Execution Day

It was cold.

The assassin shifted, wincing as her raw skin rubbed against her shackles. They clinked and jangled at the movement, and they echoed against the cool stone of the cell. Her hand brushed against the cold stone, and a shiver ran through her. She wished she could reach the sconce on the other side of her room of isolation. It was a cruel decision on the architect’s part, to place the only source of warmth out of reach of the freezing prisoner shackled to the opposite wall. The northern lands took advantage of their cold summers and harsh winters. She wished she’d been wearing warmer attire when she was captured; her cloth boots, leather breeches, and leather summer coat did nothing against the breeze that howled through the dungeon.

The corners of her mouth dipped into a frown. She knew she shouldn’t have trusted him. He was a coward from the very beginning; from the moment she met him when they were children, she knew that he would be a worthless knight. Regardless, he was the only one who’d spar and practice archery with her. She was naïve enough to consider him a friend—her best friend, in fact.

Was.

∞    •    ∞    •    ∞

He dipped backwards and parried her attack, going in for a jab at her abdomen. But she had already begun dodging the attack, twirling around him like a dancer. Her dulled blade dropped down into the bend of his arm, forcing his arm to falter, and she stopped only when she was behind him and holding the blade at his throat. A victorious smirk broke out upon her face, contrasting the defeated frown on the boy’s.

“Defeated once again,” she announced haughtily. “Do I need to go easier on you, Aeren?”

He scowled and pushed himself away from the young woman, but the glint in his eyes betrayed their childish amusement. “I was going easy on you.” The scowl transitioned into a playful smirk. “A gentlemanly knight knows that he must always let the lady win.”

She rolled her eyes and sheathed the sparring sword. “Regardless of what you think, O’ Gentlemanly Knight, I have beaten you seven to two.”

“One more round?”

Her face fell at the request. “I cannot,” she answered. “It is late, and I am to attend an important meeting at first light.”

Despite the lack of light from the moons, Aerendal could still see the dejected expression upon her face, thanks to his elvish heritage. A quirky half smile adorned his face in response. “No worries. I’ll beat you again tomorrow.”

∞    •    ∞    •    ∞

The clicking of boots reverberated throughout the silent dungeon, and she had trouble pinpointing their location. A wolf-like ear swiveled atop her head, attempting to decipher who was coming and from where. Beyond the echoing, she could tell there were multiple persons, perhaps two or three. Their boots were thick—guards most likely—and their footfalls were heavy. Men, she deduced, large and burly and easily able to subdue her if necessary.

Only seconds had passed before they were at her cell door, keys jingling, clicking and unlocking the slab of steel. It screeched upon its rusted hinges as it opened up to reveal her visitors.

Perhaps “visitors” was not the correct term.

The wolf-elf called upon her shadows, drawing them to her and sending them out like a shockwave. Where the shadows touched, they created a picture within her mind. She “saw” the cold, grimy stone that surrounded her, the sconce across the way, the rusted steel slab that was just one of the many obstacles that separated her from freedom. She “saw” the three men that stood before her, clad in armor with exquisite intricacies etched into the metal. One of the men wore a cape, gold thread inlaid into the hem and along the length of the fabric. Swords were strapped to their waists, but only the one with the cape had a detailed pommel. The metal had been carved and molded into the shape of a fox’s head, docile and stealthy, but the gems at its eyes betrayed the bite an angry fox could inflict.

Two of the men approached the assassin and unlocked her shackles from the wall. They yanked her to her feet by the chains still clasped around her wrists, forcing a pained grunt from her. There was no time to stabilize herself on her wobbly legs before the guards urged her to move forward towards the Fox.

She was only a step away from the man when the guards halted, forcing her to a stop as well. She could feel his glare as he towered over her, his gaze lingering on the blindfold over her eyes. If only she still had her sight; she would have been glaring with just as much hatred.

“It’s good to finally see you in chains.” His voice was rough and gravelly, a deep contrast to his smooth face.

A corner of her mouth tugged upwards into a smirk. “It is good to see you again, Sir Amrynn.”

Amrynn’s scowl didn’t falter as he turned on his heel and led the guards and the assassin through the dungeons. They didn’t make multiple twists and turns like they had done when they had first brought her here. Then, it was an attempt to disorient her, to confuse her as to how to escape the maze-like dungeons. But now, they made no attempt to confuse her. There was no need to. She was not expected to return.

