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Chapter Five: The Debut

  …Among the many shadows that stretch across Udoris, few are darker or more feared than the Nameless Ones. These agents of death and devotion serve the Creed of the Twins, a faith dedicated to the worship of the divine siblings, a Bride of divine light and her deathly Groom. Within the Creed’s hallowed halls, they are revered as enforcers of divine will, though beyond, they are spoken of in hushed tones as executioners, assassins, and the harbingers of the Father’s justice.

  The Nameless are no common killers, for theirs is a path steeped in blood and ritual. Each initiate endures a regimen as much spiritual as it is martial, passing through rites designed to strip away identity and replace it with unyielding purpose. When they emerge from this crucible, they do so as instruments of the Creed, sworn to the service of its priestesses, abbesses, and the matriarchs who rule the faith. These women, regarded as the mortal vessels of the divine will, wield the Nameless like daggers in the dark, their commands law, their motives inscrutable.

  Legends whisper of a hidden enclave in the far southwestern coasts of Verum—a place where the Nameless are trained and tempered, where their craft is sharpened like steel upon the whetstone. Yet, like shadows, they are rarely bound to one place. The Nameless move where the Creed requires, their influence spreading across the cities and courts of Udoris and beyond. From the sunlit spires of Aries to the frostbitten strongholds of the north, their silent hands have altered the course of wars, silenced dissent, and reshaped kingdoms.

  At times, the Creed permits outsiders to call upon the Nameless. For a price—a king’s ransom by any measure—the Creed’s agents will take up tasks discreetly. The wealthy and the powerful have long sought their services, not only for their unparalleled skill but for the assurance that once a Nameless is set to a task, it will be done without fail. No wall too high, no guard too vigilant, no mark too elusive. They are death given form, and their reputation precedes them.

  Much about the Creed of the Twins remains cloaked in mystery. Its rituals, its doctrines, and the origins of its Nameless assassins are subjects of endless speculation among scholars, spies, and conspirators alike. Yet what is clear is that the Creed holds a place of prominence in Udorian politics. To offend them is to risk a silent blade in the dark, and to ally with them is to secure power that few dare challenge. In the dance of kings and crowns, the Nameless move unseen, striking with precision, ensuring that the Creed's influence remains both pervasive and unassailable.

  ...

  —Excerpt from Jonas Diane’s fourth book, Religious Fallacies: The Powers Behind the Faiths.

  ???

  Mallowston, 13th Moon, 18th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  The night had wrapped the Keep in a peculiar kind of darkness, the sort that seemed alive with whispers of old tales—of gallant knights and treacherous men, of innocent maidens and lurking beasts. It was the kind of blackness that made a man remember long-forgotten sins, that drew lovers to shadowed alcoves and sent others chasing after forbidden pleasures. A gust swept in from the east, snuffing out torches as it went, and in the bailey below, the faint shimmer of fairies—or so the drunkards might later claim—danced upon the darkened grounds. Somewhere, a handful of revellers laughed raucously, their drunken mirth carried on the wind, a sharp contrast to the oppressive quiet that seemed to settle over everything else.

  Gilbert stood at his desk, his fingers trembling as he read over the letter one last time. The dim light of a sputtering candle cast flickering shadows across his face, illuminating the neat stubble along his jaw and the furrow in his brow. He hummed faintly under his breath, a habit born of drunkenness more than anything, as his eyes scanned the parchment’s lines for errors.

  Greetings, Father, the letter began. How fare the preparations for your return? Mother, Malina, and little Titi send their regards. As for Faywyn, the annexation proceeds as planned. The von Greifenburgs resist, as you foresaw, but I assure you, their lands shall be ours within the year. There will be losses, of course—there always are—but I have arranged a feast to bolster the men’s morale, as you instructed. At dawn, we march. May the ancestors guide us.

  Satisfied, Gilbert rolled the letter into a tight scroll, sealing it with a dollop of wax and the imprint of his signet ring. A pigeon cooed softly from its cage nearby, and he reached for it with hands still unsteady. The bird fluttered briefly but allowed him to attach the missive to the pouch at its back. "Fly true," he murmured, releasing it into the night. The pigeon soared away, a pale shadow against the black sky.

  Gilbert exhaled, leaning heavily against the desk. Whether it was the wine—or the anticipation of his inaugural conflict—his legs felt unsteady beneath him. He stretched, yawned, and stumbled toward the bed, the thought of dawn’s march gnawing at the edges of his mind. But fatigue won out, and as he sank onto the mattress, the soft din of revelry from below lulled him into a restless sleep.

