Adarro Sanging hated the rain. It reminded him too much of his mother, which was not someone he liked to think of her. She’d been a wonderful, loving woman, so now whenever a memory of her was evoked, all he saw was the blood, all he felt was the pain. All he felt and smelled was the rain that pelted him on the day she was killed.

Rain was vital, rain brought life, it was beautiful and wonderful and absolutely necessary, yet still he hated it so. Any time there was rain, his nerves grated, balancing on a thin edge that made his teeth itch.

He hated it, but it was so, so fitting for this day, eloquent really, considering what he had planned.

A raindrop plummeted from the heavens and landed on his cheek. He wiped it away as he held his gaze to the sky. It was one of those strange days where it was warm and bright, but a cluster of angry grey clouds still ruined the day for some unfortunate soul. All the while the sun looked on with disapproval. Perhaps it was a Rainer trying to have fun. Adarro liked to think it was just nature, but Rainers were often mischievous enough to alter the weather.

The rain continued to assault him but not enough to be bothered by. Truthfully, it was the perfect day to do what he had to do, though it didn’t make him any less hesitant than he already was.

He sat on the grass beneath his feet and let the soft and sparse raindrops shower him. He didn’t get too cold, despite the rain. With the sun dipping low towards the horizon, it was enough to keep him warm. Adarro sat and waited, eyes closed. The patter of precipitation was soothing on his swirling thoughts. He had to get a grip, had to do this.

After a while, the rain stopped.

He opened his eyes to the evening sky; the fading purples and pinks following the departed sun as it went southward beyond the palm forest that surrounded the estate.

His body itched to move, but his patience made him wait longer until the world was alight with the silver glow of the rising moon. It was time. He hopped to his feet and stretched his limbs, eager to work the soreness from them. No movement for several hours left him stiff, though his father’s guards had been quite insistent he come in. Adarro had not obliged them, for he was a thane of the empire and could follow his own schedule. It took a few minutes to work the knots and sleep from his limbs, but it was worth it, for his body needed to be ready for what was to come.

Adarro cracked his knuckles and sent up a silent prayer to the moon mother. He would need her blessing tonight. He needed her protection.

He made his way through the gardens, through the patches of amber-colored ukredasil and past the rows of moon sprout, their blue leaves reaching towards the goddess and turning silver in her light. they had a sweet smell too, like coconut but not as strong. Adarro often liked to sit out there and read or do his paperwork. But not tonight. Tonight, he had an urgent, darker mission.

The young thane stuck to the shadows, making sure the guards didn’t see him. The guards wouldn’t stop him, of course. They wouldn’t even question him, but there could be no witnesses, no one to think that he was anywhere near the crime he was about to commit. When it was discovered, his tracks would be covered.

His father’s bedroom was ahead. The faint glow of the electric lamp shined through the thick, blurry windows. It was ideal for him that the glass was made in such a way. His father would not be able to see him through it, though it helped that it was too dark, and that his father was often blissfully unaware of his surroundings.

Sweat dappled his skin, intruding into his eyes. Partly from the stifling humidity, but also from his nerves. Get it together, he told himself. You must be strong.

Adarro crouched in the bushes beneath the window. Muffled noise came through the glass, but he couldn’t make out what it was. There was a rhythm to the sound, so he guessed that his father was listening to a record, or the radio.

It only added to Adarro’s advantage.

His father never locked his window for he liked to let the sounds of the night invade his room while he slept. With this knowledge in mind, Adarro shimmied his fingers beneath the pane and eased it open. With a deep breath, he hauled himself up and over, his skinny arms shaking from the effort.

The room was bathed in the lamp’s golden glow. Adarro found electric lamps interesting, but they weren’t very far-reaching with their light. The corners of the room were shrouded in darkness. A good torch would’ve been more proficient. In this instance, he welcomed the handicapped lighting.

His father’s back was turned to him. He stood aside his lounging chair, one hand atop the cool leather and the other holding a book. The smell of tobacco wafted from his favorite ivory pipe. His father hummed along to a record, the scratchy rendering of a woodwind solo supplemented by the occasional strums of a lyre. The image of his father made Adarro smile. Liro Sanging, Viscount of Memmelan, was every bit as regal in private as he was to the public eye.

