A Game of Cards

Chapter I: Mace Hayes Bloodbreak

When I was just ten years old, I saw my father decapitated in the most unglorified manner in front of my eyes.

I still remember how the metallic scent of freshly spilled blood drifted in the air, the silence of the battlefield, neither side daring to let out so much as breath too loud. The bodies that were scattered around the scene wore mostly rose-gold armor, paired with red cloaks, with only a few black-cloaked soldiers mixed amongst them, already maggot eaten. Not a flicker of attention was spared for the dead, all the eyes focused intently on the two figures in front of the legions of both sides, observing their every move.

My father was one of them, the one that had led the Heartisian red army into the war. I had stood behind him then, and I had felt the heat of his body leave my side as he walked away from his own soldiers to the army on the other side, in front of a woman in silver armor, the grand commanding general of Spades. My father had not even glanced my way then, only patting my head once before he walked towards the troops of ink black, his laughter-loving face bearing an expression as cold as the general on the other side. Standing right in front of the General Constantine Ying of the Spadian army, his broad shoulders towered over her petite figure, yet it was he who fell to his knees, begging mercy. It was quite the shock for my younger self, who had never seen my father so much as apologize for stepping on someone's toes, much less pleading for the enemy in war to spare his life. The rest of the Heartisian army watched on in disgust and shame as their grand commanding general groveled at the feet of the Spadian General.

The horror I felt then was indescribable. Even amongst children, General Ying's ruthless reputation was infamous. At that moment, I knew my father was going to die, head bowed, on his knees, cowardly and foolish. But instead of staking her sword through his heart – where he may have still died valiantly at the hands of an equal – the cruel general had decided to play one last game. In the stillness of the battlefield, even her quiet and calm voice echoed so that her words rang clear in the ears of every soldier.

"Surrender?" she laughed, sending a chill down my spine. Dread pitted in my stomach. "Let us see what my daughter says, shall we? Should the battle end with mercy, my dear Onyx? Or should the recreant face his punishment?"

From behind the general peeked a young girl, black eyes wide and innocent, cheeks pale and round. One look at her, and I dared to hope that there was still a chance my father would live. My young, naïve mind was incapable of believing that a child as old as myself was capable of murder, much less one with such a pure smile on her face. Looks could be deceiving. The girl stepped right in front of my father so that he was now kneeling to her, a girl barely a third of his age, the ultimate insult. I was a fool think that Onyx could be capable of any kindness.

Without so much as a breath of hesitation, she unsheathed a dagger with a blade of shadow obsidian and cut my father's head clean off. My scream was lost in midst of all the chaos, and the Spadian soldiers marched directly into our ranks, leaving only a trail of crimson blood and capes behind. There were more than one thousand Heartisian soldiers that had entered the battle that day, only thirteen survived. Strangely, what terrified me most about that day was not how my father's head rolled to my feet, his sharp eyes turning blank – I forgot about that scene soon after, it was not a memory I wanted to return to. It was how the innocent smile melted away from Onyx's face, her expression becoming desolate and hollow the moment her blade met my father's neck. That sudden change in her expression, it was like that of the devil's, fleeting joy, replaced by a face of malice. It terrified me, but like the hypocrite I am, I spent years after the incident mastering the same two-faced art, replaying the moment over and over in my head until I had the perfect rhythm of elation then scorn.

The moon had turned a dangerous shade of red that night, as if it was gorging itself on the blood of the fallen soldiers. A blood moon, the same one that the war was named after. Then I learned that I was an Impersonation. What a mess that was.