The world had changed in the months following the end of The Silence. Talk of a great battle upon the island of Boros and whispers of archmages and the Storm Singers had swept across the continents in the aftermath of “The Awakening” as it had come to be known. As with all such talk, some believed blindly, some refused to engage in wild speculation, and only few knew the actual truth of the matter.

Those in power saw fit to shield the citizens of Tefia from the awful truth of what had transpired on Boros and the dark threat that stood vigil at their doorstep, always seeking entry. The less that people knew, the easier the peace was to keep. Such was and would always be the way of the world. While the specific details of the matter were shrouded from the vast majority of the populace, those living on the eastern coast of Ketra had bore witness to an otherworldly spectacle the likes of which had not been seen in a generation. One Spring night some two years prior, the sky had rained fire, and the sands beneath them had shifted to remake the desert wastes. The people of Ketra knew, better than any upon Tefia, that their world had changed irrevocably that night.

It was true that the Silence, the unimaginable severing of contact between the people of Tefia and their gods had been broken, though that seemed to be the very least of the matter. A rare and blessedly welcome rain swept in from the eastern sea. The night breezes were fragrant with the scent of desert flowers and incense, and all was still but for the falling drops of life-giving water. In that stillness, hid one who sought to take life. The tall limestone archways that lined the halls of the Sultana’s palace were draped in gauzy linens that cast a multitude of shadows about the polished stone floors. Their undulations obscured the movements of the assassin hiding among them.

The shadows danced and warred with each other with the chaotic motions of marionettes doing battle. Each dusky projection appeared to have a will of its own and sought to subject the others to it. One might find themselves transfixed by the display were they not capable of truly bending the shadows to their will. A hand reached out from behind a stone pillar, its soot-stained fingers articulating in quick twisted motions. The hand seemed to be searching for something, as one might sift through a drawer for some lost and much-needed item.

With a sudden stop, the hand, and the killer attached to it, had found what they sought. With a grasping motion and a gentle tug, the figure pulled toward themselves and the darkness followed. Shadows seemed to rise from the floor and transform from into a dark cloud-like mist. The assassin drew the mist about themselves and confidently stepped forward, cloaked in darkness itself. With each step forward, the assassin was grateful for the sound of the rain muffling their movements.

One less worry to spend thought and energy on. With every weave of shadow, they felt the tug on their life force. An offering to the dark god Somnus for his blessings. From archway to stairway, floor to floor, the assassin made their way ever higher to the private rooms of the Sultana herself. Sanvye, the Crimson Cloud, the Golden Witch she had been named. Hers was a legacy written in blood and her titles were well-earned and much-deserved. At the age of sixteen, she had staged the most brutal coup in remembered history and for thirty years she had ruled from The Coral Throne in Ketra Kas. Blood had earned her the throne, and blood had kept it. Such reigns were destined to end in blood as well.

As the assassin scaled the final winding set of stairs their advance was halted by the sounds of shifting armor. With careful and silent steps, they crept forward to take the full measure of their predicament. In the torchlight of the short hall, the polished stone floors reflected the images of two of the Sultana’s personal guard. The larger of the two scratched out to the other, “I’m away for a piss. Mind your post with both eyes until I return.”

“You worry about my eyes when half your brain is off in the kitchen with that new serving wench? You think you’re the only one paying her visits while they should be standing a post?”

The larger man stood in silence, seeming to gather his retort but only mustering a limp, “I don’t care who else she serves as long as they’re gone when I get there.” With that, the guard grumbled something and made his way toward the staircase.

The assassin drew the shadows tighter about themself, as one would cling to a cloak in high winds. They watched as the guard made his way down the stairs with little regard for anything other than his desires. He passed so close that the assassin could have whispered in his ear. There was a grim satisfaction in that, as would there be in what was to come. Having positioned themself at the edge of the top stair, the assassin watched as the singular guard stood in the center of a grand arched doorway. The door’s frame was gilded with heavy reliefs of desert flora. Some of the very same plants stood in overlarge and intricately crafted pots along the hall. The fronds of large palms shifted slightly in the night air.

