The Cracked Hourglass

The Cracked Hourglass - Part I

Chapter 1: Heist

22nd Faebruary 235 F.E, Aletiaburg, The Aletion Union

Aletiaburg, capital of the Aletion Union; the moonlight was cold and harsh. The snows of deep winter were falling on the mountain chains far away, the clouds had cleared and the freckles of thousands of stars were glinting in the deep black abyss far above. The city itself, which was like a lost wild animal which had wandered into places unknown, was nestled on the River Yangorod, a great snake of shimmering blue water which ran northwards, emptying at the city’s port into the expanse of the Northern Reaches. The city was rustic and tough, filled with narrow streets, choking factories and furnaces, smelters and metalworks. The canals were dirty and wide, filled with depressed black barges which carried goods and trade to far-off ports and foreign lands. The townhouses were quiet, lights obscured by thick curtains or barriers, the tall, monolithic blocks of rooms for the poor workers and peasants looming over them like the disc on an eclipse. In the centre, smug and grand over the destitution which spread around it, was the Grand Chancellery, the home of the most powerful man in the country, the Chancellor; an insect, a criminal, who had the people right where he wanted them, terrified and fearful of what lay over their borders, making them work harder and harder under the iron fist of the police he himself controlled. It was on this particular night, this wintry gloom that one of the officers of such a police force was standing bolt upright in what looked like a normal and unspectacular courtyard. His name was Officer Petroa Vlakovic. He wore the standard issue uniform, jet-black trousers, jet-black jacket with polished, metallic silver buttons speckled with rust, a hat which had the red rim of the Guard rung around it, and a belt which contained not only a menacing sharp-sword in a holster, but a newly issued steam-pistol, which was hissing quietly and clicking gently in its compartment. Petroa also had, wrapped around his shoulders, a thick black cloak, normal practice considering the temperatures of the northern capital. He had been standing in this courtyard for around four hours now, keeping warm by rubbing his hands together and breathing on his gloved hands, his eyes darting towards the shadows, his nerves awake and his senses attuned, ready to apprehend anyone who tried to get into whatever building lay behind him and the rusted iron gate he stood in front of. The keys jangled on his belt as he shook and shivered. He took pride in his duty, did young Petroa Vlakovic. His father had been a captain of the guard, and much like him he was a patriotic and devoted servant to his nation. He marched at the parades, cheered at the songs, sung with the anthem. That seemed a million miles away from this cold and somewhat depressing post in the centre. But he had a job to do. And for the first time he was about to be tested. For a split second, Petroa looked upwards to the rooftops and chimneys above him. It was there he saw the slightest movement, the slightest change in the shadows, which made him doubt he was alone. He barrelled back to the gate, taking out the pistol, and holding it firmly in his hands. When he spoke, his voice was cold and harsh.

“Who is there? Do not play games with me” - the accent was sharp and crisp, that of his people. He walked slowly out into the centre of the cobbled courtyard, his pistol scanning the sky above him. “Show yourself! I can call for reinforcements if I am attacked in any way! Do not make this difficult!” he growled to nothingness. Petroa did not notice what was slowly forming by the gate. As he went back towards it and turned his back on the nondescript iron bars, the metal seemed to shimmer and converge into shapes: arms, legs, feet, hands. A tuft of hair, the scent of skin and the curve of a hip. A few seconds later, obscured in the darkness, someone stood, a gleaming grin invisible in the sheer blackness. Also not visible was the blade which they held in their hand, and it was still not visible when it skimmed across Petroa’s throat. He gurgled as blood poured from the open wound, his throat cut, his skin paling, and his mind failing to comprehend what had just happened. As he fell backwards to the bars, the life seeping out of him, the last thing he saw was the beautiful face of a woman standing over him. Surely she could not have killed him, a most cruel and terrible act? “You… you… killed… me?” he spoke, spitting blood through his lips, trembling and quivering. The woman grinned again.