The coin glinted in the moonlight. The metal felt smooth in the assassin's palm. He sifted it momentarily as he lay crouched upon the stone roof, his stomach pressed against the rock. Rain poured from the inky dark, and the assassin lifted their hooded eyes to make out the features of the battlement in front. He turned to his side, where another figure lay below their brown clothes, clinging to the putrid mud. Carefully, the first lifted a hand and his fingers motioned through the damp air.

  Charred grass swayed in the wind, and two soldiers marched along the furthest wall. The passing storm drenched their red cloaks and bronze armour. One held their torch high with the wood burning an orange hue through the misty night. The rays of light reflected upon the assassin’s muddied face.

  In silence, the second assassin waited to slowly unsheathe a jagged blade. Hooded robes flew through the air, and they leaped from the roof to barely latch against the castle's rough walls. The figure stood, feet dangling, while the two guards stood barely an inch away. He could hear them now. The two were over fifty feet in the air while mortar and brick surrounded the city below.

  One talked about the city's newest reform, their thick accented voice steeped in fatigue, while the other muttered about the city's weather. Gold insignias lay embroidered on their chests. Neither saw the assassin's sword. In one swift movement, the mercenary tugged on the first soldier's robe, sending them flying into the chasm below. The second soldier waved their spear in frantic desperation, yet it was too late.

  “Hurry, we need to move quickly," Jana hissed.

  Water splashed along the smooth stone, and they brushed back their hoods, brown hair drenched by the pounding rain.

  “Yeah, I know, I know,” Crous coughed.

  They both paused, slowly changing into the still-warm imperial clothing. The cloth was coarse and rough, comfort exchanged for durability.

  The two had to change fast or else nearby guards would surely see the colour.

  Purple

  Underneath their cloaks, they wore purple. It was a vibrant, flashy hue of the royal colour that had been stained into silk robes the night before. Six hundred years ago, the entire outfit would have had to be purple. They would have been slathered in paint and grimy dye so that the whole world could see them coming. Those were more civilized times. Now, assassins would usually sneak in first and only reveal themselves within the inner halls.

  It wasn't meant to be a disguise, a desperate ploy to blend in with nobility or a mark of honour; it was a message.

  It was the mark of their occupation. They weren't simple swords for hire but professionals and kingslayers.

  For a second, the guard twitched, hand moving to have Jana’s sword slice through their armour.

  “This one feels different,” Crous remarked.

  “How? What do you mean?” Jana replied. She had her sword drawn, staring at the wall's horizon.

  “It feels…odd,” he shuddered.

  They might actually recognize him.

  Trees thrashed in the wind, and the hooded figures rushed along the empty trail. The city wall spanned for miles, expert masonry spiralling to the heavens. The fortress sat etched into the mountainside. Outside was surrounded by the city’s artificial peninsula, an ocean guarding them from attack. Snow draped its jagged peaks, and watchfires burned into the night. Below, the marble streets of Kag came into view. Few citizens flocked to its mud-ridden streets, and the destitute clung to open doors for warmth. Soon dawn would rise, and with it, usher in the city's crowds.

  The metropolis spanned the entire horizon. Tall, glistening towers were complemented by dishevelled shacks. Grid-like streets dominated a series of well-defined marketplaces, theatres, libraries and plazas. A merchant stalked the street below, a wooden cart bumping along the cobbles. Wares could be seen, an early rise to keep a profit within the capital's bustling bazaars. Aqueducts carried in fresh water from nearby lakes, galleons and ferries docked at Kag’s port.

  The two marched forward now, crimson robes perfectly emulating the dead. Jana held the torch, orange fire tearing through the skyline. Both walked in formation, each step a resurgence of their days in imperial ranks.

  At the center stood a monolithic keep with its crimson banners dancing among the clouds, while the fortress kept a watchful eye on the city below. Archer towers were laid out in every corner with ballistae lining both the walls and inner fortifications. Its enormous carved stone walls acted as a testament to the archmage’s power, tiny watchtowers, inner walls, and entire garrisons imbued within the building's mighty frame. Gold and steel sat embroidered into every step, rivers of marble streaking from the city's heart.