  He awoke to screams.

  Gilbert bolted upright, his heart hammering in his chest. At first, he thought it was a nightmare, but the sounds that reached him were all too real—the clash of steel, the crackle of fire, the desperate cries of dying men. He staggered to the window, throwing open the shutters to a sight that turned his blood to ice.

  The stables were empty, the horses fled or stolen. The guesthouse north of the citadel was ablaze, its roof collapsing in a shower of sparks. In the bailey, cloaked figures moved like shadows, tossing torches and cutting down any who opposed them. Archers on the walls loosed volleys of arrows into the chaos below, but the attackers were too many, too swift. Smoke billowed into the sky, blotting out the stars.

  "No," Gilbert whispered, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes locked on the sigil of the von Greifenburgs emblazoned on one of the attackers’ shields. His ancestral enemy, here, in the heart of Mallowston.

  He stumbled back from the window, his chest heaving. Panic threatened to overtake him, but he forced it down, gripping the edge of the desk for support. His mind raced. He needed to act. Grabbing another sheet of parchment, he scrawled a desperate missive with trembling hands.

  Father, he wrote, the words jagged and uneven. Mallowston is under siege. By the time this reaches you, we may be captives—or worse. If we survive, we shall flee to Towleigh and await your return.

  He reached for the wax seal, but his hands were clumsy, the stamp slipping from his grasp and rolling beneath the desk. "Damn it!" he hissed, dropping to his knees to retrieve it. As he scrabbled in the shadows, he froze. Outside his chamber, the heavy oak door groaned under the weight of a blow.

  A voice growled from the other side. "He’s not here. Check the next room!"

  Gilbert’s breath hitched. He clutched the stamp like a talisman, his gaze darting wildly. Then came another crash, and the door shuddered in its frame. The hinges splintered, the wood creaking as it gave way. One final blow sent it crashing inward, revealing a group of armed men silhouetted in the doorway.

  They flooded into the room, their movements swift and purposeful. Gilbert pressed himself against the wall, his pulse pounding in his ears. The leader stepped forward, a tall figure clad in a bloodied cuirass and a tattered cloak. In one hand, he carried a blade slick with crimson; in the other, a torch that cast his shadow long and monstrous across the chamber.

  The man’s eyes swept the room, taking in the scattered parchment, the spilt wax, and the terrified noble cowering in the corner. He smiled, a cold, humourless thing.

  "It’s over, Gilbert," the man said, his voice low and final. He pulled back his hood, revealing a face Gilbert knew all too well.

  "You’ve lost."

  ???

  Earlier

  The same cold stars; the same pale, watchful moon. Lancelot thought of them as he trudged along the dirt path, his steps heavy, his breath misting in the chill air. The woods north of Mallowston Fort seemed quieter than they ought to be, as if the trees themselves held their breath. Ahead, through the thinning branches, he could see the glimmer of firelight, faint but steady. His destination lay in the clearing beyond, an unassuming glade hidden within the folds of the forest.

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  He could not help but imagine his death as he walked. It loomed in his mind as vivid as a painting—bloody, agonizing, inevitable. He saw the glint of steel, felt the searing pain, smelled the copper tang of his own blood. Yet still, he trudged forward. To falter now was to invite that fate early. To show weakness would be worse than death itself.

  As he neared the clearing, shadows moved within the undergrowth. Shapes rose against the firelight—men, waiting, watching. Their faces were grim, their forms cloaked, hands resting on hilts or hovering near quivers of arrows and bolts. They stood sentinel around the modest campfire, its flames flickering against the cache of weapons and unlit torches piled nearby. Lancelot could feel the tension in the air, sharp as a drawn bowstring. He approved.

  Cautious. Dangerous. Good. They understood the stakes.

  "Stand down," Lancelot called out, raising his hands to show he came in peace. The men stirred, wary eyes tracing his approach, but they did not raise their weapons. Slowly, he stepped into the light of the fire.

  "Well, I’ll be damned," came a voice from the circle, rough and sardonic. Ser Carter stepped forward, his greying beard catching the glow of the flames. "I half expected the Lady herself to have flayed you alive for this fool’s errand, boy."

