Yusrik marvelled at this wondrous city that he'd been raised to despise. As he walked between white buildings that shone beneath the brilliant sun, he adjusted the collar of his garish clothes. Jewels and silver trim sparkled at the edges of the colourful shirt. The padding he had added around the waist concealed a long, sharp blade. It pressed against his skin, itching to be used.

  Soon.

  Yusrik smiled at everyone he saw. He spent money at every charming market stall and stuffed a date and honey flatbread into his mouth as he walked. For now, he was a visiting merchant from some vaguely defined overseas city. His clothes, his loud voice and the gold in his pouch confirmed it. His face was forgettable. His face was just a shadow.

  He exited the bustling square, where the famous four guild-houses overlooked the commerce below, their facades bristling with statues, plaques and banners advertising their wealth.

  He tried not to peer in curiosity as he passed the Consecrate Library. The peaked roofs of the various wings poked behind the high walls like the tips of small mountains. His own home village would have fit five times into the space those walls enclosed. He wondered if there were any shadows like him inside, flitting between the bookcases and prying into the secrets of the monks. If there are, I am too junior to know. There were circles within circles in his cult and he was, as yet, far from the centre. But for a shadow with the blood of a king on his hands, surely an exalted place will be found.

  Soon.

  He approached the low, inner walls that surrounded the government district. It was nestled at the foot of the mount, which squatted behind the city: a perfect triangle pointing towards the sky, barren and brown on all sides. A different disguise was called for here.

  He walked behind a group of arguing scholars. As the shadow of a pillar fell over him, he muttered the name of his divine mistress.

  “Sindrah, whose domain is shadow.”

  He weaved the threads of a new life – a new identity – in his mind. Something lighter this time, perhaps. He imagined himself as a member of the king’s council; a minor royal from a cousin’s bloodline. As he stepped out of the shadow, the white robes of high office flapped around his legs and a breath of cool air brushed his ankles. The knife still nestled against his side, waiting. He still bore his own forgettable face.

  Yusrik approached the two guards on either side of the gate and passed between them without slowing or making eye contact. The right clothes, the right bearing and a small prayer were enough for him to walk inside.

  The atmosphere changed. The sounds of the crowds faded behind him. The streets were spacious and the buildings used more marble and less granite. It felt cooler here, somehow, though the same merciless sun beat down from above. Famous priests and great archons from countless wars glared down at him from high plinths. These people did not intimidate Yusrik. The brighter the light shone, the more shadows it created.

  He took a left turn, following directions he had memorised, trying to look as though his feet knew the way rather than his mind. He entered the courtyard where royals trained. A regal looking young man with olive skin and a face as chiselled as the statues entered at the far end, with a group of others behind him.

  Prince Tancred, perhaps, with a gaggle of followers. The snubbed prince.

  He and his entourage shrugged off their light robes and walked naked into the athletics area. Yusrik looked away in disgust.

  As shameless as the carved figures that line their streets. Have they no decency?

  An older man was coming the other way and their eyes met. The man’s white robes bore the red trim of a priest of Hurean. The silver ends of his blonde hair caught the sunlight and the keen eyes of his ascetic face narrowed as they trained on Yusrik.

  His heart quickened. Had he allowed the disgust he felt to show in his expression? A real Westerner wouldn't have been appalled at that sight. To them, it would have been an honour to witness the physical strength and health of their prince. The old priest slowed.

  Could it be…? No, Yusrik prayed. Not Devra.

  The Priest of the Flame, second only to the king himself in the Westerners’ ecclesiarchy, had a forbidding reputation. The shadows whispered of him with something approaching respect. They said that he was a shrewd and subtle man, more so than any of his fellow clergy. Yusrik recalled the admonishment of his superior. He is difficult to lie to; difficult to deceive. He will unmask you if you use our magic in his sight. But he will not be with the king at midday.

  Yusrik forced what he hoped was a polite, relaxed smile and looked ahead. He felt the eyes of the priest dwell on him. He was certain that in a moment the man would stop and challenge his presence.

  They passed shoulder to shoulder and the priest’s footsteps slowed. Yusrik neither heard nor felt any movement behind him. He stopped and turned to watch me. The exit he needed was just ahead. His legs fought to move faster and he struggled to restrain them. His pulse thumped against his eardrums and his mind whirled but he moved his limbs in the painstaking imitation of a leisurely pace. The exit neared. He heard footsteps. The priest had begun to follow him.

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  He reached the exit and turned into an enclosed corridor. The shade fell on him like a welcome embrace and he allowed the noble’s restrictive robes to fall away into the darkness from which they came. He ran, fleet of foot and silent, as fast as he could. For a moment, he ran with only underclothes and the waistband that held his knife in place. But as he ran he wove new designs. He rounded a corner and slowed to a jog. The weight of his new costume fell upon him and he stumbled, then adjusted and walked upright. The bronze breastplate and leather cuirass fit snugly, with just enough space for his secret weapon. The relief on its surface and the shape of his shoulder plates gave him the rank of captain. Not so high that he should be recognised; not so low that he could be disobeyed. Around the next corner two guards stood aside and let him pass, and then he was in the open again.

