GREY

Edelweiss. The day the holy kingdom of Egnir celebrated the birth of a crown child. The alpine plant represented House of Leistar's eternal reign, and its unshakable iron fist rule. To honor this day, the Holy Convent publicly executed fifty infernals. All four corners of the kingdom were invited for the event and the capital was crowded, the citadel courtyards swarmed. Merchants regarded Edelweiss as a good day to make profit, but for Adelaire, Edelweiss was a once in a purple chance to lope off the head of a serpent. Egnir was not what it once used to be: a beacon of holy light. The Leistar lineage had corrupted the once-pure religion in a sedulous effort to stay in power. Over the years, they had made more enemies than allies, and because of that, they had resorted to using unorthodox ways to shield themselves from harm. Adelaire could have used the commoner's staircase to get to the pinnacle of the citadel had the floors not been too packed with knights who were armed to the teeth. While they presented no threat to him, he could not risk raising an alarm prematurely, so he opted for the secret stairway. Known by a few, the secret stairway spiraled through the heart of the citadel, interconnecting several passageways until it ended in the royal chamber floor. The secret way was used by the royals and the elite to visit any place within the citadel in discretion, and Adelaire planned to use it to his advantage. There was just one problem. The secret way was never left unguarded. Where the stairway met the first floor, members of the Assassin's Guild lurked. If by luck an intruder managed to survive, they met forces of the Mage's Cult on the second floor. The third floor held the last line of defense, and the deadliest: the Witch's Coven. In that abode of death lay Adelaire's prize. Adelaire's party had started with five men, but thanks to the Seers, he was the sole survivor. He had watched his company fall under the grasp of the royal guard. Mavrick, a person whom he regarded as a brother, had been chopped to death by a bunch of holy fanatics. The rest would be tortured, decapitated, and their bodies would provide nourishment for the mages' firedrakes. Adelaire made his way around a lot of mangled assassin bodies. Their flesh was ripped open, and a small lake of blood was slowly flowing down the passageway. The coppery tang of it hung thick in the air and made Adelaire's muzzle wrinkle. A decade ago, an assassin in training could have killed him under a single breath. It was almost poetic that he managed to s*******r half a dozen in their prime before their keen senses even perceived his existence. With his bare hands, or rather, paws. Adelaire raked his claws against a dusty masonry wall along the empty passageway, his power nullifying the enchantments that hid a finely crafted stone door. The door rumbled and slid to the left on its own, revealing a cold darkness beyond. Adelaire stepped into the yawning maw, and some wooden steps groaned eerily and threatened to give way under his weight. Without hesitation, he started his way up. In that instant, Adelaire's senses perceived rising jeers from the crowd outside. By his count, the thirtieth infernal had lost their head. Chopping twenty more heads could take a lot of time, but it all depended on the executioner's mood. Adelaire's time was running out, and if he failed, all the lives lost would be for naught. The stairway was darker than a frostwinter night. The humid odor of poisonous fungi and wet dust assaulted Adelaire's nostrils. The air became warmer and nauseatingly embracing the more he climbed. Adelaire grunted as the stairway abruptly branched into three identical staircases. A traditional trap for non-humans. Two of three were half-illusions meant to wilt underfoot once one moved a few steps up, and sharpened iron pikes awaited far below. With a dispirited grunt, Adelaire repressed his anger. His form shifted. His muzzle retracted, his skull reshaped, and his bones restructured until the hunched brute form shrunk into a lean young man. He exerted his mind to the power of time traction, foreseeing the outcomes of his actions before he executed them. Adelaire proceeded with the stairway that forked to the right. He unsheathed his dual blades as he drew closer to the second floor exit. A steady cadence of beating hearts filled his ears the moment he attuned to nature's aura. He quickened his pace, escalating the remaining steps without breaking a sweat. He gave a push at the stone door, noticed it operated on different mechanics and slid it to the left. The woven spells around the door broke away and melted like spider webs over tongues of flame. It felt nice to breathe in lungfuls of fresh air. To see using eyes. Five men stood in the desolate passageway, their forms intimidating under the rays of a starfire lantern. All of them were clad in crimson robes, with stripes of varying colors to indicate their ranking and the type of magic they could envoke. Two of the mages wielded gnarled wooden staffs, marking them as wielders of dark magic. As the exit slid shut behind Adelaire, a jolt of coldness crawled up his spine. One of the mages had attempted to cast a paralysis spell on him. It was not enough to stop him. Another mage lifted his staff, intoning a word of destruction. Adelaire's skin stung. Something gnawed and bit deep into his flesh mercilessly. The pain felt like a thousand blades cutting to the roots of his nerves. He clenched his teeth as he noticed what the spell had done to his hand. The flesh had been eaten down to the bone, revealing his bloodied