  "Good to see you too, Ser Carter," Lancelot replied, his face a mask of calm. But inwardly, he knew the truth of the knight’s jest. His lady’s wrath was as sharp as her grace was soft, and should she learn the truth of tonight’s venture, no armour would shield him from her fury.

  "Is everything accounted for?" Lancelot asked, wasting no time.

  Carter scratched at his beard. "Most of it," he said. "Two lads didn’t fancy their chances and decided to stay behind. You’ll not see them near Faywyn, not in a fortnight, not in a year."

  "Deserters even now?" Lancelot’s tone was measured, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath it. He sighed and nodded, knowing better than to dwell on such things. "And the forester at the fort’s pass?"

  "Detained. Him and his kin both," Carter said. "They won’t be sounding any alarms tonight."

  "Good." Lancelot stepped closer to the fire, the men forming a loose circle around him. He stood tall, his shadow stretching long over the clearing. "You all know why we are here," he said, his voice carrying over the crackle of the flames. "You know what is at stake."

  There were no murmurs of doubt, no sideways glances. These men, for all their rough edges and grim faces, were ready. That was something, at least.

  Kneeling, Lancelot unrolled a scroll, the parchment curling against the damp earth. The flickering light of the fire caught its lines and contours, the inked shapes of walls and towers and gates.

  "This," Lancelot said, tracing a line across the map with his gloved finger, "is Mallowston Fort."

  The men leaned in, their faces drawn and shadowed in the firelight. The map spoke of walls and defences, of weaknesses hidden beneath strength. Lancelot spoke quietly but with purpose, laying out the task before them, the risks they would face, the cost of failure.

  And as he spoke, the stars above seemed colder still, the moon less a watcher and more a judge.

  "May the light of our Forefathers guide us."

  With a prayer on his lips, his voice barely rising above the rustle of the leaves, Lancelot fixed his gaze on Mallowston Fort perched atop the hill. The crescent moon hung above, its pale glow bathing the fortress in a ghostly light. The citadel loomed like a black monolith against the silver sky, an unyielding shadow that dared him to approach. He glanced back at the four men shadowing him, their faces grim beneath their hoods, before turning his attention forward. With a steadying breath, he pressed on.

  The portcullis stood tall, five meters of iron teeth, its jaws yawning open. Flanking the gate were two guards slouched lazily against the cold stone, their postures betraying their inattentiveness. Above, two more kept watch, their silhouettes outlined by the faint flicker of torches.

  Lancelot raised his hand, the signal to the men behind him. Two faint creaks of bowstrings, followed by the muffled twang of release, and the guards above crumpled silently out of sight.

  Without hesitation, Lancelot and one of the men behind him surged forward, shadows in motion. They descended upon the remaining sentries with predatory speed, gloved hands clamping over the enemies’ lips as their daggers plunged deep and true. The guards writhed for a moment, their struggles fading into stillness as Lancelot and his aide eased their victims to the ground.

  Quickly, the Viscount dragged his victim’s corpse out of sight, his ears straining for the sound of alarm. Nothing came. He allowed himself a brief exhale before scanning the bailey beyond. A distant bonfire crackled, surrounded by figures in the throes of drunken revelry. Closer, two more guards stood on the wall, their torches casting dancing shadows.

  "Can you make the shot?" he asked the archers behind him, his voice low.

  "Hopefully," one muttered. "Athri could, but he's likely drinking himself into a stupor in Towleigh by now."

  "Forget Athri," Lancelot snapped, gesturing sharply to the guards. "Our lives depend on your aim. Do not miss."

  Five arrows flew, three missed, their shafts slicing the air with a faint hiss. The guards in the distance toppled, silent and lifeless. Lancelot waved a hand, signalling his companion to retrieve a torch from the wall. The man complied swiftly, the flame flaring to life as he tossed it into the shrubbery outside the wall.

  A moment passed. Then another. From the treeline emerged dark shapes, cloaked figures moving like wraiths through the night. Lancelot released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his chest rising and falling in time with the wind that sent a shiver down his spine. Sweat clung to his back despite the chill, soaking through the fabric of his tunic.

  "Move," he ordered, his tone brooking no argument. His steps quickened as he crossed the open bailey, each stride more confident than the last. Behind him, men streamed into the keep, their weapons unsheathed, their eyes scanning the darkness for threats. Archers scaled the walls, their bows ready to loose death from above, while others fanned out toward predetermined targets—stables, barracks, and granaries, each marked for ruin.