This was how Adarro wanted to remember him.

He stepped out of the shadows and cleared his throat. His father tensed and whirled around; his shoulders sagged at the sight of his son.

“Oh, Adarro. I didn’t hear you come in. You startled me.” He offered a smirk, the old wrinkles and laugh lines prominent on his ochre skin.

“Apologies. I was in the garden and didn’t want to walk all the way around to see you.” His father seemed to take that at face value. After all, why would his son lie to him?

Adarro surveyed the man before him. His father had removed his beige frock surcoat and only wore his white undershirt, unbuttoned to reveal the weathered but capable muscles beneath. Adarro hadn’t inherited the build of his father, but he had a different, more substantial power coursing through him.

The viscount cleared his throat and scratched at his sideburns. “May I get you anything?” The son shook his head. There was only one thing the elder Sanging could give him, and he wouldn’t hand it over. His father frowned.

Adarro walked over to the radio. The song playing then was more piano than anything else, though the sounds of chimes and the cords of a harp occasionally broke through the heavy keys. He gripped the volume dial and raised it, until the sound was clear and drowning. Low enough for him to speak to his father, but too loud for the guards outside to hear them speak.

“This is a good song,” he said. “Do you know the composer?”

His father perked up. “Oh yes, Sanyen Li. She’s spectacular, a splendid pianist. I loved when she uses a full organ too. But I know you prefer strings.”

“Of course. You were the one who taught me to play the bouzouki, remember?”

“Yes,” Liro chuckled, “but only because you couldn’t learn to play the keys to save your life.”

“I was hopeless,” Adarro admitted as he wiped the sweat from his brow. He still shook, but his father would chalk that up to the laughter, which Adarro played up. In an instant, they were both chuckling in earnest, like father and son should. It died quickly though. His father’s smile simmered into a thin line.

“I missed you at dinner,” he said.

“I lost track of time.”

His father nodded, shrugged, and took a puff from his pipe. Adarro clenched his fist to try to quell the shaking in his arms. He swallowed hard and did his best to control his breathing. His eyes darted around the room taking in every book that adorned the wall-to-wall bookshelves. They had to look everywhere except for his father. Those eyes…he couldn’t meet his gaze.

Liro finally sensed that something was amiss. “Is there something the matter, son?”

He stammered out a yes. Then he lifted his hands and directed them at his father.

Adarro could see all the veins within his father. They pulsed with warmth and life, and he could feel them all, like a thousand raging rivers within him. Each one vital, each one essential for life. They were like tiny threads. Threads could be pulled, threads could be manipulated. So that’s what Adarro did. He tugged at his father’s threads.

The viscount seized up. He had been about to speak but went rigid, his eyes wide. Adarro extended his hand and plucked at the strings. He was a Puppeteer, and he would make his father dance.

“You’re… you’re one of them,” his father managed to say, though it was a strain to do even that. Adarro swallowed.

“I am, though I wish I wasn’t.”

His father tried to speak but he couldn’t manage. Adarro twirled his fingers and his father’s arms went stalk straight at his sides. Adarro lowered his left fist. His father fell to his knees. Tears streamed down both their faces.

“Why?” the viscount croaked. Tears flooded his wrinkled skin and into his greying beard.

The son lifted his right index finger. His father’s chin rose. Adarro’s body shook from exertion as it took all of his strength to keep his father in place. He could feel a scream rising in his father’s throat, but he pinched it closed. Adarro shook. He shook from the pain and the sorrow. He choked back his sobs, trying his best to be quiet. The guards right outside the doors would ruin everything if they heard.

He didn’t want to do this. He hated what he was doing, hated what he was. He was an abomination. He was Drowned.

“Forgive me, father,” he said through a ragged whisper.

In his left hand, he collected all the moisture in the air, collected it into a long central point. With all the concentration he had left, he solidified it and formed it into a wicked blade. It was ice, but he felt no cold coming from it. His father’s eyes, already wide, practically bulged out of his head. He knew what was coming.

“No, s-son…”

The look in his eyes broke Adarro’s soul, but not his resolve, for he stifled a cry as he plunged the blade into his father’s heart.