by Sina Neelsen
Darkness loomed over the Battlefields in the south of Aetheria on this warm summer night. Tonight the sky was only filled with stars, gleaming and watching over them as if they were trying to tell them something. The surrounding silence was deafening, yet she knew it wouldn’t last. Perhaps it was anticipation, or perhaps it was because of that hole that had been burned into her heart just a few days ago.
Alea was well aware that this particular mission was suicide. Many had attempted it and many had passed on, but she could not bring herself to care, for all she wanted was to feel the warmth of his blood running down her hands in the hope that it would fill that deep void inside of her.
Even in the darkness she could see him perfectly well. The tall, broad man, covered in heavy gold armor stood upon the Battlefield and watched as the last of his enemies choked on his blood. His name was widely known. Aethon the undefeatable. The Tyrant Kings Minion, who did all of his dirty work without a care in the world. Over the last years, Alea and her colleagues had gotten hundreds of inquiries about his death, yet none of them ever dared to take up the offer. No money in the world would let them risk it, for there was something so dark about him, so rotten that it chilled her to the very bone.
Even now, standing several feet away from him, she could smell it, feel it in her bones. He was corrupted, by magic or a force even older than that. Alea didn’t move, and yet she had no doubt in her mind that he knew that she was there…analyzing and waiting.The man wore a golden helmet that covered the majority of his face. What he truly looked like was something no one living had ever found out. It was all just rumors, one more ugly than the next. Rumors about him having a burnt face or one half clawed off by some vicious beast, others said he was scarringly handsome though these were the ones she had a hard time believing. Aethon drew the sword from his back. She had heard legends about it, claiming that it had taken lives in the number of thousands, staining the blade a subtle red as a reminder of those fallen. People feared the legend as much as they feared its name – Fyrestorm.
Slowly she reached for the daggers at her side. She had far more weapons than them strapped to her body, but these were the ones she felt most comfortable with. If she could defeat him, she would be honored as a hero, she would have enough money to last for the end of her life and even if she didn’t…even if she failed miserably, there was nothing more that she had to lose, for the person she had loved most had cruelly been taken away from her.
Aethon charged and he was fast. Alea barely had time to react before he swung his blade toward her. Her black coat flattered in the wind as she jumped to the side, crouching down to land her first attack, but he was quicker. Heavy footsteps and within a second the hard pommel of his sword hit her nose and sent her on her back. She was not sure whether the crack she heard came from her nose or a branch she had landed on. Perhaps it was both.
She could see his smile in the dark as he strode towards her. Blood flooded from her nose though no sound came out of her mouth. The grip around her blades tightened. She lunged at him in an instant, but he easily blocked her with his sword. The clank of the metals touching was ugly, almost like a screech and that stench!
© Sina Neelsen 2024-07-08