The night was darker than usual, the moon's face totally hidden and the stars did not dare to shine. There was an eerie air about the King's Castle as the night deepened.

  Only two watchman stood guard over the palace gate, and it was a monotonous duty as little ever happened before the King's Palace. Some dozen or so additional guardsmen stood scattered amidst the castle grounds, but far fewer than were necessary to even spot the figure who entered noiselessly through the closed gate, passing like water through a sewer grate. He had purchased a watch schedule from a rather greedy urchin, but the information seemed to be sound. He sped across the grassy courtyard under cover of night, took two swift steps up the stone wall and leapt for a thin window. Taking hold of the ledge, he pulled himself upward. All sound seemed muffled as he went, as if the world did not wish to disturb him. The man slipped past one guard with his back turned, and climbed high onto the wall, gripping a small sliver of shifted stone with inhuman grip and allowed another guard to pass beneath him. There were two paths to the King's overlook, according to the intel from the urchin in town, well three if one were willing to scale the outer wall. One passed through the throne room, another through an ante chamber from the inner courtyard. The assassin thought it best to skirt through the courtyard, expecting more guards to be present in the literal seat of power.

  As he rounded the corner he heard a haunting song coming from the courtyard, a longing, melodious refrain, and he stopped dead in his tracks. The inner courtyard seemed almost empty, but there was music coming from it. A large pond lay in the middle surrounded by myriad flowers and foliage. Nearby was a massive tree whose branches overhung the water. There in the tree was a woman, her fiery red hair dancing in the slight breeze. She played a violin, and the assassin felt himself drawn in to the solemn dirge. There is magic in the mundane as well. The assassin shook his head, focusing himself inward to break the enchantment of her song and continued moving, making sure to match his movements with the shifting of the song so as to cover his own sounds. He made it to the base of the stairs and was surprised. Unguarded? He began bounding the stairs, capitalizing on his luck. Foolish, oh King.

  Just as the thought had crossed his mind he reached the doorway to the King's chambers. In low, hushed tones he spoke and drew his obsidian daggers.

  Darkness strengthen me

  Let royal blood soon be spilt

  Thirst, my blades of night!

  His daggers began to glow with sickly green shadow, and he nudged open the door, taking every caution to remain in total silence. As the door swung outward, the assassin quickly realized the futility of trying to remain quiet as he saw the King brooding, eyes fixed on the door, with a sword across his lap. The King wore next to nothing, only some linen small clothes as the assassin prowled into the room, masked and silent, with glowing daggers of obsidian. The scene was immortalized in a startling stillness as their eyes met, platinum boring into deep brown, both unyielding.

  I guess I am in for a fight after all. Always expect everything to go wrong, then you are never surprised. His pride in stealth was injured, but his desire for glorious battle still filled him with intense excitement. Let us see what this Sorcerer King is made of

  The assassin knew, in the thousand-year reign of their line only one had ever succumbed to the sword, and he was aged beyond strength when he was killed by a cowardly assassin who lived within the very house, who ate meals with him, a craven betrayer and nothing more. This would be vastly different.

  The assassin made the first move. He lunged forward, daggers bared and fire burning in the coal of his eyes. The King stood swiftly and drew his sword in direct defense, deflecting both daggers with a single, perfectly aimed stroke, and sent the assassin momentarily off-balance. Only a keen eye could have noticed he ever lost his balance at all with as quickly as he regained himself, but the King perceived it. Again the assassin lunged, this time changing levels so frantically with his dual daggers that the king became hard pressed to defend each one. One, two, three attacks to the face and neck interspersed with jabs and feints to the body and legs. The frenetic pace of the assault wearied the king, and he felt something familiar in the style. Despite his curiosity, he remained focused.

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  A low blow, aimed at the King's gut, narrowly missed and drew a broad arc upward as a simultaneous blow came from the king's left, but he chose not to dodge it. Instead the king, in a brutish move let the dagger cut his upper arm as he iron-gripped the assassin's right arm. Using his immense strength, the king lifted the nimble murderer off his feet and gave him a swift slash to the chest. Even while airborne the killer was able to slink away just enough to escape a mortal stroke, but blood began to leak from his side as the king threw him against a near wall. Though wounded, his eyes seemed to be smiling as he gazed at the wound in the king's upper arm. There was no pain, but the same sickly green glow that wreathed the daggers beginning to spread up along the King's arm, and he could feel his arm being sapped of strength.

  Gripping his wounded side the night stalker spoke.

  Visions of many

  Assault Poet-King's senses

  And Veil my true self!

  Bursts of shadow leapt out from the killer's physical form and took on the same shape and mannerisms as the assassin himself. The King looked dumbly as not one opponent but seven, each identical, surrounded him. They attacked from all sides, and every strike of the King seemed to meet with only illusion, a ripple through still water and the copies moved on. Only one in seven attacks landed, but that was all it took. The King could not overcome the illusion and was slashed shallowly over and over again by the true assassin while trying desperately to fight off the spectres. Finally the king stood, blood dripping from countless wounds as ghastly green began to swallow up all of his strength.

  Is this how we fall? The king's moment of resignation was as fleeting as a chill breeze on a hot summer day. No. This is what I was made for. The King stood still, no longer trying to defend from any blow and allowed the assassin to continue his torturous, playful murder as small cuts burst open all over his unprotected body. With all my soul. The words came out in a whisper at first but grew to a thunderous roar as the room filled with primal, ferocious pressure.

  Soul of fire, flame, and light

  Consider not my flesh and blood

  Release your scourging might

  Burst forth as overwhelming flood.

  No matter what fate cometh unto me

  Unto this nightling, also pay that fee!

  Brilliant rays of light burst forth from the King's wounded frame and took hold on every shadow and every entity in the room. White fire spread its scalding fingers and wrapped around the true assassin, binding the darkling to the King's fate with chains forged of light and tongues of flame. With a grave smile the King glared directly into the man's eyes and spoke, "Now our fates are tied, my enemy. If tonight I am to meet with death, so too will you!" With that the king lunged forward, ignoring all pain and weakness that he felt, drawing upon the strength of his ruby soul. The assassin defended the blow with his left dagger hand and swept in for a mortal blow with his right. Just as the King's blow met the obsidian dagger, the runes etched into his blade emanated blue fire in a blinding flash. The dagger shattered as the stroke sped onward and cut deeply into the murderer's chest. Simultaneously the killer's right-hand dagger slash cut a wide swath in the king's breast from his left shoulder down to his sternum and both men fell to the ground together, blood, fire and shadow mixing with one another in a strange, surreal pool of life and magic upon the stone floor.

  Ponderously, with force of will greater than any normal man, the assassin rose, blood pouring from his wounded side and chest. "If death is mine, my dear King, I gladly give my life for the glory of taking yours." The words sounded hollow, empty, faithless. He raised his remaining dagger, preparing for the final stroke as he hovered over the Theon, the only adversary who had ever wounded him, and who had now killed him. The arrogance was mine it seems... As his life ebbed and flowed and the thoughts of murder and honor fled still farther, his mind retreated to other vantage, has my life meant nothing in the end?

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  Then came the flash of a silent blade and the darkling saw him, a kindly old man standing in rags holding a simple harvesting scythe made of wood and iron. On his face he wore the broad smile of an old friend. The elderly man shook his head and turned his back on the assassin as the body slumped to its knees. The assassin’s head tumbled from his shoulders and fell into the growing pool of crimson.

  The King, through dying eyes could clearly see the Swordsman standing over the body of his attacker, sword drawn. Just before he lost consciousness he heard two words that he thought passing strange, “Goodbye, father,” and then the black embraced the King.