Black Reign

Astryd

A burly man with long, raggedly-cut dark hair stands in my master's study. His piercing black eyes roam the room, scanning for exits. The Demotalión mercenary Clan's co-leader: Skender. He stands before my master's desk, arms folded with a permanent scowl etched upon his lips. The stubble upon Skender's cheeks is laid upon deep brown skin in rough patches, sprinkled faintly with white.

An ageing man. One that has seen many a battle, and will for sure see many more when I have left this world.

"All right," he begins, clapping massive hands together, "let's get on with it then, Vangelis. I've got other places to be."

Usually, nobody would dare regard my Master by his first name; it would always be my lord, or your grace, or some other of the sort—but with Skender, nothing was above him. Not even my master. Though he outranks the mercenary in title, Skender challenges him with his many years, with the wisdom etched into the faint wrinkles around his eyes. For what could possibly outrank wisdom? The amount of things he has done—has seen—throughout his lifetime as a criminal will forever place the mercenary above my dearest master.

My master's face lights with amusement. "Please, don't keep us waiting."

With the King of Mercenaries' death still a fresh wound upon the treacherous past of the criminal underworld, many clans that had remained loyal to him have become outraged at the fact their beloved king is dead—that is was the assassins that had done it. The realisation of what the heads of each guild had collectively approved of as a mission for their finest assassins had begun to weigh upon my shoulders the days following. Citali's betrayal only added to it.

Citali.

The mere mention of her name, even in thought, sends tendrils of black, oily dread through my veins and into my gut where it writhes, burns. My master has yet to discover the betrayal. Whether I tell him or not remains a mystery to myself, still.

I had spent the afternoons and nights since in deep prayer to Maldara.

As Heiress my duty is to put my guild before all else, all desires whether they be selfish or not. My guild is my life, yet I am risking not only the Sayaadi, but the remaining guilds by harbouring this secret—so why am I so troubled on making this decision? Why am I so...torn?

Skender gives me a bow of his head, the action drawing me from my thoughts. "Heiress."

"My lord Skender." I bow mine in return.

He starts. "The Mercenary King and his Heir, Wilder, have now been formally put to rest and nobody suspects us of any wrongdoing."

"What of their reaction towards the guilds?" Asks my master. I bite back a wince. Oh, how I long for Ferran's presence. For Amadrya, my sentries, only so I do not have the bear the weight of my master's fiery gaze alone.

"It is horrible. Utter rage." Skender's midnight eyes slide to me. "It seems someone got carried away in her revenge."

My master nods. "This, I know of. And it is an action I do not wholly disapprove of."

"You want the clans loyal to the king to blame you?" Confusion slides behind Skender's cool gaze.

"No, my old friend." Coos my master. "We want the Dinshei to blame us. It will draw them out. I know their leader—assuming it is still they who lead—this will outrage them. They will soon reveal themselves for they are as reckless as they are cunning."