prologue

'' A blood-red moon burned high in the sky when the stranger arrived, dark and silent. He held in his hands a small squirming bundle. Swirling air marked his path as flaming torches softly winked from existence. The enigma hugged the bundle in a fatherly embrace, a single diamond-tear hanging at the corner of his shrunken eyes.

"This is it, little one," he whispered gently, fiercely, a slight tremor betraying his emotions. "This is your fate. Earn it and keep it, so that the world may know you for what you all are. Hush now and keep safe, my dear. May you see the Morning Sun."

'' A tall figure stood enshrouded in the creeping shadows as a mocking smile created a jagged line across her proud, cruel face. Gleaming eyes flashed in amusement as she mockingly mouthed the father's last fervent wishes to a child he could never hope to see again. 'Old fool,' she thought contemptuously. 'You silly old fool. We are not as dumb as you foresee us to be. We never were.'

'' She made a swift hand-signal, eyes glinting with leashed excitement. The power of dictating another's final death could be intoxicating at times. It struck closer at home then simply aspiring to be the commanding hand behind Eelsa's ancient throne. The awesome feeling was more intense and enthralling, it made her feel like a Goddess. A rustling of leaves, a glint of steel, and it was over. The ruler of Eelsa, once a symbol of such glorious honour and unity – was dead. Thanks to deceit, envy and inevitably, underground politics. She would release a victory cry now if she dared, but she wouldn't. She couldn't afford to. De Kalrog's inhabitants could hardly be counted amongst her most faithful supporters. Soon though, she vowed silently. Now, finally, her husband could truly claim the throne he deserved and not simply be another man's shadow puppet. Assassinations came and went, this was how the world had evolved to be. The game of life where only the most devious and far-sighted thrived.

They left the chateau in the dead of night; the precious asset was theirs now.

-----------------------------------------------------------

"And the darkness within him grew stronger still and more visible, it spread till even the lowly common folks could sense an unseen threat and grew more wary. Trade leaked to a standstill during those dreadful times, and genuine laughter ceased to exist. And nature … oh, it wrecked havoc so terrible to counterattack the evil King Kayce, and brought the honour upon Your Majesty, the glorious King Chanrel as the Deliverer of Hope. And…"

"Enough, Mistress Bosvati, that will be enough. It is already impossible for me to accept more drivel from the likes of you. Please, just shut up and leave. Leave the book in the bin there and have the servants dispose of it by daylight, tomorrow. By then we shall have a pleasant discussion on settling with a more digestible … book. Unless perhaps, you would care to act for me? I admit finding your interpretation of the Haunt Hunt rather amusing. You clearly don't know a fickle of it. Pity though, that it happens tonight. Would've been better than being stuck in here with you I'm sure, and with that drat Myra gone too. Oh well, all things have its perks." Tspel Sidgihten sank back into her bed with a small smile. It soon disappeared as her brown eyes settled on the hesitant Mistress. Her voice took on a hard edge.

"Well? What are you waiting for? Have I not given you your instructions or have you gone deaf, old woman? Damaged eardrum because of the hours you spend with that pig in his tavern sty? No surprise, I'd warned you before. Even considering your station you could've settled with a nice soldier. That what's his name ... Tren would've suited you just fine, I believe. But no … you stubborn old mule. You refuse my help even after I've offered it to you. Just remember, everyone gets their due so get out of my sight before I have the guards boot you out. Now!

Silence.

'' Mistress Bosvati bowed slowly and somewhat reverently. She loathed being treated so oppressively by nothing more than an insolent child. Her hand itched once again to slap the mouse-like face that peeked at her well above the covers of the floral bed sheet. Tspel looked nothing like a sick patient and ever more the vivid portrait of a spoilt brat, every sensible mother's living nightmare. Bosvati could hardly understand why fate had so underhandedly placed her here, of all places, and at this very time. She bowed once more before turning the brass doorknob, wincing slightly as though anticipating a command from Tspel that would draw her away from freedom once more. She waited momentarily, half-fearing. But nothing came. Nothing save the stifling silence and shallow breathing of a sleeping child.

