“My wounds were minor compared to those of my people,

Their mind was completely destroyed—Hollow,

Mine was tortured, scarred, torn, battered, bruised,

Remembering…

I do not know which is worse.”

II

The art of the kill was a talent. It needed to be honed and tampered, sharpened and hardened. And apparently to Grey eight years was not enough time. Apparently to him, her skill was just a useless block of steel that has yet to see the forge. Even though her now passed mentor, Lilith Syr O’Gale, had often claimed that she was extraordinarily talented. And Grey was quick to forget this; no matter what she said. If she pressed Grey too hard, he would always retort with the same stinging words, ‘Now Rya, if Lilith was such a good assassin, she wouldn’t have gotten herself killed? Now would she? No, she wouldn’t have. And because of her foolishness, I have to now burden myself with you.’ So Rya was stuck performing the most mundane of tasks within the small rogue encampment of assassins, which was nestled within the thawing Flen Peaks of the Cairrsen Mountains.

 Rya trudged through the snow, grimacing at the way the slush, which had somehow found its way inside her boots, squished between her toes. She shivered within the folds of her cloak. Her arms sagged from the weight of the cumbersome logs that she was carrying. 

 Rya paused and looked down the cliff’s edge, into the ravine. If she slipped, a spiraling fall and gruesome impaling on jagged rocks and ice were all that awaited her. Rya wasn't one to fear death. To die was certain, as certain as her clarity that the sands of Sardu will forever remain shifting, and never still. Preferably Rya would rather die with honor and a blade in her hand, than to a clumsy slip on snow. 

 The camp was small and hugging the cliffs. The small settlement of grey tents and lean-tos was perched precariously on the plateau. Pine trees and boulders shielded the camp from prying eyes. In the ravine directly below, still lodged with thawing ice, was a single pass, which was barely wide enough for two men to walk breast to breast. That was what they were guarding- a tiny strip of passable land. 

 And they would defend it with their lives.

 Unless one could scale the icy peaks, navigate the ancient woods, survive against the guardians, monsters, and the fabled Prince of the Forest, there were only three passes through the Cairrsen mountains. The ravine below their camp was Hunter’s Pass, it was the narrowest and most treacherous of all. It was only used during summer, after the thawing of snow and spring floods, when the woods were teaming with life and game. The pass of Demar, a whole city carved within the giant gorge between two mountains, was a buzzing trade hub. The city of Demar had very few natural resources, besides that of coal and iron, but all traders traveling through were heavily taxed. The city survived almost solely on the goods passing through its gates. The pass of Corlyx, which was known as the cloud bridges, was a whole webbing of rope bridges. It consisted of several weaving but fraying paths, which often connected the ancient stone temples of the deceased gods - not all the paths lead to the other side of the mountains. 

 Rya shivered and looked up as a dark shadow silently slipped through the swirling cloudbreak. Dark as ink, and seemingly to be a phantom in the broad daylight, a black gryphon and its rider gracefully descended into the cave, which grinned over the camp; like a gaping maw wanting only to swallow all of Sevvet.  

 A stalking shiver slinked down each of Rya’s vertebrae. And it wasn't from the cold. The gryphon and its rider, who they were, made her marrow thin with both dread and awe. Eagerly Rya looked down, listened, and heard nothing. Gleeful excitement and fear bubbled up within her. The entire camp was hushed in a respectful silence. Then slowly as if everyone was fearing to breathe, the soft noises of the camp came back to life.

 Rya glowered down at the snow, hating the sensation of her feet going numb. She hated this place: so cold and bitter, so frozen and treacherous. With a painful prickling in her heart, she wished for her homeland- the Great Deserts of Sardu: the heat, the sun, the golden sands. Rya shook herself from the thoughts of homesickness and grimly focussed on her task. She trudged once more through the slush.

 Rya stomped toward the camp’s single firepit. A lone figure, who was hiding within the folds of his cloak, was crouched before the flames. She threw the sodden logs in. In angry retaliation, the flames hissed and barfed up sparks. The crouched figure, who had been hungrily staring into the swirling depths of the fire, snarled. He leapt to his feet, his cloak billowing about his surprisingly lanky figure, and snarled once more. He snarled as if scalding water had been splashed upon him. 

 With the speed of a striking serpent he grabbed Rya’s wrist, “Do you have any idea what you have just done, girl?” Spit droplets sprayed across Rya’s tan cheek. She jerked her arm from his grasp and stepped back, he was two whole heads taller than her.

 “NO, I do not.” snapped Rya as she rubbed her wrist. “And frankly I do not care.” 

 The man, Jon, the corp’s lunatic, twitched. A vein bulged in his forehead. He set his jaw, as strands of his copper hair fell into his dark eyes. “You need to learn to respect your elders, novice.” Behind Jon, the flames roared, seemingly to dance in step with his anger. 