As they drew nearer to the entrance of the dungeons, she could hear an obstreperous roar. It was almost like the continually rolling thunder of a storm or a stampede of a hundred horses. But she knew what lurked outside, what sought to see the assassin headless.

The wolf-elf’s ears flattened against her head as they stepped out into the cool air. The crowds roared louder as the assassin entered their sight, their faces contorted into wrath and maliciousness. Many of them called her vulgar slurs and insults, but she ignored them as more of the Royal Guard appeared and aided the original three men in escorting her through the boisterous crowd.

She was jostled around as the guards tried to keep the crazed citizens at bay. Their progress was slow, but the men felt no remorse as they shoved the people away and sent them crashing down into those behind them. The cold winds nipped at the assassin’s fingers and nose, and she wondered if she’d develop frostbite before they made it to the stage.

Something hard and sharp struck her in the temple, and she struggled to stay on her feet. Stars danced across her vision, despite her blindness, and her head swam at the impact. She had grown weak, she realized; an injury by something as boring as a rock would have never disoriented the great killer-for-hire. But the lack of food, water, sleep… They had taken its toll on her.

The guards dragged her along regardless, not even stopping the others from slinging rocks, rotten foods, and dried breads at her. She didn’t bother trying to dodge or avoid the projectiles. They hated her with a passion—a passion that would never die. They despised her, and they wished to see her suffer.

∞    •    ∞    •    ∞

Her bare feet were silent against the marble floors, and she silently hoped Maester Virqen wasn’t still awake. To find her finally going to bed in the dead of night would lead to quite the reprimanding. It wouldn’t be the first time, however.

But she had hardly gotten far before the smell of smoke filled her senses. Her eyes widened in fear and shock and, without hesitation, sprinted towards the living chambers. As she drew closer, the smoke got stronger, more dense, and she coughed as it filled her lungs.

When she burst into the first room, her heart jumped into her throat and a choked sob escaped her. Her youngest brother’s bed had been set alight, and the flames were already lowering as they had already done their damage. Her brother’s body was charred and blackened, but she could still hear the echoing of his screams.

It took every part of her to break away from the scene and race to each of her siblings’ rooms, but she was too late. Every room was the same: the bed alight with one of her sleeping siblings lying atop it, charred and deceased. The same was for Uncle Rychell and Maester Virqen. Every one of her family members, of her council was dead, murdered in their own beds.

Except for her twin sister.

Her sister was standing over Maester Virqen’s deceased body, an empty vial clutched within her hand. And when her sister turned, she could clearly see the malice that glinted in her eyes as she locked eyes with her.

It took her a moment to find her voice. “Alannis…?” She sounded small and frail, unlike her usually confident tone. “Alannis, what have you done?”

Alannis’ head tilted curiously. “I don’t know what you mean,” she responded slyly. “You did this.”

“Wha–?”

Alannis lunged at her sister, pinning her to the ground. She fought back, trying to get away from her crazed, murderous sister. All the while, Alannis screamed, “Guards! Traitor! She murdered them all!”

∞    •    ∞    •    ∞

The crowd parted as the neared the stage, revealing the lone man standing before it. His pointed ears denoted his elvish heritage, and a grim expression adorned his features. His attire was more ornate than Amrynn’s and a wolf’s head sat at the pommel of his longsword.

They stopped before the elvish commander, and she could feel his eyes study her. They lingered on her blindfold like Amrynn’s, but there was no animosity in his gaze. His heartbeat had quickened as she approached, and she wondered if it was from guilt or fear. Or both.

Aerendal’s icy blue eyes pierced her; she didn’t need her eyesight to remember their hue. “I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet, and she had to strain to hear him over the roar of the crowd.

The assassin growled like an animal. “You are not worthy of the Vaneiros name,” she spat.

∞    •    ∞    •    ∞

The two sisters had been fighting for their lives for only a couple minutes, but they had done their damage. Deep cuts let red blood flow and bruises formed on their fair skin. They were evenly matched, as they went through the same training, but she didn’t want to kill Alannis. She was her sister; she couldn’t stoop as low as her.