'' Mistress Bosvati sighed in relief and quickly exited from the room, ears still burning from the cruel remark on Tren. But more prominently, the fact that that ignorant comment still held a bitter needle-sting over her, despite knowing it was false, that all the court rumours triggered off because of Tspel's 'accusations' were in fact, foolish. Her family's reputation and stand in court no longer held the meagre power it once had, and it burned her to know who was the cause of that. The Bosvatis had every right to hate her, but it didn't make accepting the stark facts any easier. Even now, she still couldn't decide whether it was simply the girl's overbearing nature or her own too sensitive self. Or perhaps even a little of both. Certainly those tormenting dreams and scenes were beginning to reoccur again, after she'd foolishly thought herself to be safe from it. To have managed to escape those sleepless nights where she'd tossed and turned, wondering and thinking, to no avail. A miracle for her, Velva dur Bosvati, simply wasn't feasible, as that drat girl had once so bluntly stated. She hated Tspel so much, and the intensity and fury that stroked the fires of hatred scared even herself.

'' The pain dagger that now pressed painfully against her sides reminded herself all too clearly of her initial intentions. Her plan had failed, and that failure weighed heavily on her conscious. So many hopes had lain on that single dagger, so much effort and now-futile concealment, it had all been for nothing. It would've meant the ultimate downfall of her House but even now, without doing the deed, she doubted it would really make much of a difference. Servants and maids were better informed then their masters cared to think, and that suited them all just fine. These servants would find their own revenge and take out all their frustration on her and her House and in truth, she did not really care. Her future was bleak, and if only she could summon up enough guts, she would go down the path so many others had been all too recently. She'd even been present at one of them. Oh, she admired and envied Karla, and always would. To have been so steadfast in her decision, so determined in ending her life ceremoniously. The Eelsaans always had been one for pomp and at that point, Bosvati couldn't find it within herself to disagree. Never criticise another for something you daren't do yourself. But how soon? When would the Hands of the World decided it to be time, that she could once more join its refreshing lands and be reborn, to a life better, if not higher than this. She deserved it, she was positive of that. The Hands could not possibly be so cruel as to deny her that one fragile hope. A small farm in the countryside perhaps, with a loving family of four. That would be the life she craved to be born to. Far far away from these cruel Sidgihtens.

'' She cherished the memories that still remained within her mind, albeit only a small part of the thousands of them. Her past lives that had gone through so many trials and temptations, but most of all when she'd risen to the ranks of warrior. She remembered faintly of the warmth she'd derived from killing, the overpowering lust and her superior prowess in the sport. She would've become a legend and the House of Bosvatis could perhaps have stood higher then it did now if she had not done what she had then. She could hardly understand on what impulse she'd acted on to be so foolishly. And cowardly. To have dared refused a duel.

'' That fool of a man would've been a pushover for her, he was so diminutive and her larger-than-life frame had cast him in her overwhelming shadows. Yet by a cruel twist of fate, he now held a place in the Halls of Legends. And it'd been achieved honourably, unlike some of which she suspected to have been there only through of bribery. It'd existed even then, bribery. And the art, as it was now called, ran rampant not just in Eelsa, but the world as now. Bribery could've originated from Eelsa, though there remained no records in history of that, unless it'd been erased. Eelsa was, after all, considered the oldest city in the world, though the soft-spoken Terabons refused to accept the fact. Bribery at a place where honour was valued most could hardly be something worth showing off on. And those Berayons were still steadily digging through their records. Velva could feel her skin crawl at the foul thought. She hated those albinos, and always would. But for now, she had a more immediate crisis at hand.

