Aligning the Forgotten ✓

Chapter 2: Renit

The way a turtle shoves itself back into a dark, protective shell, Renit pulls the cloak tighter over his features and keeps his head down. To make himself appear weak and ineffective, he hunches his shoulders, drawing them in closer to his body to get rid of the mass the guards are used to looking for. Now he's an ordinary slum walker, those that venture through the night in search of the unsuspecting.

Bits of conversation from the guards echoes off the stone walls of the buildings close in on them from either side of the street. Not enough space for five guards and Renit, trying to keep himself as far away as possible.

He counts the knives strapped to him, over and over in his head. Two in each boot, two strapped to his back. That's all he has, no one in the slums is willing to sell a sword for a cheap price and he's hardly been able to make any money. Showing his face in the pits, winning that money would not bode well as everyone goes there—even the king's closest supporters. Renit had planned to watch from a dark corner, shielding his face from the viewers.

A pounding erupts in his chest, a warning that if he doesn't get out of there soon, he'll panic and do something he's not supposed to. The guards are so sunken into their own conversation that Renit hopes they won't notice him or ask to see any bit of identification. He doesn't have that, either. Grinding his teeth together to steel his nerves, Renit moves to the shadowed corner of the street and shoves his hands in his pockets.

One guard in the group snickers, stumbling over his own two feet, and the other shoves him forward. They're drunk. At least one of them is. Renit's chest loosens its tightness, and he grants himself enough freedom to glance out of the corner of his eye around the thick fabric of his cloak, to examine the guards. Another mistake. One of them is already looking right at him, squinting into the dark.

Renit snaps his stare forward once more and stares at the stone floor of the streets. His boot splashes into a puddle of urine.

"Hey!" The guard shouts. His words are clear, Renit realizes. But he keeps walking in hopes the guard will ignore he was ever there in the first place. "Hey, you! I'm talking to you!"

Renit stops, boots scraping against the loose stone. This is it. This is where it'll end.

The other guards are already taking formation, moving to block his path. They're not as dumb as Renit thought, in fact, they appear to be much more effective than those in the castle. They're prepared for anything, especially a fight from someone that carries too much resemblance of a warrior to be an innocent slum walker.

"I'm just passing through," Renit mumbles from underneath the hood of his cloak.

"No shit, freak," the guard snaps. He's the leader of the squad, carries the most age amongst the rest. A gold pommeled sword given directly from his father hangs from the guard's belt. Renit would recognize those symbols anywhere. "Show me some identification."

Renit's hand clench inside his pockets. He doesn't have identification. This will have to end here, then. Underneath a cloak of shadow, Renit raises his gaze to meet the three guards standing in front of him, keeping their distance. The other two, including their leader, keep to his back.

Moonlight casts across his features and the one that stumbled, drunk off his ass, squints to get a better look. The corner of his mouth tugs up in confusion. "The prince," he whispers.

Before anyone can move, breathe, or blink, Renit's knife cuts through the air and slams into the guard's forehead. He drops like a rock, back slamming against the stone street, cut and ruined after the people of the slums had their way with it.

Guards rush at the banished prince, realigning too quick for his own good. He ducks out of the way of slashing swords, their blades ricocheting off the walls as Renit uses them as his fault. He rips the other knife free from his back, the first now leaking blood from that guard's head.