She got Alannis pinned and struggled to keep her down. In the corner of her eye, she could see movement. Hoping the guards hadn’t heard her sister’s wild claims, she flicked her gaze to see who was there to help. Aeren stood there, eyes wide and fear scrawled across his face.

“Aeren!” She continued to keep her sister down on the floor, but Alannis’ wild thrashing was tiring her out. “Aeren, help me get her!”

But Aerendal did nothing. Instead, he hesitated before turning on his heel and sprinting away from his cousins, boots clicking against the marble.

“Aeren?! Aerendal! Aerendal!”

What he hoped to accomplish, she had no idea. To get help? To escape the castle? To run from the kingdom? But he ran. And she never saw him again.

∞    •    ∞    •    ∞

Until last month, when he had requested her services for a job that she just couldn’t refuse. He offered her a large sum of money to assassinate a very wealthy, very vile queen. And she would have succeeded, had it not been a trap.

He knew who she was. She was never sure when he figured it out. Was it when he first met with her, some time after, or was it predetermined? Did he see the murderous intent in her eyes all those years ago? Did he know that she would become an assassin, a killer-for-hire?

The guards yanked her away from Aerendal and towards the raised stage. Atop it stood a woman with an extravagantly ornate dress and a jeweled diadem on her head, nestled around her wolf-like ears. Her spiteful gaze bore into the assassin, and even her shadows caught the malevolent smirk that briefly graced her lips.

She was brought to the woman who looked at the wolf-elf expectantly. She defiantly stood her ground against the crowned woman, but a swift kick to the back of her legs forced the assassin to her knees. She grimaced when her knees hit the wood, but she made no move to get back up to her feet.

“Your time has come, sister,” Queen Alannis spoke coolly.

The assassin’s face scrunched up in disdain. “You will pay for all that you’ve done.”

Alannis said nothing as she motioned the guards to take her. They forced her to her feet again and practically dragged her to the chopping block that sat in the middle of the stage. She was thrown to her knees and bent over the block. She did not try to get back up.

The queen stepped forward and motioned the crowds to quiet. Only when silence answered her did she speak. “Citizens of Felnethyr, our criminal has become our prisoner!” The crowd roared triumphantly, and Alannis had to wait for them to quiet once again before continuing. “My High Commander, Aerendal Dakian Vaneiros, has brought the traitorous murderer to justice. We thank you, cousin.” She nodded towards Aeren as the crowds applauded him. He made an increased effort to not look towards the assassin.

Alannis did not waste any time and turned towards the other wolf-elf. “As Roxii Dae Sicarius, the Shadow of Thiyalia, you are sentenced to death for the murder of over 500 Thiyalians.” There was a pause as a knowing smirk graced the queen’s lips. “And as Faelyn Sarvalur Dakian Vaneiros, first of her name, the previous queen of the Kingdom of Felnethyr, you are sentenced to death for the murder of our royal family, for putting the Vaneiros Massacre in the books as the most gruesome royal family murder in the history of Thiyalia.”

The crowd screamed and roared like a tidal wave as the executioner stepped up to the stage at the beckoning of the queen. The large broadsword he carried was nearly the size of the assassin, and had she not been the one on the block, she would have thought it comically amusing.

Faelyn could hardly gather her thoughts as the executioner’s boots thumped towards her, so instead, she sent out a pulse of darkness and focused on her surroundings. Queen Alannis was waiting patiently to her right, hands clasped in front of her like a child waiting for their gift. Aerendal was standing before the stage, hand atop his sword as he made sure to not look behind him. A child stood atop the statue in the center of the square, pleased with his seat for the spectacle.

How disappointing.

The executioner stood over her and did not hesitate to raise the sword. She was sure it glinted in the sunlight; it wasn’t like she could confirm it, though. There was a moment where time froze as the sword reached its peak. But the moment did not last long as the blade lowered with enough force to cut a full-grown man in half.

But her head did not fall.

A confused hush fell over the crowd as they wondered what happened to the assassin’s head. But then one voice rang out high above the others: “Where did she go?”

Aerendal whirled and found himself staring at an empty chopping block. The executioner’s sword was as clean as it was before the execution. His gaze searched for the assassin, but she was nowhere to be seen; not even a drop of blood was left behind.

As he and the guards were sent out to find Faelyn, Aeren could hear the resentful cries of his cousin as she cursed her twin sister.