Two Assassins?
1117 Words
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Smoke bled across the crimson sky like veins through flame, blotting out the sun. The screams of the dying clashed with the roars of the blooddemons—inhuman, primal, echoing through the cracked spires of what used to be a thriving district under the First Queen’s domain.
Darien’s boots slammed down on the edge of a collapsed tower as he leapt across a ravine of fire. His cloak fluttered behind him like a war banner soaked in ash. Below him, a woman screamed from under a broken carriage. With a burst of speed, he landed beside her, lifting the smoking debris with a grunt and pulling her free.
“Run,” he commanded. “Get to the barricade two streets west—tell them Darien Valdros sent you.”
She nodded, eyes wide with terror, and sprinted away without a word.
Lucien landed beside him, a trail of blood on his blade. He wiped it off with a flick, eyes darting between rooftops and rubble. “This is insane,” he muttered. “There were thousands of people here this morning.”
Darien didn’t reply. He was already moving again, shouting commands to knights, motioning toward another collapsed district wall. Lucien followed, darting from shadow to shadow like lightning incarnate, intercepting a blooddemon that had begun feasting on a fallen knight.
“Get the hell off him,” Lucien hissed, flipping through the air and driving his blade through the monster’s neck with precision. The blooddemon let out a guttural wail before bursting into red mist.
Behind them, the ground trembled.
Another section of the district collapsed into fire.
Kenneth stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard, eyes wide. His armor was scorched, the edge of his tunic torn, blood smeared across his cheek. He looked like a ghost in a battlefield—but he was far from one.
A blooddemon came at him—a misshapen creature that had once been a vampire knight. Its body twisted by excessive human blood, now rabid and faster than any ordinary warrior.
Kenneth didn’t flinch.
He moved before thought. One step, and he was already inside the demon’s guard. A punch to the chest, a spin, a kick—then a palm strike that sent the creature flying across a cracked plaza. His speed was terrifying, not polished like his brothers, but wild—feral, like something untamed was boiling just beneath the surface.
Another blooddemon leapt from the side, snarling.
Kenneth turned just in time, catching the clawed arm—and crushing it in his grip.
Then he slammed the creature’s head against the ground. Once. Twice. A third time, until the demon vanished in mist.
His breath came in ragged gasps. His body shook—not from exhaustion, but from fear.
But he didn’t stop.
“Kenneth!” Lucien shouted from across the road, dragging two wounded knights toward the safe zone. “We need to clear the northern quadrant. They’re boxed in!”
Kenneth nodded, blood dripping down his arm. “I’ll get the kids near the granary.”
“Watch your flank,” Darien called as he cut down two more creatures. “They’re adapting. Moving smarter.”
Kenneth vanished into the smoke.
He found the children moments later—two girls, barely older than five, hiding behind a broken fountain. Their hands were over their ears. One was crying.
Kenneth knelt beside them. “Hey. It’s alright. I’m taking you somewhere safe.”
They looked up, eyes reflecting the fire.
“Are you… a knight?” one asked.
He hesitated. “...Yeah. Something like that.”
As he lifted them into his arms, a blooddemon rushed him from behind.
Instinct again.
Kenneth twisted, kicking the creature mid-air and sending it crashing into a wall. The children screamed, clutching him tighter.
He carried them back, dodging flaming debris, leaping over burning corpses.
He handed them off to medics near the field hospital, just as a tower behind him collapsed.
He looked back. For a moment, all he saw was death.
The trauma clawed at his chest again. He staggered slightly, the smell of blood making his head spin.
“Get a grip,” he whispered to himself.
But the fear—of being powerless, of nearly dying twice—it hadn't left him.
And still, he fought.
—
Across the city, the King stood in the War Hall with his Elders and Generals.
Maps were scorched. Reports lay bloodied on the floor.
“The explosions were coordinated,” one general hissed, slamming a fist against the table. “No doubt. And now they’re spreading faster than our troops can respond!”
“Entire provinces are falling!” barked Elder Varn, his eyes wild with panic. “And these demons? What kind of magic reanimates our people like that?!”
“Silence,” the King said quietly.
They all fell still.
He stood by the black window of the throne chamber, arms behind his back, red eyes glowing in the reflection of the fire outside.
“We underestimated this. No more.”
General Voss stepped forward. “Your Majesty, should we recall our field commanders? Bring them to defend the capital?”
“No,” the King said. “Let the provinces bleed—and watch the ones who stay behind. Those who abandon their posts now were never loyal to begin with.”
Thorne Velcrest remained silent in the corner, arms crossed.
“Commander Thorne,” the King said without turning. “Your evaluation.”
Thorne’s voice was flat. “This isn’t just a cult. And it’s not just rebellion. There’s coordination—someone’s moving behind the curtain. Feeding this.”
“And Darien and Lucien?”
“Still investigating. They’re holding the western districts. Kenneth’s assisting.”
The King’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his youngest son. “...How is he?”
Thorne paused. “Alive. Determined. But shaken.”
The King said nothing.
Then, out of nowhere—
The air shifted.
The cold swept through the throne chamber like a grave wind. Then, without warning, between the circle of Elders and Generals, the space twisted—like the very air was peeling open.
A figure emerged.
Cloaked in black.
Uninvited. Unseen. Silent.
Every hand in the chamber moved to draw steel—but they froze.
The sheer pressure pouring off the stranger was suffocating. Magic, ancient and warped, curled in tendrils around him.
The King turned slowly, red eyes narrowing.
The figure didn’t bow. He didn’t speak—not at first.
He simply stood, and then, with a voice both sharp and low, said:
“The first c***k has formed.”
Silence.
No one moved. No one dared.
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- Writer
