Long shadows indicative of evening cast themselves against the ground. A swell of air moved the foliage in unison, carrying with it the chill of early spring still grasped by the last tendrils of winter. 

A slender figure moved swiftly among them, like a shadow following the swaying branches in the breeze. Stopping behind a trunk, slinking along the lichen, and drifting between the branches, the figure traversed across the Duchy of Duke Pontius with purpose. 

All fell silent, even the crickets, as the figure traveled the grounds, its likeness becoming more corporeal the lower the sun sunk.

Reaching a hedge, it climbed up the brick as a snake would, gripping the texture of the wall. It slipped into the open window on the second floor of the large mansion, to all appearances, materializing out of thin air in front of a large mahogany desk. 

Seated at this desk of dark timber was Duke Pontius. His polished wing-tipped dress shoes were propped up on the edge of his desk. They gleamed in the firelight across the room, staving off the chilly nights while he smoked a cigar in a gloved hand. In his other hand, rested a paper, no doubt from the stacks upon stacks of them piled on his desk. The sconce above him also served as additional light, casting a harsh shadow upon the Duke’s face as he continued reading.

Taking a drag out of the cigar, he exhaled a cloud of smoke, pausing expectantly. 

“Report.” He verbally gave permission for the materialized shadow to speak. He knew the movements of his pawns, but this one in particular was quite tricky. The only warning he got of his arrival was the silence of even the bats outside, for all animals stilled when this one approached the estate. All except that damn nightingale as of late.

Without looking up from where he kneeled, the shadowy figure spoke, his voice filled with a timbrous tenor. 

“Your Grace, the mission failed. Both hands were eliminated.”

Surprised, the Duke sat in stupefied silence for a moment, his disappointment and disgust boiling in his belly. He put the cigar in his mouth, held by his lips. 

When silence was met with silence, a fiery rage suddenly spurred Duke Pontius to his feet. He remembered himself at the last minute and set down his cigar, sweeping his hands through his hair before sitting back down in the chair. He did not prop up his legs, but instead leaned forward on his desk, clasping his hands together. 

“You’ve ruined my dinner. Explain.” He deliberately slowed his pronunciation, the single word dripping with malice as the cigar rested in the crystal ash tray. 

“There was an unanticipated threat.” The Hand continued, knowing that Duke Pontius was not a patient man.

“The girl has a Talent, and killed them with it, Your Grace.”

Duke Pontius raised his eyebrows with a start, breaking his scowl. 

A girl no more than eight years old killed two of his Hands tonight. He had to think of how he wanted to proceed. On one hand, she could become even more dangerous, and pose a serious threat as she grew, especially since the enslavement and assassination attempt failed. 

That dammed Orson.

Duke Pontius had sent the assassins to rid himself of Orson after having his handsome deal rejected. If he couldn’t recruit him into his cause under the guise of a well paying job change, then he would be better off rotting in an unmarked grave, where he couldn’t speak. 

He pinched his nose, leaning back in his chair with a bored expression on his face at the recollection of his encounter with Orson the week prior. The nightingale warbled in the distance as he internalized his thoughts. 

On the other hand…

Duke Pontius pondered for a moment.

“What is this… talent that she killed them with?” he leveled his eerie golden eyes on the Hand kneeling before him, clenching his hands together. His gloves creaked under the force.

“… I don’t know, Your Grace.”

His formulating plan was shot to shrapnel without that key knowledge, and his frustration smoldered within him. He was still for a moment, simmering in his failures as of late, until he could simmer no more. 

Swinging his arm out, he knocked a stack of papers off his desk. Then another, until his desk was bereft of any of the documents it held moments ago. Heaving out a long sigh, he kicked back his heavy chair, picking up his cigar from the crystal dish and taking a long puff. 

“So, you’re telling me… that an eight year old girl…” 

He stood from his seat, walking around the desk as he drug his finger along the edge of the now empty surface of his desk.

“…killed two retired assassins from that organization…”

Shf

He stepped on the scattered papers, making a soft sound under his polished shoes until he was standing in front of the kneeling man.

