Shadow of the Abyss

Beneath the four moons of Yarwin, the gleam of silver hissed, whirling through the air into arcs. The light shone regality as it danced through the darkness, twisting and weaving, cutting and piercing, slashing and thrusting. The motion of the sword seemed to nearly embody the night, encompassing the moon and stars, the grass and winds, the seas and the earth.

Soon, the blade stilled, distorting into dust and fading away until all that was left was a dream and the thought of what if.

Altair sighed, covered in a thick sheen of sweat. He lifted the hilt of the blade. "I always thought Earth weapons were terrible, but this is even worse." He spat through a sharp gasp for air, lamenting the fate of the common longsword he wielded.

"It would seem I knew nothing until now." He tossed the hilt aside into the rubble of the others and drew another from the rack, and once more, his dance began.

'My sword must be swift,' he thought, cutting a blade through the air. 'My sword must be cruel.' His blade cleaved. 'My sword must be unprediable.' His blade pierced. 'And my sword must be profane!'

Unintentionally, Madness threaded the Prince's Blade, tarnishing what was once unsullied. Grave of Night seemed to roar as Altair made it his own with the aid of the Ninth Form.

So distorted his blade became Altair's sword seemed to bleed Carnage, Despair, Hate, and Desperation. The Prince's eyes shone a deep scarlet as his insight consumed his mind. He roared, ignoring the numbing of his arms and legs. The blood pooling from his lips. The peeling of his flesh as his blade howled towards the moon. Altair ignored it as he fell into his Madness.

***

"What happened to your arms?" Hilda asked, yawning late into the morning. "From what I heard, you were a proficient healer."

"Is the commander stalking me now?" Altair asked, with thick bandages of white gauze stretching up his arms," And I am quite a proficient healer, mind you. These wounds are to serve as a reminder." He said, his arms throbbing with a searing heat. "Now, how are you feeling?"

Hilda was not so weak she couldn't see how pale he had become. The healthy glow he held just yesterday had seemed to have wilted overnight. He looked as sickly as she did. Yet there was a glow in his eyes that wasn't there before. A sharpness that stung the longer she held her stare.

"Tired." She admitted. " But I can fight if needed. What about you?"

"Oh, you needn't worry about me." He said with a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. "I've never been better." He turned, signaling to a maid to fetch their breakfast.

It had been a guilty pleasure; he had to admit to himself, when the maid had returned pushing a cart she had fetched from the kitchen.

The taste of warm soup, cheese, sourdough bread, jelly, sausage, cottage pies, salmon, and coffee had filled his empty belly with a great warmth that it made him look his age.

Hilda had wanted to laugh, watching him gorge himself like a boar. It was her first time seeing him act his age, and she would not steal that from him. It was a far cry from his typical smile that could cut.

"What's the plan?" Hilda asked, through her small bites of gnocchi in her cream soup.

"I'm interested in the Church of the Sepith." He said, suckling on a bone. "So I might…" Distantly, he glanced at the maid, to her trembling arms pouring his coffee. "... I might visit their cathedral with Lady Aria." Altair sipped his morning brew, frowned, and placed it back down on the table. He broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into his soup, and continued. "Are you familiar?"

"Not really. I've never been a woman of faith." Hilda disclosed, lowering her spoon. "What about the search for the others?"

"I've sent my people out to look," Altair told her.

"Your people?" Hilda questioned, frowning. " What people?"

With a mischievous smile, Altair stood up. "perhaps one day… you'll join them," he said and left, signaling for the maid to follow him.

Down the hall and into the annexed library, Altair whirled to the maid. "Who the hell are you? And why are you trying to poison—"

Eating his words, the Prince danced away, evading the shrieking glint of the dagger aimed at his neck. The stroke, while perfectly timed, was clumsy. It was her first, the Prince believed when a blade flashed from out of Draupnir into his hand. A piercing ache shot through from his fingers up his arm.

He struck. Through steel like butter, the Assassin didn't even have time to think before she felt the sting of hot iron sizzling against her neck. She gulped, dropping her broken dagger.

"Name." Altair coldly asked, feeling his blade about to melt. He had barely placed any mana into it, yet it was already about to burst.

"Shlya…" Said the Assassin fearfully. She clenched her eyes shut and trembled, so much so that Altair lowered his blade.

"First time?" The Prince asked her, returning his blade to Drapnir.

"Yes… m'lord." Shyla murmured, collapsing to her knees. Thick sheens of sweat bathed her forehead, drenching her uniform.

"Was it Vanro?"

The maid did not acknowledge it, but neither did she deny it. She merely stood there trembling.

"Look at me," Altair said, with a biting cold in his voice.