white knuckles. The power of rot was eating him alive. "Sound the alarm!" the spell caster ordered. Adelaire dashed forth, the rot infested on his body shedding off. s***h, thrust, swirl, crouch, pounce, topple, neutralize... He guided the dual blades naturally, his arms and body complying as if the skills had been etched inside his bones since birth. Do not blink or breathe until all threats are eliminated. A couple of elemental spells repelled away from his form like water on oiled leather. He went for the spatial mage first, separating his torso from his waist in one clean swing and nullifying any chance of teleportation. His blades arced twice in the air, whistling menacingly and stopping only when they met neck and bone. Hot blood splattered on his tattered leather garb as two headless corpses lurched drunkenly about before collapsing in a jumble of limbs. A dash later, and he was extracting his blade from the fourth mage's throat. The last mage drew a dagger and forced his shaking hand forward as if such a gesture would fare better where higher powers had failed. Every being on a security post within the citadel had basic combat training and decent swordsmanship. Neither was enough to ward off this threat. He was dead and he knew it. Adelaire sheathed his swords. He breathed. The form that shook before him was probably some commoners' child enlisted to the Mage's Cult in an attempt to get a better life. Pity he had to make his first duty appearance on a dreadful day like this. The poor lad was too scared to think. "You don't happen to know how to get to the royal abode unnoticed, do you?" Adelaire asked. The mage gulped down a dry throat, his mind hardpressed on making a choice between loyalty and survival. Noticing the glow in Adelaire's eyes made it an easy and relatively quick decision. "I know a way," the mage said. "The secret staircase can only be accessed by spatial magic from this point. But... he is dead." He pointed at one of the corpses. Adelaire raised an eyebrow. He used time traction again. The mage was willing to comply. That was enough to see what he needed. Adelaire advanced towards the mage. "Please," the mage started. "I—" Adelaire's fist connected with the young man's temple with a thud. He fell like a stone. Adelaire quickly stripped the mage of his robe, donned it and borrowed a staff from one of the corpses. Adjusting the cowl to conceal his face, he walked out through one of the two exits to enter the common passageways. Just as he left, he met a couple of stationed guards outside the door. They uncrossed their lances instinctively when they noticed him. Going left felt right. He could not afford to use time traction again within a short period. It consumed mental power more than it weakened the body. Already he felt befuddled and any reckless maneuver would see him losing consciousness. Armed guards in steel plate armor lined the walls and stood in every corner. Fortunately, no one challenged his presence as he twisted and bent in the seemingly unending maze. At least, not before he started climbing an unguarded flight of stairs to the third floor. "Rune master?" a guard started. Adelaire did not turn back. "Sir, you are not allowed to go inside the royal asylum," another one said authoritatively. "Stop at once, or we will use force." Adelaire ran. One of the guards blew a whistle. Many feet followed up the stairs. If only he could reach the royal chambers. The spiraling marble steps were appallingly high. It felt like forever to reach the third floor, and once he got there, members of the Witch's Coven would confront him. He thought of transforming again. It could save him a lot of time fighting through masses of knights, but eventually he'd get suppressed by a witch's spell. And, unfortunately, exerting more of his power now could only scare off his prey. The staircase eventually flattened into a large foyer. Bright lamps were perched on silver sconces high on the walls. The steady golden light illuminated the foyer's vastness and its exotic furnishings. Most were porcelain statues of angelic beings who wielded longswords. An array of lamps narrowed towards a solitary passageway on the far end. The high domed ceiling was filled with countless paintings of the Leistar lineage. Adelaire did not have to see much, but a single glance fueled the anger he was so desperate to leash. The brute within growled for release, making him stumble. A spear flew past his ear. "Pin him down!" a guard shouted. Adelaire entered the passageway. Not far away, he could sense the presence of a young, fresh born babe. Its presence beckoned him, and he knew he was headed in the right direction. A pair of tall white doors faced him at the end of the passageway less than twenty yards ahead, but on his way towards them stood a being. A tall woman clad in black and crimson robes stared at the incoming mob of guards with mild interest. Black symbolized the darkness from which her power came, and crimson represented the blood she spilled to maintain that power. A young man was being pursued and he was headed towards her at full speed. She noticed his sheathed blades, and a strange power that was suppressed within him. The witch knew who the young man was, and it was her duty to stop him. Raising her hand calmly, the witch uttered an unholy spell. The air crackled and grew colder as if an invisible void was sucking the heat out of the passageway. The lights flickered and dimmed. A ball of corruption burst to life under the witch's palm. As quickly as it had formed, it dispersed into grim threads and spiraled towards the onslaught.