spot beneath the palace, there would not have been another way of reaching the surface unless they had used the currently dangerous Wielder tunnels, probably still crawling with Zarkarians seeking them out.

 Why was King Cragon making it so hard for them?

"Begin the trials," the assassin had said.

If it was a challenge the King wanted to provide, then a challenge was what Atlanta would accept.

Unsheathing her sword and holding it aloft in her hands, it felt as if her arm was finally complete, the blade glinting in the audience of a moonlight. At the corner of her eye she saw the tiny, flitting shadows along the towers of the palace, disappearing into the nooks and corners to blend in with the darkness cast by the gloom of the moon. There was not a cry of declaration to permeate the air.

No warriors.

As the Zarkarian assassin neared them, Atlanta felt a tug on her sleeve and—irritated—she looked down at Aleksandra's warning eyes.

"Not now," was all she whispered, before roughly dragging Atlanta in the direction of the palace. "Come on," she hissed, sprinting away from the enemy that had found, and exposed them. Bewildered, everyone started after her, shaken from their surprise at the Zarkarian woman who had perched herself on the gate, and had seemed to have aroused the kingdom from its somber rest.

Scowling, Atlanta followed after Aleksandra reluctantly, re-sheathing her sword at her hip in reluctance. The assassin behind them would still catch up if all of them ran, especially since more than half of them were unfit to outrun a Zarkarian assassin of all things. Yet Atlanta could see why Aleksandra wanted them to run. To stay and fight meant that they would soon be surrounded by others out for their lives, especially with the inevitable pause the battle would've taken. Atlanta couldn't lie to herself. She had seen the shadows, the flashing eyes in the fog of darkness, and she had known there were far too many for them to handle.

She felt frustrated, but as Aleksandra had requested, she took the lead. The closest entrance into the castle was the main one, but there was a massive door standing in the way. Mayhaps, if all of them—including the ones who were not capable of fighting—worked together, they could move the doors a little. She cursed after a moment, realizing with growing apprehension that the situation was actually far worse, since the doors opened from the inside only, so there would be no chance of them even prying it open a crack.

Thud! 

Atlanta threw a glance over her shoulder at the sound. Behind them, on his knees, sat the thirteenth ambassador. He was heaving, yellow hair pasted to his face with sweat. The assassin behind him was nearing, and in a rush Piper stopped and ran back to the fallen man, arms reaching out to pull him off the dirt.

When Raphael raised his hand, he did not take Piper's grip, and instead snapped his fingers.

The ground beneath the assassin opened up, and soundlessly she submerged underneath the earth for it to close up over her fingers, leaving but her nails above the surface. There was a soft crushing noise, then silence. Then they were running again, trying not to look back at the buried woman.