  At last, they reached the inner gate, a direct approach to the keep. Iron bars had been lowered by winches to cover the main doors, yet the side door remained open. Crous pulled out his documents and placed the parchment into the nearest guard’s hand, and Jana did the same. A swordsman barked orders from above to let them both pass, and in a moment, the two disappeared to vanish into the shadows.

  “Meet at the east ridge?" Crous whispered.

  They turned to part, one going down each fork of the bricked path. For a moment, Jana stopped, cloak bending in the dark.

  "Don't grow a conscience, it'll only grow you harm," She breathed.

  It was strangely silent, hay matting his feet while he walked toward the streets. He made it past the first patrol, receiving nods from the unsuspecting guards, and he continued to the city center. A few peasants clung to the mud-scuffed walls to see merchants toil in the marketplace. Tax officers had already set up shop, their white robes glinting in the lamplight in preparation for the day ahead. At last, he reached an alleyway. His eyes shifted forward, and he approached the east wall. It must have been just a few hours past midnight. Dawn was barely on the horizon, and a few carriages were heard winding down the cobblestone roads. Crous methodically approached the wall. In seconds, he latched himself to the rock with his hands, expertly scaling the smooth marble.

  Torchlight dotted the skyline as the assassin moved his hand through the humid breeze.

  Crous’s fingers curled around the rain, almost trying to catch the water in his palm. He still felt blisters on his hands from training while he searched for the hidden door. They had an insider; jobs like this would be impossible without one, and Crous was sure it cost the guild good coin. It could look like anything: a stone out of place, scratches on the keep wall, or a patch of gray moss. He was never great at remembering. His eyes twitched for a moment, searching for a clue. At last, he felt it—a spongy material hidden among the hardened rock.

  Suddenly, a bell tolled across the night.

  Oh no

  He shifted his hand to find an enchantment blocked the entrance to their hidden passage. His suspicions were only confirmed.

  There was no time to react, no time for remembrance.

  There was a reason he was bold enough to wear purple.

  Archers lined the streets, and entire battalions rushed toward the city armoury. Plate mail was doled out to waiting arms, and clouds of dust rose from horses that swept across the uncleaned roads. Soldiers spilled out of darkened homes. Quiet alleys were lined with torches while what few citizens who wandered about rushed into the safety of open doors.

  Merchants drew swords, a small army marching toward Crous’s position. Horns blared over the darkened sky, and Crous closed his eyes. He let his cloak squelch into the ground to reveal the purple clothes. There would be no hiding now.

  The sound of boots clinking filled the mercenaries' ears. Four guardsmen rushed toward their position. Crous could sense the ambush; archers were behind him, and a trap had been laid.

  For a moment, the soldiers halted for a single word of hatred to spew from their lips. “Assassin!” a lieutenant roared.

  Imperial cleavers swung forward. The first one landed a strike to swipe through the assassin’s bright blue clothes. Yet Crous pulled back, slashing them in the throat while dodging the second swing.

  "Defend the Archmage," another cried.

  "It's the Assassin, warn the keep, defend the Archmage!" another cried.

  Little did they know his target was not the Archmage.

  Crous struck first. Red cloaks carpeted the ground. A lieutenant threw their spear, only for the wooden spike to fly through the air and pierce the stone behind, missing the target. Crous bent forward, readying to jump. Dust clouded the ground. The wall crumbled, and more soldiers ran forward. He sliced three, causing them to almost crumble into chalky dust.

  “Fall back! Fall back!”

  This wasn’t regular magic; this was something different.

  Heat clung to the city's now ashen walls, yet there was no time to react. Below, an archer fired at the assassin’s head, only to have the arrow whizz through the night. Enraged, another soldier flung himself at Crous. They were fighting, really fighting. He could tell every frantic blow was imbued with a teething fervour for every purple smear he represented. They didn't just hate him; they loathed him. These were the honourable few who would gladly give up their lives to inflict even the smallest scratch. He carelessly battered the assassin with punches and slashes from a bronze dagger. One caught Crous’s robe, but he quickly blocked with his sword, chopping through two more guards before staring at the soldiers in front. Four more soldiers rushed forward this time, using their shields to encircle Crous. A spearman shot forward, catching Crous in the arm and causing him to wince in pain. He grabbed the shaft and snapped it in two. Then he lifted his hands and let a spell unleash. Fire crackled, and the soldiers screamed.