“…with a Talent that nobody knows about?” His teeth grit the words out between them, displaying his irritation. He took the cigar and smashed the butt of it into the shoulder of his Hand, burning the fabric and leaving ash. A small tendril of smoke wafted into the air, carrying with it a whiff of burned fibers. 

He then laid his palm on the other shoulder of the man, leaning his face in to taunt the submissive man within his grasp.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Defeated, the man had been in the Duke’s service long enough to know what was coming next. 

The Duke flippantly flung the cigar from his hands. It landed on the rug of the office soundlessly. 

The Duke took both palms and slapped them on the man, grabbing him by the shoulder and one on his lower back, and lifted the Hand roughly to his feet, pushing him to the window.

“Then GO! You imbecile!” He pushed the Hand all the way to the window sill, then pushed him out of it, the man once again turned to shadow and slipped into the trees.

“How am I supposed to do anything with a handful of dimwits in my ranks?!” He bellowed, loud enough for the retreating shadow to hear. 

His gloved hands gripped the sill, and it creaked under the pressure. 

First, the slave contract to ensnare the Swordsmaster failed, and even after being spurned by that very same Swordsmaster, now his capture was avoided as well?

The Duke took in his upper lip, exposing his lower teeth in a snarl. Whirling around, he paced along the carpeted rugs of his office, the fireplace casting long  jumping shadows against the walls with each step. 

If he didn’t get things under control, a certain royal blooded whelp was sure to catch wind of his plan and foil it all. He needed trustworthy people. People that would kill for him, people that would die for him. He didn’t care how much it cost, he would rip out their tongues if it meant complete obedience. The shadow Hand was in his service for over 4 years, but lately his work had grown lax. 

This was the fault with human subordinates, they made mistakes and had their own judgment. They spoke back, or asked questions that weren’t necessary for the tasks he had in mind. 

It was time to pursue other means of obedience. 

His gleaming eyes fixated on the head of a mounted Bear Ox, a beast that he had hunted in the plains of Thurston. There were many specimens displayed next to it, a Gunner Beetle, the molt of a Magara, and the claw of a Draggul, just to name a few. 

He summoned one of his Hands, an infant plan sprouting in his mind. His Talent, Influence, was never before tested on anything except humans before now. People of all ages could be influenced, but young children were especially impressionable. So were beasts, as long as they did not hold superior intelligence, like elves.

He thought back to the small filthy girl that was in the temple the last he visited. 

I should have kept her there. 

A small tinge of regret pricked his pride, quickly diverted by his next command. 

“Bring some animals.” His gaze landed on the eggs of a Phelmasian floating in preservation fluid, and a crooked smile broke out on his face. A small thrill of glee coursed through him at the prospect of influencing a Phelmasian. 

“Any in particular, Your Grace?” The Hand meekly asked. He hadn’t immediately left to fulfill his order, and this irked the Duke so.

“Gods!! I don’t care! Birds, dogs, cats, wolves, beasts! All of them! ANY OF THEM!” He screamed.

He threw whatever he could at the Hand, a fire poker, the vase on the mantel, until the Hand had hurriedly vacated the space. He gripped the brick frame of the fireplace. 

Composing himself, he inhaled through his nose, pushing off the mantel and fixing his disheveled hair. Walking over to the open window, he slammed the shutters, annoyed with the warble of the nightingale still being carried in the air.

“Ugh, shut up, you winged rat.” He spat aloud to no one in the silence. 

With the shutters closed, the nightingale alighted atop the window sill, pecking aimlessly at the wooden grains of the frame. Hopping about, it trilled one more time before flying to a tree nearby, looking every which way, as often birds do. As it turned to look upon the window,  an empty socket framed with rotting flesh came into focus. It’s eye gone, the revealed skeletal structure lay bare against the rising moon. 

At closer inspection, the bird was missing some of its belly too, a cavity barely covered by its ratty feathers. The bird still sung into the night, its decrepit body flinging itself into the air to its next destination.