Black Reign

Astryd

The ring of steel against steel is a prominent, welcoming sound that greets my ears within less than a meters distance from the Sayaadi complex.

Trees line the gravel path I walk, the harmonies of the forest a familiar but distant tune in my ears. The light of dusk sprinkles down upon me, highlighting my every movement in soft hues of orange, yellow and pink. I feel naked, walking in the open like this. It bothers me little, though, for I am accustomed to the habitual stroll towards the sturdy guild before me.

Inhabited by criminals of every kind, the Sayaadi complex would be an odd place for anyone but the assassins to call home—one only we would be comfortable calling a home.

Beneath the gilded rooftop of the sprawling complex lives larcenists, assassins, traitors, conmen, archers...the latter of which currently reside in the treetops above me.

The subtle hiss of their cloaks would be mistaken for wind by any other, but not by their Heiress. I have been trained to recognise the subtle differences between the groan of the wind and one produced by an archer's bowstring.

I angle my head upwards, lifting a clawed hand that reveals little of the rich brown skin beneath, to shield my eyes from the piercing light. I do not stop walking, instead let them see me. They still do not stand down.

Something in my chest—pride, is it?—alights at their caution. At their undying loyalty to the Sayaadi. Without hesitation, I flick off my hood, doing so purposefully with both hands so my claws catch the light. Almost instantly, they lower their bows.

Although the list of sinners and criminals is endless, I cannot help but love them. These broken, ridiculed, deceitful people have become my family.

Unlike the rest of the guild, the archers of the Sayaadi are bedecked in nothing more than a simple black to blend in with the shade of the treetops. And, of course, the Sayaadi necklace. They are the sole group that do not wear the traditional white and pale gold.

My stomach is gripped by an invisible beast that digs deep its claws into my gut, bringing about a delicate grumble that is all too loud for my liking.

One of my men snorts behind me.

With the weak light of dusk bathing us, we look like wraiths with our pale-gold-lined white hoods and ivory overcoats that hang to the backs of our knees. We wear dark tunics with straps crisscrossing our chests that hold weapons of varying size and thickness. Ebony assassins leathers wrap around our legs tightly, disappearing beneath the midnight colour of our boots which bring about a satisfying crunch as we travel the path to my guild.

We walk in a triangular formation with me at the head, leading with an uplifted chin—or, at least, my chin was uplifted.

My eyes scan my assassins' frames and faces. Although masked, I have spent enough time with these five to know the difference between the composition of one's jaw compared to another's. It takes little time for me to identify who had laughed. I lift a clawed hand and make a vulgar gesture over my shoulder at him, though my lips curve in a smile.

The man, unsurprisingly, is my second in command: Ferran. He is of slender build but packed with unseen muscle that could tear apart the most powerful of men. His eyes, if he were not hooded, would have revealed themselves to be a stunning contrast to my near-black, for they are grey and utterly whimsical.