A Shattered Dawn

Chapter 1

"Who would you like to die for tonight?"

The full moon shines on the poor man's face through the open window. I climbed through it a few moments ago, to his everlasting surprise. The sashes whip in the midnight wind while the summer breeze caresses my cheeks. His face is white with terror as I angle my bejeweled blade, and it scrapes over his neck with a bored laziness I have perfected through years of killing.

I'm sure I look like death incarnate and live up to the names that so many call me, or at least I hear them whimpered before I grant them the freedom of death. The Silent Reaper, The Shadow, the list goes on and on. The hood draped over my head shrouds my features in shadow, and combined with the moonlight, I'm sure the very image of me induces terror. No one knows what I truly look like. I'm sure the legends are horrifying.

"Would you like to die for me? A lover, perhaps? I suppose you don't have any family left," I drawl, cruelty dripping from my words. It's not true, I haven't killed his family. He was in my way. I only wanted some food.

"Why-Why are you h-here?"

The trembling man thinks he can talk his way out of this.

Little does he know, talking seldom deals as much damage as blades can. I tell him as much, but he is desperate for survival.

Like all of us, on pure instinct, he only wants to survive another day. He will do anything to live, to breathe, and will talk until he has no words left to speak if it means I will allow him to live.

"I-I can explain... Please!"

I can't help but laugh softly at his pathetic excuses. I don't care what he tells me. He and his family are criminals, like all the other houses I've looted, like the people I've cut down like stalks of wheat, and taken whatever I pleased from their residences.

I don't have much time now. I steal a glance behind me and out the back window. I can see my train approaching over the horizon.

By the time I turn back, the man is gone.

I curse softly and flip my blade in my hand with renewed urgency.

I don't have time to keep playing with my prey, to let him have a taste of the terror he caused for so many. A killer—that's what this man is.

So am I, but I do not kill for the same reasons as he does. I kill those who deserve it, and even then, I know it's not morally right. I don't care. Survival is more important to me than doing what is right.

I simply do what I must to survive.

I creep down the dark hallway adjacent to the man's room. The boards of this ancient house creak even under my feather–light tread, and I sweep my gaze through the rooms I pass, not daring to exhale too loudly for fear of the stranger knowing that I lurk so close to where he hides.

I hear the high–pitched whine of a door's hinges being swung open with an urgency fueled by fear, and I spin, knife flashing.

My fingers release the handle of my blade before I see him, and as he tries to run down the hall, my blade embeds itself in his back. He falls to his knees, and I can feel the floor shudder beneath my own feet.

I waste no time gathering my knife and rushing downstairs to collect as much food as I can carry from his family's stores.

I slip out a window, silent as the wind, and disappear into the night.