Before Risens could react, the Duke seized his wrist and wrenched him downward, forcing the weapon into the soft flesh of his own throat. His lips twisted into a smile as blood bubbled from his mouth.

  Then, his eyes went dark.

  Risens swore. He’d done the job, but not to completion. The King had tasked him with a duty of crucial importance. He was to leave no survivors of the Duke’s guard or staff. Even the seemingly insignificant maid, corrupted by Karieas’s treason, was akin to a plague. Allowed to fester, even one person could bring about an infection to devastate the host.

  Beyond the culling, he’d been tasked to suss out information. The Duke’s unrest was no secret, though simple words of discontent had added strength to the charge of treason with which he was sentenced and punished. The King knew of the plots and schemes being hatched behind his back. All the Duke had done was confirm His Majesty’s suspicions. Justified the twisted morality of Risens’ deadly action.

  He cleaned his blade, wiping the traitor’s blood on the sheets before returning it to its concealed sheath. The stain on the fine white linens quickly wicked through the luxurious fabric and saturated even the mattress below in deep crimson. He made a rapid survey of the chamber before settling on the ornate wooden desk beside the large, glass-paned double doors. He had accomplished much of what he had been tasked to achieve, though the lack of solid evidence beyond a threat would be a disappointment. Shifting silently to the study, he scanned the surface. The scattered papers were nothing of note—a funds request for more grain for the horses and a note of taxation, stamped by the King’s own seal.

  Motion and sound filtering through the window drew his attention from the paperwork. He raised his cowl once more. Beyond the gilded double doors, a narrow balcony—barely wide enough for more than one—stretched out along the upper floor of the Duke’s manor. The windowless rear of another opulent manor house bordered the opposite edge of the narrow alley that ran beneath. Space was limited in the heart of Windwake, though the nobles’ ambitions were vast. Through the ornately carved banister, he captured the origin of the disturbance.

  The woman. The one he’d allowed to leave the Duke’s chambers. His one act of mercy amongst a violent massacre. She was still stark naked, flailing her arms, wildly pointing to the Duke’s estate as the patrol of soldiers made sense of her panicked cries. Through the glass, he met eyes with one of the guards. He’d been compromised.

  His heart rate raced as he heard the hammer of heavy boots rapidly ascending the interior stairs of the estate. He was already in motion as the trio of soldiers appeared in the doorway.

  “Halt, in the name of the king!” the city guard demanded as they leveled their crossbows at his person.

  So much for mercy. He mentally chided himself for allowing the woman to live.

  His orders had been clear: to remove all in the Duke’s employ. Though her morals could be challenged, Karieas was nothing more to her than a temporary benefactor. She served all with gold, discriminating only by the size of the sum.

  The current predicament was a regrettable reality of his trade. Both Risens and the soldiers were sworn by oath to protect the Kingdom, though at vastly different scopes.

  He darted forward, toward the Duke’s bed in response to their demands. Grabbing the lifeless man’s arm, he heaved his body up as the snapping sound of bolts being released echoed through the chamber. Risens felt the impacts as their tines dug into the fleshy shield. Hot splatter dotted his face as a trio of barbed metal tips punched through the dead man’s back.

  He grinned despite the frenetic nature of the situation. What had previously been shrouded by bedsheets was now clear to see. The errand he’d been assigned was now complete. In the center of the Duke’s back, just above where the first projectile pierced through his skin, the Brand, red and inflamed as if it had been freshly applied, bubbled up from his skin. It was all the confirmation he needed.

  The Brand of the Forked-Tongue.

  The image of the tightly coiled serpent scarred his back. As the Brand’s name suggested, a tongue forked wildly, each side wrapping around its mass as if to protect it, and forming a nearly complete circle at the top. The Brand itself was angry, nigh on to the point of weeping. Though he’d never before seen its equal, he knew its meaning. It was the tell-tale sign of one’s ultimate duplicity. It was the confirmation of an oath broken. A new one made. A kingdom betrayed.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  With the Duke still in his grasp, he spun, releasing the corpse toward the doorway to the balcony. The limp body exploded through the ornate panel in a shower of wood and glass. He followed only a step behind as Karieas flopped over the railing, plummeting to the street below, limbs trailing like ribbons in his wake.