Shyla did. Finding all the courage she had in her, she lifted her eyes to the Prince, and for a single moment, she saw her head on a pike at how cruel his eyes seemed.

"Shyla, you will return to your Master and poison his breakfast." He commanded her with a throbbing of his pupils. "No matter how long it takes." He added, knowing there had been a limit on his command.

Two weeks was the full length those beneath his compulsions would remain enthralled by him, during which the memory of those he compelled would sink deep into their astral sea, only to return as nightmares if he so commanded.

The maid nodded with tears streaming from her eyes.

Altair smiled and left without another word, thankful for his Almighty Resistance. He wasn't quite sure what was given to him, but the moment the poison traced his tongue, a part of his power stirred with warning.

When noon arrived, the Young Prince had been all smiles, poking at the little Silvermane, giggling to herself.

"Are you coming with me, big brother?" Aria had asked him with her two knights by her side. She had wanted to mask her excitement but was betrayed by the glow in her sapphire eyes.

"Of course. I'm quite interested in the Church of the Sepith. "Altair answered and glanced at the discontent knight. "Though there seems to be someone who is against it. Ser Greymort, do you have an issue with the church?"

Greymort faintly stirred where he stood and grimaced. "I've no love for them, is all," he said, his mouth grim.

"Careful," Liana warned. "The walls have ears. You should know when to keep your mouth shut."

Greymort seemed to spit. "Our Lady might be there chosen, but that doesn't mean she'll take the Vow."

"Vow or not. "Liana growled. "It's not up to us."

Altair had not spoken, though he could hear the fear in which they spoke. And it made him wonder who was truly the ruler of Yarwin. 'The King, Lord of the Seven Crowns, or the church… the very ones who ordained him king.'

Seven Crowns for the Seven Seraphim, he wondered, smiling.

Outside, as they made their way towards the carriage, those who bore the mask of black iron greeted them in silence. And for a moment, Altair felt a chill permeate his bones. The women had not been strong, and yet they stood with a conviction that made them seem empty.

'If I cut them… would they scream or wince in pain?' he wondered.

"Creepy," Ser Greymort spat beneath his breath. And went silent when he felt Liana's icy glare.

"My Lady," One of the Iron Maidens, a follower of Aidios, approached. "We have been expecting you. The Sisters of Silence are here to protect you in case we are met with a Hell Tide."

"A Hell Tide," Ser Greymort growled. "Not again." The thought made his bones weak. "This'll be the eighth. Thank Aidios, we made it back in time."

"Aye," Liana agreed.

The Iron Maiden nodded. "Had we known Lady Aria was on her way to Forwin, we would have prepared." She said with an accusing growl. "Or we might have sent a few envoys of Dawnbreakers to help aid you."

"Are they not enough?" Altair probed, glancing at the Sisters of Silence, cold and distant like the dead.

"Those that take the Vow of Silence are not meant to protect. They are Hunters."

***

It had taken well over an hour to cross the city of Forwin, blocked by pedestrians, soldiers, pedallers, thugs, and children throughout the cobblestone streets.

And Ser Vanro, Edwin's bastard, had not looked worse. His once sun-kissed flesh seemed nearly green beneath the sun's glare, following behind on horseback.

He had offended the church of the Sepith and would need to make an offering if he were to escape those who had taken the vow. Though, he feared what they might ask of him. For most, a simple offering of coin was sufficient; others were required to pay with an arm or leg, a finger or ear. Others had offered their children lest they face the Sisters of Silence.

Vanro groaned, unsure why the sun's kiss seemed to prickle his skin, why his armor seemed to sear like fire, or why everything seemed so saturated with light it felt blinding.

"My Lord… perhaps you should head back," Ser Jayden Slov said. "You look terrible."

"I'm fine," Vanro hissed and drew a flagon of wine from his hip. He gulped it down as though it were water. And dared not to meet the Sister's soulless eyes watching him, waiting to strike at a moment's notice.

'Damn these women,' he silently cursed, unsettled by their gaze.

"You look like you might shit green," Ser Hendrick said. "Are you sure you're not too sick?"

"I'm a Third Circle," Vanro said, clutching his stomach. " How would I get sick?"

The men all chuckled.

"Did you fuck an orc?" Ser Hendrick asked. "Careful, my lord, those bitches don't wash for months at a time. Hell knows what you might catch."

"It's a good fuck though." Ser Jayden said.

"Aye!" The men roared.

Vanro loosely eyed them before tumbling on the ground with a thud. The horses reeled, and the man panicked.

"The Young Master is down!" Shouted Jayden in a panic. "Stop the carriage! The Young Master is Down!"

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