The assassin lay low to the floor and waited. In the rustling of a breeze, the palms began to sway and at that moment, the assassin seized the shadows they cast and phased from the stairway, jumping from one shadow to the other along the hall. In three steps it was done, and the assassin was at the guard’s throat. Before the poor boy could even gesture to draw his blade, an ebon dagger had opened his throat. The assassin clutched the guard closely as in a lover’s embrace and slowly guided his body to the floor. The effort of the weave and the weight of the guard had taxed the assassin so that they were forced to release the shroud of shadow.

The diaphanous mist dispersed and the darkness seemed to seek its way back to its point of origin, like snakes slithering through the air. Any surfaces touched by the shadows manipulated by the assassin’s magic were left coated in an oily residue, a telltale sign of shadow weaving to those who knew to look for it.

Standing before the arched door the assassin took a moment to settle his breath, steel his nerve, and feel for magics other than his own. Reaching out, he placed his ashen fingers upon the heavy wooden door. As flesh met timber the assassin was immediately aware of layers of complex warding spells. In his mind’s eye, the protective enchantments appeared as golden clockworks, intricate and working in congruous synchronicity. He allowed himself a small smile as he began to thread his own dark spellwork into the wards.

The smallest gear set off its axis could render a timepiece useless. He aimed to achieve the same result with the puzzle before him. His fingers bent at hard angles and jerked in motions that would appear painful to any onlooker as he sought a weak point in the door’s wards. The depth of the enchantment surprised him and he plunged the needle of his magic deeper. His eyes rolled white as he drew more heavily upon his stores of shadow magic. With the suddenness of a key falling into place, he felt a hitch in the layers of the door's enchantment. Or so he believed.

The hand laid flat against the opposing side of the door shifted slightly and in doing so, unwound the wards in a burst of explosive power. The assassin was hurled back toward the stairway amid a hail of shattered timber and motes of golden light. As his body met the stone steps the assassin began to tumble down the flight. He reached for the shadows as he fell and was able to save himself from falling further. Within two breaths he was again at the top of the stairway, staring down a hall now littered with the corpses of the guard and the door he had been guarding. Light poured forth from the open archway.

From his vantage, the assassin could see a large canopied bed within the room and two large braziers set alight with red fire. He reached out to draw the darkness about himself but was stymied by some unseen force. Sand swirled at his feet and began to spiral up his legs much the same way his shadows would slither as serpents. He felt the bite and sting of each granule as they began to whip about him. He cried out as the sand tore at him, shearing away his dark clothing and his skin beneath. In his panic, he sought a large pool of shadow cast by the palms and reached for it. He pulled himself to it and the sands that had wrapped about him fell to the floor in his absence.

In the darkness, he remained incorporeal for a short time. To linger so too long would tax him too greatly though he needed only moments. He scanned the hall and the doorway to find his attacker. He saw nothing but the dancing flames of the torches and braziers. Before he could manage another thought to his task, a blast of sand tore through the hall shredding plant life and pitting the wood left from the door. The grains had passed through his insubstantial form and he fought to hold himself there for to take physical form at that moment might trap sand gods knew where in his vital organs. He leaped to another pool of shadow across the hall and his body hit the wall with a thud as he left his shadow form behind.

As quickly as he had done so, the sands again assaulted him. He thrust his arm up to shield his eyes and spied the bare feet and legs of his attacker moving toward him from the doorway. Diaphanous material fluttered about thin limbs covered in bronze skin as the figure strode forward.

It took no longer than a heartbeat for the assassin to understand his predicament. He was no match for the Sultana in single combat. His hope had lain in surprise. What hope, if any remained for him was to be found in flight. He frantically searched for a means of escape. Drawing his eyes across the hall he could see her through the swirling sand. Her night clothes whipped about her as she commanded her magics. The sand that tore at the assassin with relentless force seemed to emanate from the Sultana herself. She was backlit by the flaming braziers and the crimson flames allowed her form to be seen through the thin material shrouding her. Bands and striations of golden symbols were wrought over her body, presumably in some arcane ink. Her arms were thrust forward and her fingers were stretched wide, each one banded in rings of golden ink. The assassin could see that torchlight danced upon those rings.

