Seated prominently upon the dais overlooking the great hall of Stoneheart, Lord Henry Pilaxis pressed a hand to his bare scalp and exhaled through his nose. He was weary of the day’s proceedings. Whispers swirled among the assembled onlookers. Nobles, merchants, laborers, each waiting for blood or mercy. He had little patience left for either.
“Bring him in, William,” Henry ordered his castellan.
The middle-aged man standing at the foot of the dais consulted a parchment. “This is Loro’daas, leader of the three elves accused of the Maiden’s Cry Mine murders.”
Henry inhaled deeply, steeling himself as the main doors swung open with an echoing groan, cold air spilling into the hall. Guards hauled the elf inside, shoving him toward the dais. He bore the usual features of the forest-dwelling Sylvanish: copper skin, dark hair, and striking emerald eyes. Intricate ink patterns covered his arms. Half his face bore traditional paint, the other half bruised.
Henry grimaced at the elf. Even beaten, the elf carried that same quiet arrogance he loathed.
The torchlit hall fell into quiet expectation, the crowd’s low voices reflecting Henry’s own longing for the elf’s end. “Loro’daas of Clan Joreevela,” he began, “You stand accused of murdering three miners. Do you deny these accusations?”
The elf’s eyes flashed. “Your concern is the death of those men?”
A distinct chill permeated the hall, as though the winter winds themselves had come to see. Henry gestured, and the guards stepped back. “Those mines are Starkhold’s livelihood.”
“Those miners killed my brother’s wife and her little boy,” rasped the elf. “You refused us justice. So we took it.”
Henry’s lips curled in disdain. “I offered compensation for your family’s loss.”
“You didn’t punish the guilty! You offered silence!”
I’m sick of this, Henry thought. Dressing savagery in the language of grievance, as if that made it right. “The elf boy violated our truce when he assaulted one of my men. His mother joined in. They merely defended themselves.”
“He threw a small rock! He was just a boy! His mother was trying to save him!”
“She attacked with a blade,” Henry snapped, hating how the elf looked at him like he was the criminal.
“They were beating him! What would you have her do?”
“You speak as though you were wronged,” Henry said, voice carrying now. “Yet you come before me having murdered men who served this house faithfully for many years. Men with families of their own.”
“And what about my family? We are people too!”
A familiar bitterness coated Henry’s tongue. “Guards, hang him and the others. Display their corpses at the forest’s edge. Let their kin see the cost of attacking our people.”
The elf fell to his knees, a guard seizing him. “By the great spirits, is this your idea of justice?”
“Swearing to your fictional gods won’t save you,” Henry spat. “And Emperor Robben isn’t around to let your kind break law anymore. Guards, remove this elf savage from my sight.”
Henry rose from his seat, turning away as the guards dragged the struggling elf from the hall. The applause of Stoneheart’s people echoed behind him as he ascended the spiral stone steps to his chambers.
He reached the entrance, quietly shutting the door behind him. Darkness. Silence. Finally. He tossed his cloak onto the bed and stepped to the hearth, warming his hands over the flames.
“I hate winter,” he muttered.
From behind him came a deep, resonating voice, “Don’t care.”
Henry’s muscles tensed at the intruder’s voice. He spun, his ancestral sword singing free from its mount above the hearth, the polished wood clattering against stone. He dropped into a fighting stance.
“Show yourself!” he demanded, scanning the shadows.
The intruder materialized from the darkness at the far end of the room, clad in black garb that blended seamlessly with the shadows. A smooth black metal mask concealed his face from chin to mid-forehead. Beyond the short black hair framing the mask, Henry discerned no features save for the cold, dark eyes peering from behind the slits. They were leeched of color and light, an unsettling sight that sent a chill through Henry’s spine.
“Greetings,” the intruder said. His accent was foreign, likely from the Kingdom of Starfall.
Henry tightened his grip on his sword. “If you were here to kill me, you would’ve done it when my guard was down. Who are you? Why are you in my home?”
“Straight to the point, eh? Fine by me.” The intruder offered a bow. “Shiv of the Knightmares.”
Henry knew the Knightmares’ reputation as well as anyone in the Empire of Tymeria. Particularly that none were left. This intruder was just a common sellsword in a costume.
“The Knightmares are dead, boy,” he scoffed. “But I’ll play along. What do you want with me?”
“Relax. I’m armed with nothing more than a dagger in my sleeve.” Shiv crossed the room, examining the high, narrow windows one-by-one, pulling the heavy tapestries together to muffle the howling winds. “I’m here to warn you. Do you know an elf woman named Lei’laan?”
Dread crept up Henry’s backbone. “All elf names sound the same to me.”
The sellsword approached a wall adorned with a banner displaying the sigil of House Pilaxis: two crossed pickaxes. “Well, this elf seeks vengeance on a man named Lord Henry Pilaxis. You’re the only one in Tymeria, as far as I know.”
Henry replaced his sword above the hearth, his gaze drawn to the dancing flames. “If this is about the baby—”
“You killed her,” Shiv interrupted, his voice devoid of emotion. “Your bastard daughter.”
Six years had passed, yet the pain of the past lingered. Henry’s fists clenched, grappling with guilt as he fumbled for justification. “Martha, my late wife, would have killed the babe herself. It was mercy.”
Shiv shrugged. “Well, hiring a man to kill a baby in her crib didn’t solve your problem.”
“You said you’re here to warn me. What else can you tell me?”
Shiv raised an index finger. “Lei’laan has hired only one assassin. But see, I know this assassin, and she’s very dangerous.”
“She hired a woman?” Henry’s brow creased.
Shiv sat on the edge of Henry’s bed, lowering his head as his tone darkened. “Her name’s Senya. A dangerous woman…who puts up far more of a fight than a helpless infant in a crib.”
Henry’s rage flared as he grabbed Shiv by his collar and heaved his light body off the bed, slamming him against the wall bedecked with the Pilaxis sigil. “You’ve no right to judge me, Knightmare.”
“Temper, temper,” Shiv chided, maintaining an unenthusiastic air. “Is this how you thank someone for a warning?”
“You expect me to believe a sellsword came all this way to warn me out of the goodness of his heart?” Henry hissed. “I’m sure you’re expecting payment when this is over.”
Shiv raised his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “Well, I need to eat, don’t I?”
Henry released him. “So, you want payment for your warning? Or do you seek employment as a bodyguard?”
“Huh? Oh, someone’s paying me for all this, but not to warn you.”
The wind howled, and Henry’s heart skipped a beat. He took a cautious step back. “I don’t understand. Who’s paying you?”
Shiv’s dark eyes blinked at him, menacing and unwavering as he nodded toward behind Henry. “Her.”
“Knights in the night,” a woman whispered.
Panic seized him. Too late.
A gloved hand clamped tight over his mouth, blocking off his words. His scream became a useless muffle as he struggled to call for his guards. The Knightmare had been toying with him, making a fool of him all while plotting to murder him. He’d been well and truly played.
Cold steel sliced his throat, a sudden, crimson bite that stole his breath away. His final sight was the Knightmare’s masked face, devoid of mercy.