 “I do not answer to you. Now, I have other chores to get done.” With a roll of her eyes, Rya swiftly turned her back to the crazed man. She noticed that several Nightinggales had stopped what they were doing and were watching.

 “Where are you going? I am not done with you, you cursed sand viper of a Sarduain.” 

 Rya bit her tongue and clenched her fists, at the insult to her nationality. She continued walking. 

 Rya yelped, as an arm from behind slipped across her throat- a rear-naked chokehold. Both instincts and panic sizzled to life beneath Rya’s skin. She instinctively hooked his arm, stanced, dropped her weight, and dumped him over her shoulder. All perfectly executed in just a few seconds. With a loud crash, and spray of mud, Jon landed on his back in the icy slush.

 Jon easily sprang to his feet, mud flailing about him, “What the hell?” Several Nightinggales applauded and laughed. Jon glowered at Rya with burning hatred. “What the hell is wrong with you!?” 

 Rya stifled back a laugh. Mud and horse shit was dripping from his clothes and hair. Her laugh died on her lips as Jon’s hands erupted in flames. 

 “Alright enough with this nonsense!” Boomed Arman, through the tangled wires of his beard. His voice boomed and over the grumble of the crowd’s growing excitement. Hooded figures turned their heads toward the cook in annoyance. Arman the camp’s chief was a large pot-bellied man, with an array of both ladles and deadly knives hanging from his belt. 

 “Ah, com’on this is the first bit of excitement we’ve had in weeks. It’s a duel let them go at it,” a few cheers followed Zayth’s argument, “Last time anything happened was nearly a month ago. And it was when we accidentally woke that hibernating bear. In its disarray it ran right through the camp, and straight off the cliff.” 

 Laughter rippled through the entire crowd, that seemed to be losing their mind from cabin fever. Rya nervously laughed, and glanced at Jon, who was still bent in his stance. His eyes reflected the flames that were writhing around his gloved hands. And like embers eating at kindling, they were still pinned on her, and her alone... 

 “I said enough!” snapped Arman, as he sized up both Jon and Zayth. “She is a Novice!”

 “A Novice that needs to be taught a lesson. Isn’t that our job as elders?” purred Jon, as he licked his cracked lips, and his flames brightened,“I won’t hurt the rat that badly…”

 “I said enough!” Snarled Arman as he took a threatening step forward. 

A whisper sharp as the wind and soft as a petal, ripped through the staggering tension. “No, no… let them go at it,” Every assassin turned. Leaning against a tent pole, smiling, and bathing her face in the dappled sunlight was King Killer. She wasn't even watching, her eyes fixed solely on the sky, “If things…. go too far… let's just say that… damage will be done… no more and no less than what was dealt,” she sighed, “Isn't this weather wonderful?”

 Silence stretched. Arman stepped back, and solemnly nodded. Zayth and a few others snicker. Rya’s mouth dried, as her heart flipped upon itself, but her only thought was, ‘She’s shorter than I always thought.’ A flaming fist was hurling toward Rya. She barely managed to duck. Searing heat scorched the air. The crowd cheered.      

 Rya scrambled back, falling over her feet, and landing on her back in the mud, “Please! I don't want to fight!” pleaded Rya, as the sadistically grinning Nightinggale with fire under his will stalked forward, “I just wanna get on with the day…!” 

 Rya desperately looked at King Killer. No emotion, no consideration was on her face. She was gazing up at the sky with an almost wistful look. 

 Jon grinned, “Too bad-”

 “Jonas Valver O’Gale I have a job for you,” lazily sighed King Killer, “everyone else back to work.” Without a second glance or word, the crowd dispersed. 

 “Can it wait?” Snapped Jon, as he stomped toward Rya.

 “Perhaps…” sighed King Killer. Jon grinned, and Rya scrambled back, slipping in the sleet and mud. “But I am not in the patient mood. So do not waste my time.”

“Why not give me just one minute?” Whined the assassin, as his glaring flames grew brighter. 

King Killer rolled her eyes and groaned, “What did she even do to you?”

 “She embarrassed me! I'm covered in shit and mud.” shouted Jon, as he motioned to himself with frantic exaggerated hand gestures, “It’s cold, sticky, and gross! And now I stink of shit!”

 “Oh, wow. Look at that, she is too.”

 “She disrupted my thoughts!”

 King Killer peeled her gaze from the heavens and focused on Jon, “And now you’re disrupting mine.”

 Like a candle being snuffed out, Jon’s flames suddenly flickered and faded. He looked no more like a raving lunatic, and more like a dog caught chewing his master’s shoes. 

 Rya jumped to her feet and shouted, “Thank you, King Killer!” 

King Killer one again glanced Rya’s way; wear only a placid expression on her cloth covered face. 

 “Do not thank me…” King Killer turned her back on Rya, “Next time face your sins head on.”

 King Killer walked away, with Jon in tow. 

 Rya stood and wiped the cold muck off her clothes and darkly muttered, “What the Rift is that supposed to mean?”