As the sands diminished though, he thought that perhaps it was not light from without but within the rings themselves. The Sultana reached a golden hand toward the brazier to her right and the red flame within it flowed to her palm as water might pass over a feather. The assassin dashed in time to avoid being set ablaze as the Sultana set loose what appeared to be a serpent made of living fire. The blood-red beast slithered with unnatural speed as it pursued the assassin down the hall, occasionally setting the splintered remains of the chamber door alight. Down stairways, through doorways, and across chamber floors the assassin fled to the lower reaches of the palace and the serpent pursued. The alarm had been raised and the palace guard was made fully aware of the assassin’s presence.

The shadows could not conceal the trail of fire left behind by the serpent’s pursuit. The assassin tumbled through the shadows, leaping wildly from alcove to alcove, the serpent and guards in pursuit. The effort was exhausting and he could feel his strength ebbing to the last. Should it come to more combat he feared he would not have the strength to dispatch even the lowest of the Sultana’s servants. As he rounded a corner into yet another long hallway, he risked a glance behind and found the serpent at his heels. A quick gesture sent a coil of sinewy shadows toward the beast to ensnare it. He had purchased only seconds for himself as the serpent began to devour the shadows that had webbed themselves around it. Without a moment’s hesitation, the assassin threw himself headlong through one of many tall slender windows lining the hall. He was relieved that his fall was brief as he landed on the roof of the palace’s lowest portico. He jumped to the ground below and made for the garden gateway adjacent.

As he pulled for any of the many shadows about the garden he felt a sting at his back and heat all about him. The hissing sound that accompanied his discomfort was indeed the serpent though the sound issued not from its mouth but from the rain meeting its scorching form. The sting at the assassin’s back swelled to a searing pain as he tumbled into the sandy mud of the garden floor. He spied a puddle of shadow some paces away and pulled himself to it. The serpent recoiled as it struck bare stone and sand rather than the body that had been beneath it. From the shadows, the assassin watched as the serpent searched for its prey. With a flash the serpent’s flames crackled and sparked, growing loose and large.

The beast’s inner fire gave out and it dissipated to nothingness. When the hissing and sputtering had died away, the sound of the rain was all that could be heard. The assassin waited in stillness to be certain that he was alone before he would make good his escape. A voice broke the silence.

“I can smell the filth of your spellwork on the air, heretic.”

The Sultana padded softly out into the garden. The rain fell upon her as it did all things, causing her long dark hair and night clothes to cling to her body. From the shadow cast by the trunk of a desert palm, the assassin watched her. Even beneath the delicate linen, the moonlight caught the golden ink inscribed across her skin and seemed to set it alight. The assassin thought her beautiful in her form and terrifying in her countenance. She stood alone, exposed in the rain, in defiance of one who sought her life. Truly, she was the Golden Witch of legend. He would have admired her, or desired her, were he not soul-bound to kill her.

“You may leave with your life. You have earned that much by the blood you have spilled. Though you will bear a message for me.”

The assassin crouched low and remained stock-still as he listened. The Sultana moved slowly toward the center of the garden as she continued. “Tell whoever sent you that all the darkness of the void itself cannot smother the flames of Ketra.” 

The Sultana stopped and looked directly toward the darkened corner concealing the assassin. He felt as though she looked directly into his eyes, his mind, his soul.

“And tell your master that he casts his favor upon unworthy servants.”

With a confidence that wounded him greater than her serpent, the Sultana turned and made her way back toward the portico and the palace beyond. The assassin dropped the veil of darkness about him and breathed deeply.

The night air filled his lungs and their expansion made the wound on his back flare and burn. Without further use of his art, the shadow mage made his way stealthily out of the palace grounds and toward the western dunes along the coast. After observing an appropriate interval and making certain he was alone, the assassin knelt in the desert sands, crafted a crude but serviceable casting circle, and thrust out his consciousness to commune with his god. Within moments he felt the divine presence pushing against his mind.

        “You have not failed in your purpose.”

        “I beg forgiveness my Lord, the witch lives still. I have failed you.”

        “You have not failed. You have sewn the seeds which others will reap, whose fruit is bitter to all.”

“I do not understand my Lord. The witch lives, I have failed the task given to me.”

“Every task is a test. Even the act of accepting it, regardless of the outcome.”

“What am I to do now my Lord?”

“Make for the temple at Viridian. There is need for you in Eventide.”

“Yes, my Lord, in all haste.”

“Do not let your thoughts linger in doubt. You have done well.”

“Thank you, my Lord. I shall do all you command.”

“All you must do, is have faith, Esmour.”