'' She growled softly, throwing a hard glance towards the two saluting guards clad in royal blue & silver linen. Tspel Sidgihten's Personal Royal Guards, her very own sworn to protect her solely and loyally. Velva felt a sudden wild urge to laugh and shout in front of those stony faces, eyes so devoid of feeling and thought, yet infinitely more dangerous, for now. Every man eventually succumbed to the lure of wine, and that was the perfect time for slipping in a dagger or two. Ironic how her thoughts ran ... jealousy truly was manifesting within her. It would help her, Velva was certain of it. It required little imagination on another's part to figure out where Tspel's arrogance had come from, so dependent on others, so needful of her wet nurse. The child had been placed in her care so she would oversee the general layout of the girl's education, but no one had ever warned her of unexpected difficulties though she should've guessed it. Unless she was just being sensitive, an all too implausible possibility now. Either way it didn't really matter now. If she succeeded she needn't ever worry ever again, though such an eventuality was bound to be ephemeral. She could only cross her fingers and hope in fear. To just wait .. and watch as history unfolded before her eyes once more ...

Deep within the recesses of my mind, I hear it. A beckoning echo of no clear origin, like the thunderous waves of the sea and the tugging winds that whip effortlessly through my clothes. Or at least, it used to though the feeling still lingers with an ache hard to ignore. Those things I once considered to be free have now been … snatched away, and I feel as though they've all thrown me into the endless depths of a small crevasse in the ground, and that opening is closing, slowly, steadily. And I'm suffocating badly, oh so terribly. An existing pain that gnaws at the fray ends of my nerves, itching a path towards my exposed core. The pain is not something one can wish away, for I've tried that many times, and still foolishly continue to do so until I one day understand its cause. So that I may be able to expose it, and derive what little good I can from it. Perhaps this is my destiny, to savage advantages like a raven after the lions have had their fill. I can't say I relish my future role in life much, this is just a simple statement.

But it doesn't mean I have to remain content with it. It doesn't mean I can't try improvising, and destroying those barriers in my path. I have the prowess, and the stirring uneasiness has generated an eerie sense of .. revival from within. People say that destiny is unavoidable, that no matter where you hide in the Four Corners of the earth, it will always drag you back in the end. It will always force you to do what fate has already dictated will happen, regardless of personal feelings. I have already spent much time wondering about my own true fate, and waiting. The answer has yet to come. To dawn upon me and save me from this hell pitch. So now I've made this decision.

I will dictate my own path. Now.

'' The slim figure that bore a porcelain image was set in hard concentration as she furiously scribbled within the hard covers of a dark & sadly tattered book. The scratching of quill against paper irritated the 17-year-old to no end yet she continued writing studiously. Her emotions pouring out in fragments, as though wrenched from amidst the turmoil she had suffered for so long. Writing was like an escapade into an imaginary land, where she was invincible, where no foe remain unbeatable save herself. She loved emerging herself within it, yet not so much so that the words that spilled forth strayed far from what she truly felt. She'd never told a lie before, and to be called the liar was one of the most frightful insults she could imagine. She wasn't naive to the world's devious undertakings, and indeed, if anything else, Myra Sidgihten happened to live in the very heart of it.

'' Seated on the dusty floor of a surprisingly spacious passageway, Myra had heard the unfortunate exchange between Tspel and Mistress Bosvati. She held concentrated dislike against both and thus was finding it hard to side with either factor. Tspel was an egoistic bitch where as Mistress Bosvati was a nagging old-fashioned lump of blubber. It was getting increasingly harder to keep down the bubble of laughter that threatened to burst forth and consequently give away her unwelcome presence. Yet as she heard Tspel's unprovoked lecture, she once again relived a shivering recount of her own experience, and hated herself for it. Tspel was domineering, that was true, and that was clearly destined to be her downfall one day. Myra had long intended to be the hand that administered that final, shattering blow, so that she too might finally be able to experience a little of the power that must surely surge through the blood of a winner. To know that you had cowered a potential opponent, preferably wild, and tamed it personally. That would be the ultimate feat, and she intended it to fall on a conspicuous day. King Chanrel's birthdate, perhaps. That would certain send that old fool flying into the darkness. She passionately hoped that the darkness would accept her gift and embrace it, to chain that repugnant worm down. She did not think it was possible any longer to remain in such close quarters with a man who commandeered nothing but a bunch of doodling idiots, while the true valiant warriors were sent to guard the borders, with few remaining in Eelsa itself. Because of politics, Myra thought grimly. He is afraid they will all one day unite and support a new reigning king to usurp his soiled throne. And somehow, Myra wasn't all too eager for that to happen now. Be the guiding force and you will have nothing to fear. Nothing at all. You will be invincible, honoured and feared. You will be the Goddess of Earth. I want that to be my true fate. I deserve nothing less. Please, I beg this to be true.