  “Retreat!” a hoarse voice cried.

  Steel chestplates melted and warped under the blinding light.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Retreat!”

  Six more guardsmen rushed forward, a captain and three lieutenants running along the wall. They braced for attack with tower shields in front in the hopes of boxing their enemy in. A troop continued from the back, more soldiers bashing their spears against the tall wooden shields, in the hopes of creating a phalanx.

  Sparing no time, Crous jumped off the ledge, leaping onto the first guard’s shield. Wood splintered, and the soldier roared, spit flying into the air. Swinging with full force, they seemed to fight like animals. Crous slashed, cut, and parried, eyes turning paler, blending into a crystalline hue with each passing second. The mercenary punched forward, a bare hand crushing right through the captain's armour to send him flying. Two others rushed to his defence, slashing widely to soon be cut down by the assassin’s blade. In the distance, archers had reached a ballista, squinting in the dark as they attempted to make Crous out from the crowd.

  “Inhuman. Inhuman! An abomination!” the first soldier barked.

  In seconds, they hid behind their tower shields, backing away with spears drawn.

  “Archers, fire!” the second screamed.

  Behind, a contingent of legionaries waited, fifteen or so roused from the nearest garrison. Arrows pierced through the murky haze, wooden shafts bouncing off the assassin’s path to land in the shrubbery below. Crous dodged, feet slipping on the cobbles, for him to fall onto the rooftops below.

  Miraculously, not a single one had hit.

  Crous kept running, and in a few moments, the keep was in sight. Six mages stood on guard flanking the back door. Fear was instilled in their eyes.

  "Archmage, defend the Archmage!"

  Lightning spewed from the first mage’s hand, with the bolt streaking past the assassin’s cheek to crumple a nearby wall to dust. The protective enchantment on the building shuddered. Crous dodged, swinging his whole body to the side. Another mage pressed forward, with vines sprouting from the ground to grab at Crous’s feet. Yet the assassin threw his sword, cutting down the imperial to jump into the other’s arms. In seconds, the assassin struck twice, his hands lashing, claws streaking through the air. In a blinding flash, four lay dead.

  The mages could tell he was different.

  They couldn't feel him casting. He was doing magic, but they couldn't feel him casting.

  Crous moved unnaturally fast as his eyes filled with the same pale white. A firebolt whizzed past Crous’s head and he dodged it in an instant to kick two mages off a ledge. Another caused the bricks to sweep out from under his feet as he desperately flailed to stop the attacker's advance.

  They swiped forward, causing a wall to smash near Crous’s head. The mage swung forward with lightning arcing from his hands to crackle the ground below. Crous used his sword to unnaturally deflect the bolt and slash his attacker. In an instant, the mage fell back to heal the wound with his power. He could see legionaries in the distance, hundreds—if not thousands—marching to the keep’s aid, yet it would be too late. The assassin smiled as he opened the door.

  Servants sprinted past Crous to the safety of the storm as he stalked the grand chamber.

  Red robes carpeted the golden floors while blood sifted along the carved stone. The assassin stood with his hands shaking, eyes bulging, an arrow sticking out of his back as he marvelled in amazement. Pillars streaked into the carved sky as thousands of precious stones lay imbued into the twisting floor. Magic pulsated from the keep’s heart. Every inch, every scrap of rock was a masterwork of old, a testament of power. Within its center, a creature could be heard.

  The target.

  Crous’s mind wandered. That thing couldn't be allowed to live a moment longer.

  The pale white robe of the Archmage matted Crous's feet. He approached the altar, a gigantic stone slab held within the city's center. The chiselled black rock had a thin blue tinge, energy pulsating from its core. It taunted him and beckoned him as whispers filled his ears. The assassin carefully took off his glove to let his sweaty fingers trace along the rock's edge.