  Risens took off at a dash along the narrow balcony, ignoring the shouts of the soldiers below. Over the whistling wind in his ears, he heard the unmistakable snap, the release of tension, and the wild screams of the arrows ripping through the air. He crouched as he ran, shielding as much of his body behind the limited protection of the railing. To his right, a brightly painted planter smashed into a torrent of dirt and clay shards that peppered his side. Risens pushed through a cloud of brilliantly hued flower petals that floated casually in the air, and quickly ran out of real estate on the narrow strip of balcony. A few windows lined the wall to his right, and a banister to his left. Before him, an open courtyard and garden lay beyond the end of the walkway. A fall from this height would be disastrous. All the dexterity and training, yet those ten meters would likely break both of his legs, or even worse. He carried no mage-enhanced gear to aid his escape, and despite his best efforts, he still bore no Brand.

  Thinking quickly and in stride, he planted his foot on the sill of the last window before springing to the railing with his other. Shifting his weight, he pushed off and upward. His chest slammed hard into the gently sloping roof as his fingertips clawed for purchase on the stone tiles. For a sickening instant, he scrambled, and the shingles slid under his weight. Swinging his legs out to the side, he rolled himself onto the rooftop, continuing for another rotation as a pair of bolts sparked off the stone to his side. The destruction of the roof provided an unintended deterrent in the form of thin sheets of stone raining down on the soldiers giving chase from behind.

  Easily finding his footing on the incline, Risens doubled back, racing across the peak of the dead Duke’s estate. From the rooftop, he could see much of the sprawling city around him. Windwake was a confusing labyrinth of opulent courts and shadowy alleys, where nobles schemed and commoners simmered with unrest. Few of the structures other than the castle were taller than four stories, spreading out in an undulating wave of stone, mortar, and wood, bathed in the cool light of the night. In the distance, King Lathrenon’s massive palatial complex loomed over all.

  His footing was sure as if he were a tightrope walker on a thin line. A rapid glance behind him revealed the white-knuckled hands of a pair of soldiers as they clambered up after him. In truth, he had no fear of the soldiers’ blades, though he was loath to end their lives without necessity. Avoiding a head-on battle with those who—unbeknownst to them—were, in fact, his colleagues, would be advisable, though he was quickly—and literally—running out of options.

  Reaching the center of the roof, his decision was made. He cut to his right, continuing along the perpendicular crest. To his side, the soldiers screamed their commands as they reached their unsteady footing. He forced every ounce of strength into his legs and sped over the tiles. Only a few meters ahead, the roof’s point ended. A squat gargoyle, a raven with its wings splayed wide—the ever-present effigy of his Kingdom—sat with its back to him, perpetually watching the city that carried on in the late hours around it. Perhaps half a dozen meters in the distance, the roof of the neighboring homes stood. Nowhere near the height of the manor, the shoddy building would provide an escape, yet the stability of such a structure gave Risens pause.

  He had no choice, gritting his teeth in the final moments, urging his body onward for the final push. The voice in his mind screamed rebellion as it realized his purpose, yet he ignored the panicked urge to stop. His final stride planted his foot atop the head of the stone sculpture before leaping out into the shadowed gap of the night. His legs churned as if running through the air, his cloak snapped out behind his lithe frame like wings.

  The chasm between the buildings was treacherous, yet manageable. The added height of the raven was both helpful and detrimental, giving him more distance but requiring a further fall. In the moments that it took him to cover the gap, he steeled himself against the jarring impact that rushed toward him. Risens landed hard on the wooden roof, rolling forward to diffuse the force of it. He winced at the pain that lanced through him, but there was no slowing his pace. A quick glance over his shoulder showed silhouettes of the frustrated guards, none brave or foolish enough to follow where he had gone.

  Voices of those who lived within the home rang out, protests against whatever was happening above. Risens merely grinned as the tiered roofs descended to a narrow head-height wall that bordered the property. The impenetrable darkness of the alley beyond beckoned him into its inky embrace.

  The frantic calls of the guards on the rooftop behind him would soon rouse the rest of the city guard. The streets would teem with blades within minutes.

  They would find nothing but blood and shadows. Risens, the King’s Rightmaker, would be long gone.