Spring 1, 513 AV
The pre-dawn light of Zeltiva reflected only in the horizon. Glittering off distant waves, they might as well have been an offering of gems on some distant knoll. The orphanage was a silent edifice, protected in all its conventional entrances. Backed by Hadrian and holding the auspicious leader of the Martial Society, it had grown in game within Zeltiva. Few, however, noticed the shape clinging to the wall beneath a window, patiently waiting as his familiar snuck through the unconventional entrances, reformed, and opened the window for him.
Inside, Wren’s form shifted again, the light skin of the Symenestra receding to his usual color as his feet seemed more clumsy on the wood. Zan wordlessly floated in front of him, slipping beneath doors and scouting ahead till they found where they needed to be. Trente was sleeping alone, fitfully perhaps now that he knew Wren had achieved the upper hand in their little…encounter during the ball. Still, it had been more than ten days since the incident and, at least tonight, he had let himself rest too easily.
Zan slipped beneath the door without a sound, taking human guise only long enough to open the door for his master. Wren swept in like a cloud, at once filling the room with his poisonous presence. For a moment or two he held, still, listening to the settling of the orphanage, the souls sleeping beneath his feet. Zan hovered near his head, and reaching up, the mage grabbed him and placed the familiar on his belt in the form of a small bottle of water. The contents, unobserved and unnoticed, were black as pitch.
Trente’s sword was close to his bed, the habit of a warrior to never be far from their weapon. Wren approached the bed on that side and drew his blade snake-quick. Trente was many things, but oblivious was not one of them. The moment he heard metal scrape against metal, his eyes shot open. He took only the stock of the figure above him, the glimmer of a blade before rolling the opposite way out of bed, scrabbling for the dagger beneath his bed on the opposite side of his sword.
Wren let him move, kicking his rapier across the room with a dull clatter.
Brandishing the blade, Trente measured the merit of simply leaping from the window. With a breath, however, he noted the way his assailant held the blade. He turned to move only to receive a blade in his back for the trouble.
With two quick movements, Wren had circled the other side of the bed and hemmed in the swordsman, hold his blade with a practiced ease. Trente adopted a fencing stance, prepared to fight his way out tooth and nail. He would not die. He could not allow himself to die.
And as the glimmer of fading moonlight strafed into the window, Trente could see the cold glare of Wrenmae…the man who had killed a Waveguard, held the city in terror, and was lauded as one of its heroes.
Wren had come for the warrior.
And Trente only had the dagger that had led him to the mage as his weapon
The pre-dawn light of Zeltiva reflected only in the horizon. Glittering off distant waves, they might as well have been an offering of gems on some distant knoll. The orphanage was a silent edifice, protected in all its conventional entrances. Backed by Hadrian and holding the auspicious leader of the Martial Society, it had grown in game within Zeltiva. Few, however, noticed the shape clinging to the wall beneath a window, patiently waiting as his familiar snuck through the unconventional entrances, reformed, and opened the window for him.
Inside, Wren’s form shifted again, the light skin of the Symenestra receding to his usual color as his feet seemed more clumsy on the wood. Zan wordlessly floated in front of him, slipping beneath doors and scouting ahead till they found where they needed to be. Trente was sleeping alone, fitfully perhaps now that he knew Wren had achieved the upper hand in their little…encounter during the ball. Still, it had been more than ten days since the incident and, at least tonight, he had let himself rest too easily.
Zan slipped beneath the door without a sound, taking human guise only long enough to open the door for his master. Wren swept in like a cloud, at once filling the room with his poisonous presence. For a moment or two he held, still, listening to the settling of the orphanage, the souls sleeping beneath his feet. Zan hovered near his head, and reaching up, the mage grabbed him and placed the familiar on his belt in the form of a small bottle of water. The contents, unobserved and unnoticed, were black as pitch.
Trente’s sword was close to his bed, the habit of a warrior to never be far from their weapon. Wren approached the bed on that side and drew his blade snake-quick. Trente was many things, but oblivious was not one of them. The moment he heard metal scrape against metal, his eyes shot open. He took only the stock of the figure above him, the glimmer of a blade before rolling the opposite way out of bed, scrabbling for the dagger beneath his bed on the opposite side of his sword.
Wren let him move, kicking his rapier across the room with a dull clatter.
Brandishing the blade, Trente measured the merit of simply leaping from the window. With a breath, however, he noted the way his assailant held the blade. He turned to move only to receive a blade in his back for the trouble.
With two quick movements, Wren had circled the other side of the bed and hemmed in the swordsman, hold his blade with a practiced ease. Trente adopted a fencing stance, prepared to fight his way out tooth and nail. He would not die. He could not allow himself to die.
And as the glimmer of fading moonlight strafed into the window, Trente could see the cold glare of Wrenmae…the man who had killed a Waveguard, held the city in terror, and was lauded as one of its heroes.
Wren had come for the warrior.
And Trente only had the dagger that had led him to the mage as his weapon