'' Even now a certain kind of hateful fear still gripped her heart, heightened by her foreboding sense of doom for herself. Nannies told tall tales to scare little kids; Myra had often comforted herself with that reminder. Yet Elsa was a towering city of superstition and it was hard to fight off the temptation in not thinking the ways they thought, acting the way they did. A black crow was feared and hardly anyone could be found walking across roads on that day; funeral days saw Elsa to be like a dead city, where a whisper could barely be heard save the tiny pitter-patter of scampering rats. And even then, the number of pests were little. These fallacies were bred into her, of religious meets and senseless tradition continuously celebrated despite the hardship and ridiculous outcomes. After all, who would want to celebrate a New Year by giving away an entire fleet's stores of grain when its economic value would've been a tremendous boost to Eelsa's capital? And what was more, it was given to those who arrived first at the docks and those precious grains that were becoming ever so scare was freely given away to those as lowly as a useless beggar! Certainly King Chanrel had a first hand choice of choosing the best grain for himself, but the rest of the palace households, even the Royal Family were excluded from it. They were required to line up and pick up whatever grain thrown onto the ground that had not already been taken. The King had the nerve to expect the nobles to stoop quite so low! The situation was so infuriating it was even laughable! The King was undoubtedly a fool and the entire world surely knew that by now. She could only wonder which fool had added this implement to the official list of celebrations. It is no annual event to be happy of, Myrrh thought furiously as her fingers tightened visibly around the tip of the quill. It is a time of mourning for us. A gesture of outrageous contempt towards us. I cannot believe Elsa is even alive.

'' Crawling on fours Myra crept closer to the tiny drilled hole just above the carpeted floor, a place where she could easily spy into Tspel's bedroom though the view was sadly limited. Feeling somewhat nervous of the scene she was about to inspect, she tentatively peered through with a fixed image in her mind, preparing herself for the worse. And so she looked.

'' An intimidating four-poster bed occupied a place of honour, its canopy and drapes crawling in intricate floral designs, every hunting scene depicted on it having been painstakingly stitched by the sew mistress, every single coloured thread that assisted in creating the illusion of flaunted grandeur. Myra could feel herself being consumed in overpowering jealousy once more, as she angrily averted her eyes to the object she sought. The flowing auburn hair lay sprawled across the pillow was palpable and the flawless petite figure that owned it was unmistakably asleep. Those long eyelashes that hide those intense blue eyes, Myra could imagine the glow it shone when angered or delighted. Myra hated her own green eyes, always shifting and as some had commented, was tilted. She envied how effortlessly Tspel could manage to appear quite so serene, but her eyes would always be the feature she envied the most. Speckled with brown, those sky-blue eyes were unique, and Myra longed for anything natural or created about herself to be unusual. Something, if not anything that would be able to set her apart from others. And it seemed as though Tspel held all the distinctive traits she envisioned herself to have. Who would believe Tspel capable of being charismatic? Evidently no one, unless they had taken part in one of the more recent ceremonies. One among the numerous celebrations that did nothing but suck up funds and fritter away time. She would put her brooding plans into action immediately if she could find a trustworthy partner, but in the Palace of Power, who dared declare their opposition to anyone? No one sane, that was for sure.

'' Myra found it hard to understand why she was crawling on the floor, squinting at the princess with such obvious jealousy, when she was considered her sister. Not in maternity, the King and Queen had made that crystal clear, but an extremely close relation to them for sure. And through her observations, she'd come to realise the unusual scrutiny she'd always received from them all. The way guards always seemed able to attach themselves to her, the way their eyes never beheld much enthusiasm or affability towards her, nothing but the cool clear void she'd seen them change into when facing a dangerous enemy. And they were capable of such feelings, she'd seen laughter and openness etched across those solid blocks of wood during the celebrations. Perhaps they were among the few who welcomed those events. She felt resentment, and jealousy that they would portrait such distinct devotion to the scum Tspel yet treat herself like filth, someone less to nothing despite her own status. Their indifference to the lost deference she had a right to truly did make her exceedingly irate at times. But then again, that might be exactly what they wanted to do.