  This is it. The Mount. And at the top the final goal.

  Stone steps snaked from where Yusrik strode up the slope of the mount. The summit was low; little more than a furlong in a straight line from the bottom. Just below it, nestled into the Southern slope, was the Godsroof itself; the First Temple.

  Yusrik shuddered. He had travelled the vast world and visited many places but he had never before stood at the foot of the mount, looking up at the grey pillars of the Godsroof. It was somehow both surprisingly humble and, at the same time, humbling. A grey rectangular wall, lined with simple stone columns around a space that could not have been more than an acre awaited him. But it was not the scale that sent shivers down Yusrik’s spine. It was the age. This temple was erected in the earliest of days – when humans had just received the gifts of the gods and raised the first buildings in their name.

  As Yusrik ascended the steps, he let elements of his disguise fall away. Piece by piece, he replaced the uniform with dull, grey clothes, as forgettable as his own face. He loosened the blade that was bound to his waist.

  He looked at the parched ground of the mount and felt, for the first time since he set out on this mission, the faintest flicker of doubt. What was that saying the Westerners repeated, regarding the seat of their king?

  It never rains on the Godsroof.

  He always assumed it was a figure of speech. Part of the arrogance of their beliefs, that no misfortune could ever befall their holy city. Now, as his eyes raked over the scorched earth looking for the slightest sign of life or moisture, he wondered if they meant it literally. Did the attention of Hurean, their brash and boastful god, protect this place even from rainfall? He whispered a prayer to Sindrah – Hurean’s former wife – and walked with a little more courage.

  Yusrik paused before the tall, oak door of the throne room. He listened intently but heard nothing. He looked up at the sun, just passing its zenith. The client for this assassination had assured Yusrik’s superior that the king would be alone now. It sounded unbelievable, but they paid enough silver to convince his order of their sincerity. At midday the king was supposed to lead his court in prayer.

  Yusrik pushed the door. It creaked as it swung, but there was no point in hiding anymore. If the king was alone, Yusrik’s mission was as good as done. If his court and fearsome guard were there, even the assassin's long years of honed skill would not be enough. All Yusrik could do now was trust and hope.

  The light inside the room struck him. There was no roof to block it. The sun shone down into the long, plain hall the same as it did outside. The king sat in the centre, on a gaudy throne of gold and silver.

  King Brunulf of the Western Kingdom was everything Yusrik had been told to expect. It’s over. I accomplished it. He pulled the knife from the waistband at last, exhilarated to finally have his fingers around the hilt.

  The old, gaunt man in front of him looked like a skeleton draped in the glittering robes of office. His bald, sun-tanned head was bowed and he mumbled incoherently under his breath, perhaps finishing his midday prayers, or perhaps talking to himself in his sleep. Yusrik wondered who had paid for his death. Were they an enemy of the Western Kingdom of Giftahl, or its friend? Did they yearn for someone stronger to occupy this seat, or look forward to the chaos that would ensue when it lay empty? It was of no matter to the Cult. Kings came and went, and the shadows grew ever longer.

  He walked towards Brunulf, knife in hand. The old king heaved himself upright, as though lifting his back under some great weight. He wore the famous black patch, covering the space where his left eye was missing. His right eye fixed on Yusrik and he took a moment to register what was happening. Then he understood and a tear welled and rolled down his cheek.

  Self pity. How pathetic, that such a one should call himself King.

  King Brunulf leaned back and raised a gnarled hand, as though commanding an attendant to stop. To his own surprise, Yusrik complied and came to a halt three yards from the throne. He wondered what the old man would say, or what he might try to do. In ages past, a king under the Godsroof could summon a firestorm and burn whole fields of his enemies. This husk of a man probably couldn’t even light a candle.

  “Your days are over, old man,” Yusrik declared, feeling the pride of fulfilling his mission. “What do you have to say?”

  The king breathed in. His face contorted in grief, but something about it unnerved the assassin. He does not look afraid. The king leaned forward and growled:

  “If the time were right, I would welcome you to relieve my sorrows.”

  King Brunulf lowered his hand and turned it over, so that he held a balled fist upside down in front of his face. Yusrik’s fingers closed around the dagger. The king opened his hand slowly. A single, bright flame, like the light of a candle rested on his open palm.

  Yusrik sneered. So, he’s got something left in him after all. Not enough. He stepped forwards.

  The king blew gently on the tiny flame; the whisper of a breath, as though he regretted the action. Yusrik hesitated and watched, first with curiosity and then with horror. Flames grew and swept from the open palm like a midsummer wildfire blowing across the plains.

  Knife outstretched, Yusrik leapt towards the old man whose gaunt, haggard frame now struck him as wiry and frightful. The king's right eye burned like the mouth of a volcano.

  An inferno engulfed Yusrik and his skin blistered.

  But it wasn’t too late. He needed to pierce the king's heart before the heat consumed him.

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