Into The Darkness

Black Wings

The Prism Inn was remarkable. At 2,810 feet, it was the tallest building in West Hayala. But that wasn’t what made it interesting. The truly remarkable thing was that, in spite of its height, it was also the most boring place in West Hayala. Known famously as the Blue Moon Inn, it was only used during the Seven Moon Festival, when civilians were allowed to enter the Prism’s private island: aside from the seven days of the Festival and monthly maintenance detail, it was abandoned. For Rey’s purposes, it was perfect.

It was one in the morning, and Astrik was at its dullest; the laws of the organization prohibited unauthorized outings after midnight. Most of the island was occupied by orange street lights, gravel roads, and stone barracks. The few places of interest were scattered around, and access to them was restricted to officers of the Prism. Rey would have liked to go wild for a while: raise a little hell, maybe spread some chaos. However, he resisted the temptation; his objective lay in King’s Lock, and it would be much easier to leave if most of the island remained unaware of his presence.

Lying on the roof of the inn, he surveilled the great prison along the northern tip of the island: a massive square surrounded by a high wall and armed guards. It was singularly dark. High-powered floodlights beamed down from the wall, but the black box reflected nothing. He watched as the guards circled the fortress in pairs; some with dutiful silence, others with careless levity, though it wouldn’t matter either way. None of them would see the next sunrise.

A strong wind hit the inn, causing it to sway on its foundations. He was on his feet in an instant, his right hand reaching reflexively for his left hip where the hilt of a sword jutted from beneath his heavy cloak. He gripped the katana so tightly that his knuckles popped. He looked around, eyes narrowed, combing the roof for signs of an uninvited guest. Finding none, he let his hand fall to his side as chuckled at himself; twenty years in Abyssus had made him a bit too wary.

With no desire to linger, he leapt from the edge of the building, his cloak billowing behind, revealing a black, sleeveless shirt, dark pants, and similarly colored sandals. Upon his right shoulder was tattooed a black star, and branded onto his left shoulder were three interlocked sixes: a foreboding windmill on the well-toned shoulder.

He dropped toward the earth, falling with as much grace as an angel, the cloak flapping around him uncannily like lifeless wings. He alit gently, his feet barely making a sound as they touched the gravel. Without pause or sound, he was walking beneath the orange lights that lined the road.