  Crous readied his hand.

  Something was wrong.

  Jana should be here.

  The thought raced through his mind, yet he took the opportunity to strike.

  For a moment, light filled Crous’s eyes once more. Energy crackled and the altar began to shake. In seconds, the spell vanished.

  “You’re alive?”

  The assassin turned. He was normal now. human. Exposed.

  “You tried to have me killed,” Crous replied.

  Jana stood only a few feet away. Her blade was drawn, orange tip smeared with poison. “I’m sorry Crous, but I saw my chance. And I took it,” Jana said.

  “You made a deal with the Archmage?” the assassin growled.

  She began to step forward, not letting herself see his face. "Wealth is a beautiful thing Crous. So much greed. I can feel it, etched into every wall of this…tomb”

  From the shadows, hundreds poured into the room. Full-plated soldiers, archers, crossbowmen, spearmen, mages. Countless eyes pierced like daggers into Crous’s skin. Their swords glistened in the torchlight. Lightning gleamed as sorcerers itched to unleash their power. An entire army stood within the hall.

  “I must say I expected less, I pegged you to die on the wall” The Archmage spouted.

  The soldiers bent into formation. In front, a young man emerged, his beard spotted with flecks of grey. Their faces lit up with amusement.

  “Irwain,” Crous breathed. He readied his blade, itching to react. An arrow pierced Crous’s back, stinging. Yet the assassin breathed.

  “You must realize your failure,” Irwain pointed out. “A simple assassin like you could never get through the Altar’s defence,” He laughed.

  Crous backed away to cast an eye toward where the abomination was. It was unguarded and open to any strike. He could feel the watchful eye of the archers above and hear their panicked breath. It had to die. It was their only hope.

  “Jana saw the right path. Let’s put an end to whatever this is.” Irwain moved forward, carefully stepping over the corpses in front. He seemed to study them while he bent down to dip a finger in the pools of blood below. He stared at the putrid mixture, feeling the liquid stain his palm. “You killed over a hundred of my soldiers tonight. They were loyal, hardworking people who deserved a chance.” Fire brewed in the archmage’s palm, clean wisps of blue protruding from the blackened skin. “Yet, you showed me something greater, something more…”

  Jana could be seen edging forward, her own sword angled at Crous. Her face was steeped with regret, yet Crous could tell it was one money had already healed.

  “Who paid you?” Irwain asked. “Jana only had half the information.”

  He had been wise to keep it from her.

  “Who paid you?”

  Crous fixed his gaze, ignoring the Archmage's cries.

  “Who paid you?” Irwain shrieked. The Archmage wheezed, seeming poised to strike, ready to unleash the fury of the gods.

  Then, to their horror, Crous walked forward, eyes shifting as they shimmered white. Electricity crackled along his palm.

  The archmage stopped as his eyes were transfixed in sheer terror. Soon, his pale face contorted to a mixture of horror. Behind, four spearmen quavered as they sprinted for the open hall.

  “You didn’t consult the dead, did you, Irwain?”

  With one free hand, Crous reached toward his back, grabbing the arrow to pull with all his might. The shaft parted, yet to the horror of those who watched, no blood tainted its steel tip.

  Metal wheezed as the steel plate fell off Crous’s back to clang against the hall. It was tempered copper twisted in a mixture of bloodied flesh.

  “Your soldiers—the ones who fought today—did you hear them speak?”

  The assassin stepped forward, sparks flying from the gaping wound as wires twisted around its steel core. The others looked terrified. Their medieval knowledge of technology barely began to comprehend what lay infront.

  “Did you not think there was a reason why I was here?”

  *****************

  A thick wad of parchment slammed against Jan’s desk. Dust spewed into the open air. As the young scribe readied his pen, he paused for a moment to watch blots of ink trickle down the newly copied page.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “The newest addition to the archmage’s greatest hits?” he replied.

  Laura looked down, face contorting in a mixture of anger and amusement.

  “Maybe if you kept a cleaner workstation, I wouldn’t have to yell at you for this ridiculously inaccurate depiction.”