  Lancelot kept to the shadows, skirting the drunken group by the bonfire, his attention fixed on the citadel gate. Reaching it, he motioned for his men to gather. One of the men-at-arms stepped forward, his dagger deftly slipping into the lock. The door gave way with a faint groan, revealing a dim corridor beyond.

  Inside, a lone sentry stirred, his head lolling as he dozed. Lancelot moved like a viper, his blade finding the man’s throat before he could wake. The sentry slumped to the floor, his life extinguished in an instant.

  They pressed on, ascending a flight of stairs. At the top, they found a door ajar, light spilling from the crack. Pushing it open, Lancelot froze. A man, his breeches discarded, tangled with a maid against the far wall, their breaths ragged with passion. They did not notice the intruders until it was too late. Lancelot struck without hesitation, his blade piercing the man’s chest. The maid screamed, but her cry was cut short by a second stroke.

  "Bloody wench," Lancelot muttered, wiping his blade on the dead man’s tunic. He turned to the others. "No delays. Kill anyone who resists. And find Gilbert Hera. Cripple him if you must, but he is to be taken alive."

  The men fanned out, their footsteps reverberating through the halls. The sounds of combat erupted soon after—steel clashing, shouts ringing out, cut short by the gurgle of death. Lancelot strode ahead, his purpose unwavering.

  Reaching the upper floors, he found a group of women and a child huddled in a corner. Their eyes were wide with terror, their sobs muffled by trembling hands. He recognized some—the Lady Hera, her daughter, and the youngest of the line.

  "Guard them," he ordered one of his knights. "Anyone harms them, and you will answer to me."

  He kicked open the final door, the wood splintering under his boot. There, beneath a heavy table, cowered Gilbert Hera, his face pale, his hands clutching a crumpled letter. A candle burned low beside him, its wax pooling onto the stone floor.

  "...It is over," Lancelot said, his voice as cold as the steel in his hand.

  "You have lost."

  ???

  Mallowston, 13th Moon, 19th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  Levi sat by the window, the windowsill cool beneath his hand, his gaze fixed on the plume of smoke that coiled into the pale morning sky. It rose from Mallowston, the stronghold perched on the hill, its jagged towers blackened by the fires of conquest. Below, the streets thrummed with unease. A crowd had gathered along the thoroughfare—peasants in patched cloaks, tradesmen with rough hands and wary eyes. They spoke in hushed tones, their words indistinct, like the buzz of flies over a battlefield. Uncertainty clung to the air, heavy and sour, as it always did in the wake of violence.

  Behind him, the door groaned open. He didn’t turn.

  "Lancelot?" Levi asked, his voice quiet, almost distracted.

  "Aye, my lord," came the reply. The viscount stepped into the room, sinking to one knee. His mail clinked faintly as he bowed his head. "It is done. As you commanded, Mallowston is yours—its fortress, its passages, its harbour. None leave this township save by your word. The Heras are in chains, those who resisted cut down. Spies, if any remain, will be found, and our knights and men-at-arms are quelling unrest among the commonfolk."

  Levi’s eyes didn’t leave the smoke. "And the town?" he asked, his tone detached, as though the answer hardly mattered.

  "Quiet, for now," Lancelot said. "But fear has sharp teeth, my lord. The tradesmen grumble, and the peasants mutter fearfully of our arrival."

  "Fear serves," Levi said. His hand tightened slightly against the windowsill. "Keep it that way for the meantime until our hold is secure. A quiet tongue is better than a sharp one, and better still than a severed one."

  The viscount inclined his head. "As you say, my lord."

  For a long moment, silence hung between them, save for the faint murmur of the crowd below. Levi’s face betrayed nothing, his expression as still as the smoke curling in the distance. Yet his eyes glimmered, catching the light like the edge of a knife.

  "Send Ser Carter to attend the rest," Levi said finally. "Our work here is done."

  "As you will, my lord." Lancelot rose, his armour catching the faintest gleam of the morning sun as he retreated from the room. The door shut softly behind him.

  But Levi did not move. He remained at the window, his fingers brushing against the cold wood as his gaze lingered on the scene below. Mallowston stood as a canvas now, its walls streaked with ash and blood, its streets littered with the detritus of fear. A masterpiece, painted in ruin. The black smoke twisted against the pale sky, a symphony of fire and shadow.

  It was magnificent. Terrible and magnificent.

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