István looked around at the deserted shrine, his hand wrapped around his old, beautiful Tabitian salt knife, turning it carefully in his fist. His feet tapped against the cold, overgrown marble slabs as he waited patiently for his contact. After a while, he heard footsteps resonating from deep within the shadowy forest.
Soon, István realized that not just a single pair of footsteps were approaching, but what seemed like a whole army marching in lockstep—like heavy rain pattering against a window. Calmly, István turned to face the source of the noise. A few seconds later, he saw the person responsible for the echoing.
With eyes like luminescent citrines, the tall, dark figure could only be described as enigmatic. Seemingly levitating, the silhouette hovered about an inch off the ground, dressed almost entirely in black, save for a majestic crimson cloak. Their face was obscured, partly by mist and partly by a Khazar steppe mask, reminiscent of those worn by the Alan khans of the northern Caucasus mountains. By its side stood a thin, handsome blade with a deep purple hue, like a sliver of liquid midnight.
The mysterious creature advanced menacingly, but István did not flinch. His exterior remained calm, though his heart pounded in his chest. Then, the shadow spoke.
"István!" The figure called to him, in a wavering, ethereal voice. István thought he recognized it—but he couldn't be sure.
"Is that—" István started, but the figure cut him off.
"Yes, István. It's me." The person—István assumed it was a person, because it was speaking—laughed, a low, ghostly laugh. "How does it feel—to be reunited with your brother after all these years?"
A deep wave of realization washed over István. He gasped and slowly opened his mouth, as if to say something. "Taksony!" István yelled. "I thought you were dead!"
"So did the world, István. But my son is the voivode now. And if the world believes that I am dead, then the scales are tipped in my favor."
"What do you mean?" István asked warily.
"I mean," Taksony paused, considering his words. "How could you accuse a dead man of a crime? For example, theft, fabrication, or—" He coughed. "Murder."
"So you're going to kill me?"
"Tell Tengeri that we have a sharp one here. You were always the astute twin, weren't you?"
"You won't kill me. I'm your twin. Killing me is like killing a part of yourself."
"Then again," Taksony drew his sword. "Maybe not." István drew his knife. "I was always destined for greatness, István! And for you—obscurity."
"I don't want to hurt you!" István said, his hand shaking.
"Face the truth, István!" Taksony shouted. "It's you or me."
"I won't accept it! I won't kill you!"
"It doesn't matter anymore, brother. I've already won. And there's nothing you can do about it—it's fate..."
