The Chessboard Undead Prince

Chapter the Seventh

The weary assassin longed for respite. His body, weary from the weight of deeds done in the name of shadows, yearned to surrender to the embrace of the feathered comforter. Into the cocoon of warmth. It was tempting, but he could not rest yet.

He reached for his knives' sheaths and slid the blades free, each crusted with thick blood. Each blade was a silent witness to the stories of bloodshed and betrayal that had stained its surface of whispered tales. Each blade was slightly curved, tapering to a point. They were Moorish shamshir knives, their silver gleaming dully in the dim light, bore witness to a thousand silent screams, their delicate tracery a macabre dance of elegance

He carried them to the bathroom and scrubbed the blades with water and a soft cloth. Water cascaded over the blades like tears shed for the lost souls they had claimed, carrying with it the sins of the past, blackened and heavy, like the heart of a traitor. With each stroke of the cloth, the black flakes began to show the purity of their silver-blue surface

black with flakes as they were wiped from the silvery blue of the metal. He dried the blades and anointed the blades with oil, a solemn ritual of preservation. For in the world of shadows, where life was but a fleeting illusion and death an ever-present spectre, the edge of a blade was the only truth that mattered. He inspected the glaive and axe, their edges dulled by the trials of combat — a spar with Elise, fellow assassins, or proving intruders in the grounds. He knew that their time would come again soon.

He replaced the knives to their leather sheaths, unbundled his scabbard belt, and reached for the packing case. Lifting out the ornate gown, he spread it out on the bed. The gown's bodice was inlaid with the tiniest pearls and crystals of diamonds. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a set of solid silver drop earrings. White diamonds surrounded the lumps of silver, tapering into a massive teardrop. Liberated from Dahlia's corpse.

He placed them next to the gown. to complete the look, he would need a mask, crystal slippers, and a diamond tiara. Perhaps a visit to the jewellers?

But for now, the night belonged to sleep, elusive and fleeting as a wisp of smoke. He'd been awakened from a blissful sleep at the bloody crack of dawn and now he required sleep.

"Ashe! Neesa!" he called.

The door opened and two girls entered, barely past womanhood. At thirteen Neesa and Ashe were twin sisters, destined for slavery to the brothels by their slave merchant. That trade was illegal by the King, but the thieves, murderers, and crooks of Estela had created an underground den for borough fights, gambling, and courtesans. Their mother had died in the cells, and the girls knew there was no way to escape — until Adonis had seen them. He'd offered the merchant triple the gold for each of them. Both girls had been cleaned properly, their rags burned, and dressed in deep blue dresses. the colour of the Assassins of Estela. On their backs Adonis had burned a small red heart to tell anyone whom they belonged to. They now served him as personal maids. Not even the King could lay a finger on them.

In repayment for saving their lives from death, Ashe and Neesa had sworn their lives to him. And they served him faithfully, without questioning what he wished. No one harmed them, even the King was displeased that his Executioner had wasted good gold for low lives to serve him.

"Milord?" They curtsied deeply.

He frowned at the cut ribbons from the corset. Oh well. It couldn't be helped. "Wash the bloodstains from this and find more cording for the back."

Ashe took the dress and she left the room. Neesa remained. Adonis strode to his glass desk and penned a missive to the jeweller of Saratha. He signed his title with a flourish at the end and handed it to Neesa.