  “The client ordered an entertainment-worthy rendition of the attack on Kag.” The elder scribe pointed to the blotty page, and thin spindly fingers traced the parchment. “Entertainment worthy!”

  She slammed her fist against the table, causing more dust to puff into the air. “Do those words mean anything to you!”

  “You called Irwain’s staff a black rod. A black rod…” she paced toward her desk. “The staff of Divinity is the second most powerful magical artifact in the Kingdom!”

  “I mean it does look like a black rod. Have you ever seen him use the thing?”

  Jan yanked the page from her hand. He lifted his arms in a cheap imitation of the high mage. Papers flew off his desk to waft through the cool air.

  “It’s all a boobity bopity this, blah blah that.” He sneered.

  The other looked down, a smile spreading across her lips. “Jan, when are you going to take this seriously? Besides, Crous being metal is folklore.”

  “No, it’s not. I have written accounts, witness testimonials, statements by captains themselves sixteen years ago!” Jan lifted a series of yellow papers to wave in front of Laura’s eyes. The scribbled parchment flaked away in his hands. “Cheap paper,” Jan grumbled.

  "What next? Electricity? Blatant taboo and pseudoscience?" Laura grunted.

  Jan shuffled his feet. She was being unfair, electricity was barely a world. More of a taboo or myth carried over thousands of years. She wasn't taking this seriously. She might has well have mentioned flying cats.

  "Jan the idea of a metal being is as crazy as horseless carriages or flying without magic! and how could a metal man possibly even exist? Wouldn't they just get rusty the moment it rains?" She added.

  “Listen, when the head scribe sees what you've written, he’ll give you—”

  “Give me what, Laura?” Jan snapped. “Give me what?”

  “Half pay?”

  “Half pay!” Jan jumped off his seat, his pen swirling through the air and landing on the dirt floor below. “You think this is worth half pay? For heaven's sake, this is the most beautiful historical account one could ever wish for,” Jan stated with a half-grin plastered on his pale face.

  “The conversation with Jana, the inner thoughts… The opening scene with the coin?” Laura questioned. She turned with her eyes transfixed on the ink blobs as though they were demons set out to capture the archmage’s sandals. “You took liberties.”

  “Listen, Laura, a few literary freedoms here and there help these copies sell!” He waved his hands through the air to have his patchy scribe robe fall and reveal scrawny elbows.

  They both quieted for a moment as the head scribe passed. Elder Danmu’s scruffy beard peeked above the library's countless shelves. His towering height was a savior for the lazy academic.

  “Hundreds of people died that day, including your parents!” Laura scolded. She was rearranging the items on his desk now, trying to fix the potent amalgamation of ineptitude.

  “Exactly. People are still fascinated by what happened… They want to know the truth!” Jan’s eyes wandered to the mud-stained window, his tongue slowing as he stood lost in thought.

  “The truth?” Laura remarked. “You misspelled chiselled on page 10. It’s spelt with one L.”

  She pointed toward a smudge of ink, letting Jan squint for a moment, regardless of what she sai,d one mistake in a handwritten report over sixteen pages wasn’t too bad!

  “Look, Laura, that doesn’t matter!” he muttered. “Besides, I’m consul to the archmage, practically a god around here.” He looked at Laura to let out a devious smile. She always hated it when he pulled rank, but his assignment as a scribe had let her become his superior.

  “Yeah, sure. Rewrite it—accurate depiction, no liberties. Did you at least finish transcribing the newest arithmetic volumes?”

  A series of ancient tomes and scattered papers were strewn through the young scribe’s desk. The swirling shapes and malformed letters seemed to haunt Jan’s dreams. They were lucid lines and diagrams imported by the brightest minds, only to find themselves daunted by Jan’s work ethic. Leius Leuix, most famed academic in all of Wei, had their work tucked in one folded page. Formula after formula, each inscribed in its own fabled brilliance, were doomed the moment Damnu smiled at Jan’s punishment.

  The elder scribe then slowly cast an eye at the library clock. “Just get us lunch,” Laura coughed.