***King Leeron***
The divine brazier sputtered violently. A cold wind passed through the royal sanctum—despite it being sealed by stone, spell, and silence.
King Leeron opened his eyes.
The flickering soulfire lamp cast his shadow across the throne's marble base, and he felt the mark on his chest, the one carved there by the God of Judgment, begin to burn.
Then came the voice.
It wasn't loud.
It was absolute.
"She lives."
Leeron stood. Slowly. His silk robes brushed the icy floor beneath him. The mark pulsed again.
"The Hand of Death breathes once more."
He stared into the brazier, watching as the flame turned blue. The fire was whispering now, not in words, but memories.
He saw blood. Screams. Worlds being turned to ash.
And at the center of it,
Her.
The one who killed without hesitation. The one who followed the will of Death itself.
"It cannot be."
"I saw her soul bound. I gave the order."
The brazier flared, a single tongue of fire reaching for the ceiling before dying into embers.
"You failed."
Leeron gritted his teeth and stepped back. He slapped his palm against the brass plate beside the throne.
A hidden door slid open. A royal scribe stumbled forward.
"Bring me the Obsidian Circle," Leeron said coldly. "The bounty is reinstated. Ten thousand gold, to the one who brings her head."
The scribe paled. "The Hand… of Death…? Is that even possible?"
Leeron stared him down. "The gods say she lives. That's all you need to know."
"And… the assassin?"
King Leeron nodded once.
"Wake him."
***THE VAULT***
The vault doors hissed open with ancient pressure.
Stasis mist curled from the cracks, revealing a single obsidian coffin floating in the center of the chamber, wrapped in runic chains glowing a faint green.
The essence whisking from the coffin felt wrong.
The caretaker stepped forward, fingers shaking as he traced the activation rune, the essence from the coffin being sucked into the rune as he traced. .
"May the stars forgive us." He prayed, applying the finishing touch.
The rune snapped.
The coffin opened.
Inside, a man, if he could still be called that, sat motionless.
His face was hidden behind a crystalline black mask. His skin was pale, his body scarred with runes carved directly into the flesh. Around his neck hung a pendant. One rune: silence. The other: death. Carved into a black gem with purple static, like lighting striking.
The caretaker stared in awe. "A Legendary gem," he whispered.
He reached toward to gem, wanting to feel its power. SPLAT. His eyes widened as he could no longer take in air.
Blood splattered across the floor of the vault as the caretaker fell to his knees grasping at his throat as if he could close the wound with sheer will.
The man with the crystal mask looked down. He didn't speak. Didn't walk. He wiped his blade on the robes of the caretaker, satisfied, the sword vanished.
He looked toward the vault door.
Pale eyes burned with black fire.
***Tyson***
The silence in his home was louder than the fight had been.
The ice had melted into water that soaked the floor. Blood had dried into dark crust. And the stench of death still lingered in the air, making the tension rise with every passing moment.
Tyson sat, his knees pulled to his chest as he stared into space. His mind was everywhere, but the scene that played over and over was the overwhelming malice oriana had displayed.
He hadn't said a word in what felt like a lifetime.
Malric stood by the window, sword still drawn. Eyes focused on the woman that slaughtered their instructor.
Neither of them had touched Henderson's remains. Not that there was much left to touch.
"I can't stay here," Tyson finally muttered. "I have to get out of here."
Malric nodded without turning. "They'll come for us. This city won't protect you. Not after that."
Tyson looked up.
Oriana sat in the center of the room, her blades at her sides, legs folded. Meditating, maybe. Or just waiting.
Waiting for a reason. Any reason to kill once again.
"Malric," Tyson whispered, "what the hell did we just witness?"
Malric's jaw tensed. "That wasn't a fight. That was an execution, and we were the witnesses."
***Oriana***
"You fear me."
Her voice shattered the silence like thin ice.
Neither of them responded. Both staring at her like she had said the dumbest thing possible.
"You should."
She opened her eyes. The room felt colder the moment she did.
Tyson stood up, slowly. "Fear you? You can end us before we even have time to register fear. What are you? You aren't from here and that is clear."
"I told you already," Oriana said. "I am the Hand of Death. I was forged in death, commanded by gods, and discarded by cowards who feared what they created."
Malric clenched his fists. "If what you say is true, then how many cores do you have?"
She met his gaze with the weight of a mountain. How stupid were these people? If she wanted to get revenge, she would have to turn these boys into warriors. Cold blooded killers.
"Nine. Before they sealed me. Before they shattered my soul, I was able to break through my last core."
Tyson swallowed hard.
"So, you're… you're stronger than anyone we've ever met?"
Oriana's eyes narrowed. "No. I'm not stronger. I'm what they made to kill those who are."
"I have so many questions, but we really must be on our way. The more of a start we get, the better our chances of living." Malric said, finally letting some of his tension ease.
***Tyson***
They packed quickly.
Tyson grabbed what little coin he had. Malric brought two extra blades and a travel cloak. Oriana had nothing, so she took nothing.
"I will have to find some armor soon." She looked at the torn, wet clothes she still had on.
They decided to leave by nightfall. The city wouldn't be safe, not after someone like Henderson vanished without reporting in.
"We head for the lowlands," Malric suggested. "There's a smuggler route there and old tunnels beneath the mining city. We can vanish."
Oriana gave a slight nod. "It won't matter where you go."
Tyson turned. "Why?"
"Because I used my power," she said simply. "Anyone with power will feel it. And someone will come."
***Arrival***
The sky shimmered on the far end of the continent.
A tear formed in the clouds, not in the sky, but in space itself. It cracked open like dry skin, and from it, a figure dropped.
They landed with no sound.
The ground beneath them cratered.
The figure stood. Cloaked in black. Masked in crystal. Runed chains around his wrists and ankles faded as he straightened.
He looked up, eyes glowing pale, black flames burning.
Then began walking.
There was no question of who he was hunting.
Only when he would catch her.