'' A slight gust of wind blew onto her back as Myra observed the supposedly sleeping figure in the other room once more. She found it hard to accept that Tspel was really ill, and more feasible that her sickness had been done out of spite aimed at her – there was no end to the amount of vindictiveness Tspel showed towards her in the years in which they'd grown up together. Myra herself stood nearly as high as Tspel in status but there were distinct differences to the treatment they each received. That was what edged her on, a bugging fact that frequently came into mind. She hated being reminded of it, yet seeing the unbelievably spacious room compared to her own considerably smaller bedroom, those harsh facts had asserted itself within her mind once more. Like a disease that had plagued her through her life, she couldn't decide whether she welcomed the jealousy or not. Jealousy sparked awareness like nothing else, it gave her the clear mind that had assisted her more than once. Perhaps all things did have its perks.

'' All was quiet, a faint glow at the corner cast most of the room in crawling shadows. Tspel always had nyctophobia; Myra thought it was wise of her to have it though she couldn't for the world understand how darkness was as intimidating as Tspel made it sound like. She hadn't bothered pursuing the reason as provoking as it was; her own pyrophobia had taken care of that. Cruel, Myra mused, that we both have phobias of the most opposite substance. This might just be indicating something I'm missing …

'' She'd seen what she'd come to see. Myra placed her thin journal into her slit pocket before turning her back towards the hole resignedly. She strongly suspected that Tspel knew of this place, and even if she didn't, she could not bear to remain where she was any longer. The Haunt Hunt was on tonight and her soul called out to mingle with the wild flighty spirit of spilled blood. This was the prestigious Eelsa rite where only those with certain ranks were allowed to join. It was a night that any other common folk would do well to fear and lock themselves away tightly. If they didn't wish to have their lives be brutally chopped away.

'' It was perhaps the only night Myra truly longed for, a chance to demonstrate her assassin prowess to the hunted in the clock of darkness. Where no one else but nature was present as witness to the desperate fight for the right to live. Nobles were encouraged to participate though as a female, it had required much wheedling on her part to be allowed. For it was sad to be the most perilous of nights, and from past experiences, Myra didn't doubt it. The hunted were former prisoners let loose, and there would be among them the Target. A certain prisoner or group chosen to be the ultimate prize, where shining glory would be earned by the hand that delivered its death. Nobles, generals, high-ranking officers and even green soldiers were allowed to participate. Common folks were their target, and no one would be held in account for accidental deaths. This was the annual rite where only the bravest and most foolish dared showed their face. And the most desperate.

'' No one could claim to know when it had begun, besides the fact that it dated back centuries or perhaps even millenniums ago. It was certainly the night that all prisoners lived for, the one night that would decide on their own freedom or death. The rules were few and simple, so that even the most illiterate understood its significance. They were the animals for the night, and if they survived, banishment and freedom would be the prize they could claim. Infinitely better than the guillotine, for it offered more intensity and drama. Myra relished the fervour and experience she gained and many a times had simply remained still and watched enraptured as the prisoners were butchered one after the other by professional soldiers armed with nothing but makeshift wooden swords. For that was the extra requirement for participating hunters, the precious few allowed to join were forbidden to wield any steel weapons. Thus making the killing more gruesome and nightmarish, encouraging originality from the soldiers and nobles. Myra still shivered slightly when she recalled the one time a crazed noble had whipped a prisoner to death, how each brutal blow had been followed with a shrill wail of terror and pain, and how those slashes never lost its momentum. She knew it'd been so to protect his own safety, for she had caught a glimpse of reflected steel gripped in his blood-streaked hands, but it didn't stop the nauseous from sweeping through her. Didn't make her feel less sick or terrified by the savagery of men and their thoughts once left alone, when locked in a battle of life.

