章節 2: The Ugly Things
"I know now what it means to live by the sword. My weapon is heavy, but my heart is heavier. The mournful wails of widows break the little resolve left in my soul. Perhaps, I should die now, for I have lived a borrowed life"
_Last words of Aratia the First, Sword God
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The crowing of a cock woke him from slumber. He sat up, feeling a rare sense of peace, though a faint ache weighed upon him. Gazing out the open window beside his bed, he peered into the silent street below, still cloaked in the dimness before dawn. The Sun Kingdom, ever late to bed, lay shrouded in quiet, but his senses were alert.
A low growl escaped his lips, and his eyes narrowed as from the faint shadows cast by the guttering street lamp, figures of darkness began to take form. His grip tightened as he reached instinctively, flicking his hand toward the twin daggers lying on the floor. They flew into his hands, silent and sure. Within a heartbeat, he was outside, standing in quiet defiance before the shadowy beings assembling in the street.
"Shadow brother..." hissed a voice, rasping like stones ground together.
A cold frown crossed his face, but he held his ground, daggers poised. His heart stirred, as though caught in a web of longing and revulsion all at once.
"Master calls… come. We hunt," the creature crooned in a voice that felt like a knife to the senses.
The youth, whose name was Nimrod, clenched his jaw, refusing to let any reply escape his lips. Speech, he feared, would feel unnatural to his tongue now, too near the twisted cries of his former brethren. With a strength summoned from deep within, he managed a single word: "Leave."
He could see their black-robed forms quiver in a mockery of laughter, their presence thickening like smoke across the empty street. Four of them had gathered before him, all wraiths—a twisted order of men turned into creatures by dark magic. Yet, even knowing their numbers, he sensed one more hidden in the shadows. They never sent all their hunters into the open; it was a rule of the hunt to keep the true assassin out of sight.
As the figures drew closer, gliding without movement like phantoms from a nightmare, Nimrod tensed, muscles coiled. He knew well that these wraiths—once men—felt neither fear nor pain. Their master, the dark wizard who had made him a wraith and enslaved them, left no place for hesitation or frailty within them.
He felt a shiver of cold air behind him, subtle but unmistakable. An ambush. The lead wraith was waiting for this very moment.
"Brother… Master calls… come..." The voices of the wraiths seemed to distort the air, and then, without warning, the attack began.
The lead wraith's hand twitched, and at that signal, the others sprang forward. Blades flashed toward him, slicing through the silence. Nimrod's body twisted, narrowly dodging a jagged dagger, but a searing pain cut across his shoulder, sending a shudder through him. Teeth clenched, he spun, lashing out with both daggers. The blades struck two of the wraiths, and wisps of dark smoke curled from the wounds. The creatures recoiled, an inhuman shriek slipping from them as they were hurled backward, crashing against the cracked, weathered timbers of an adjacent house.
He spared no thought for the downed wraiths; he knew they would return, for wraiths did not perish so easily. But as he faced the remaining two, he found his limbs growing heavy, his breath thin.
Then, with a movement so swift he barely saw it, the wraith to his right attacked, his blade carving a path for Nimrod's heart. In that instant, Nimrod realized his focus had faltered, his stance too exposed. He threw his body back, managing to sidestep, though the blade glanced across his arm. Black smoke rose from where his dagger found purchase in the wraith's side, but its hollow eyes showed no pain, no falter. It drove forward again, and Nimrod blocked, his body forced back, retreating step by step.
The silence in the air thickened, freezing the whole scene in a strange, oppressive stillness. No shout or gasp from the city's people, no whisper of alarm rose from the houses. Only the dark smoke oozing from the wraiths' wounds seemed to stir, curling toward him with a malevolent life of its own.
And then he felt it: a presence just beyond his sight, a gaze colder than the others. He turned, and from the shadows stepped a figure he knew well, one who had once been his closest companion. A wraith, but not a true wraith—a soul twisted, yes, but somehow retaining the smallest thread of what once was. Nimrod's heart turned cold, and he whispered, "First Brother…"
The First Brother's eyes, dark as an abyss, settled upon Nimrod, and a flicker of understanding passed between them. Nimrod could not bring himself to raise his dagger to strike, for this one was no mere servant of darkness. He hesitated, thoughts whirling, memories of their past entwining with the reality of their present battle. But even as he hesitated, the wraiths leaped forward, their numbers pressing upon him. The First Brother did not strike but watched, as though testing the depths of Nimrod's resolve.
Chaos swallowed him, a desperate clash of steel and smoke. His vision blurred, his limbs grew heavier, and wounds opened upon him like blackened brands. Dark fog curled around him, blinding and suffocating, pulling him toward the ground.
Yet just as he thought all hope lost, a faint glow pierced the smoke—the first light of dawn. Its rays crept across the rooftops, scattering the shadows and weakening the dark presence in the street. The wraiths recoiled, their movements faltering under the sun's touch. One by one, they began to dissolve, their forms breaking into plumes of dark smoke that twisted and writhed before fading into the dawn.
The First Brother lingered a moment longer, his form half-shadow, half-light. His gaze held Nimrod's, a wordless promise lingering in his darkened eyes. Then, as the sun rose fully, he too vanished, leaving Nimrod alone in the silent street, blood seeping from his wounds.
Breathing heavily, Nimrod stood, his resolve unbroken though his body cried in pain. He watched the last tendrils of dark smoke disappear, vowing silently that he would one day put an end to his former brethren and their master.
The silence finally lifted, and faint whispers began to stir across the city as its people awoke. Far away, in an ancient house, two old men glanced westward, sensing the strange stillness break. One muttered, "Report this to the council. The wraiths have returned."
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