'' But still Myra was a devoted supporter of the Haunt Hunt though it sickened her, though the inevitable rush of bile in her throat always cast the world in consuming darkness. Insanity is coming. All those years ago Myra could still picture every scene vividly, cherished remembrance of her unravelling history. Just a single peek into the night when murderers were exalted and she had found herself rushing to the Assassin Guilds begging for acceptance. For she had awaken her lust for killing. But then, her petition had been partially denied, they had not thought her worthy or aged enough to truly join in an assassin job. Yet still they allowed her to call herself as one of them, if only just a minor in their ranks. That had suited her fine, their methods and honour code were prized and that was what she wanted. But soon, though. After the Haunt Hunt she was to present them her victim killed with the one method that would determine her mastering of skills – to kill with bare hands. There was no set date but Myra knew better than to ask another to do the dirty work, they had too many spies to chance it. Results could turn fatal and it meant being dubious of the skills she valued. But that time was soon, she was certain of that. If only tonight had not had an extra barrier in it…

'' Myra's fingers clenched in an angry gesture as her threw dagger eyes into the surrounding darkness. Lowering her head slightly as the ceiling came close her height she cocked her head slightly to listen in on the soft echo that persistently tagged behind her. She drew the darkness close around her like a familiar cloak but there was always a present fear of an unseen enigma trailing her with murderous desires much like the ones she harboured. Tspel wasn't exactly the most popular figure in Eelsa and Myra was likewise in that area. They both shared a certain love for the Haunt Hunt and thus had always been paired together when setting out for preys. Only the more careful and protected hunters had need of partners, seeing as it offered scant shelter from danger. The Lady Death would find them all in the end; at least dying during the Haunt Hunt would earn a certain amount of honour, and no one else need ever see the moment when they took the killing blow. With Tspel conveniently sick Myra had thought her finally being allowed to hunt alone and would've succeeded if Tspel had not intervened. She had been forbidden to join in the Haunt Hunt on Her Royal 'Bug' Highness, Tspel Sidgihten's official request. A plea immediately granted by the King and Queen. Oh, she felt absolutely capable of murdering that stupid bitch!

'' But she couldn't, because her cherished honour could not be forfeited. It was illicit to murder another's sibling in Eelsa, possibly the only nation that practised it. The Hands knew there was enough bloodshed spilled on its mother grounds without family feuds erupting everywhere. Which was just as well, Myra wasn't intending on being labelled a traitor at such a young age. A few years later, perhaps. Then her thinking might've evolved to overlooking the law. It would be interesting, Myra reflected, to see who the victor will be in the end. Most interesting…

'' She'd arrived at the end of the tunnel, to an opening she'd chosen would eventually led on the rooftops of the Palace of Power. It was a secret trail she often frequented and the queer bond she held with it was baffling. The tunnel was simply an object, not a living thing, but that rational perspective did not help it clearing away the comfort she drew simply from stepping on its stone path, where pebbles littered the edges adjoining with a low ceiling. Where dust had come to claim it as its safe haven. Myra viewed her tunnels to be her safe haven as well, yet sometimes, she felt an intruder to it. And that too was inexplicable.

'' Her steps quickened as Myra came in sight of the passage end, feeling excitement churning from deep within as she felt the loving essence of Night calling out towards her. Tonight its intimate gesture of motherly embrace was mixed with that of high vulnerability – and she loved it that way. She felt her adrenaline rise in anticipation, memories stirring as she fondly recalled her previous journeys to the outside world on a similar mission… she wondered what Night would've had in store for her adventurous spirit, wondered whether She had remembered her nightly passion, and hoped that it was enough to shut her mind away from the bugging necessities of the Palace of Power. This was a personal gesture of rebellion towards them and thus she was eager to make as much of the night as was possible. Cautiously, Myra wrenched aside a hidden handle, paused slightly, and crawled out into the night.

She was nothing but another fleeting shadow crawling on the rooftops, no casual observer would've noted her movements. But as she melted into another shadow, a pair of blue eyes speckled brown materialised from behind a curtained window. A knowing smile curved along flawless skin. "We'll see."