The decapitated head of Lord Zaltan blinked up at me with an unsettlingly blank gaze. Fly specks already dotted his eye sockets. This was beyond inconvenient. My villa plans were predicated on a clean, quiet exit, not a murder scene on my pillow. Zhurakh, without a doubt. He had made it abundantly clear he considered me a rival. This was a classic power play, meant to intimidate, to remind me of his newfound ruthlessness. A gruesome, over-the-top reminder, but then, he’d always been a bit much. I pinched the bridge of my nose, a familiar ache blooming behind my eyes. I’d seen worse during my archaeology digs—mummified remains, ancient sacrificial sites—but never on my bedding. This was just… uncouth. “Fine,” I muttered, addressing the late Lord Zaltan’s vacant face. “Point taken. You’re still a violent brute.” I needed to handle this. Quietly. No sense in drawing more attention to myself. My initial thought was to simply wrap the head in a spare tunic and bury it in the palace grounds, but the thought of digging a hole in my lounging robes seemed excessive. Instead, I carefully, gingerly, used a linen cloth to lift the head. It was heavier than it looked. My stomach did a slow roll, but I suppressed it. Years of dealing with academic politics, and then the cutthroat brutality of court, had taught me to compartmentalize. This was merely an obstacle, a particularly fleshy, unpleasantly smelling obstacle. I slipped out of my chambers, navigating the hushed, pre-dawn corridors like a ghost. The Sunken Terraces, a labyrinth of sculpted sandstone and cascading vines, offered the perfect blend of obscurity and loose soil. No one would be there at this hour, save for maybe a stray gardener or an especially dedicated insomniac. The air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmund and upturned earth. I found a secluded patch beneath a statue of the twin-headed serpent goddess, Vashnaga, its obsidian eyes watching me impassively. With a small, sharp digging tool I kept for impromptu root samples, I began to excavate a shallow grave. The soil was loose, mercifully. A soft cough startled me. I dropped the tool, spinning around. Standing by a trellis of crimson vines, his sightless eyes milky and serene, was Oruvan, the venerable elder who presided over the Court’s arcane library. His presence here, at this hour, was… suspicious. He carried a gnarled staff of dark wood, tapping it gently on the flagstones. “Lady Vreshna,” his voice was a calm murmur, like water over river stones. “Troubles plague your spirit, I sense it.” I straightened, trying to appear nonchalant, my foot subtly covering the hastily dug hole. “Elder Oruvan. A pleasure. Just enjoying the morning air. And perhaps contemplating the transient nature of life.” I gestured vaguely at a wilting flower. “A rather profound exercise, wouldn’t you agree?” He smiled, a gentle, knowing curve of his lips. “Indeed. But some transience is… less natural. The warlord’s shadow falls long across the city, does it not? His malice, a tangible thing.” He reached into the folds of his simple robe, producing a small, intricately carved sandstone talisman. It glowed with a faint, internal light, like a trapped ember. “Take this, my child. It bears the blessing of the Shandar. It will ward off his malice, protect you from the darker currents that now flow through these halls.” I eyed the relic. It looked vaguely like an ancient warding charm, the kind you’d see in a museum display, probably a tourist trap souvenir given the current chaos. Still, a gift from an elder, especially a blind one, felt impolite to refuse. And if it kept Zhurakh’s brand of ‘malice’ at bay, even psychologically, I wasn't going to complain. “Thank you, Elder. A thoughtful gesture.” I took the token. It felt warm, almost alive, in my palm. “May its light guide you,” Oruvan said, then turned, his staff tapping a rhythmic counterpoint to the chirping dawn birds, and disappeared back into the twisting paths of the terrace. I watched him go, then glanced back at my unfinished task. Too late. The head would have to wait. I tucked the medallion into my tunic, its warmth a curious presence against my skin. As I turned to leave the secluded patch, a low rustle in the dense foliage caught my attention. Then another. The air, which had been calm moments before, grew still, heavy. A sickening scent of bitter herbs and unwashed wool wafted through the pre-dawn quiet. My academic instincts, finely honed by years of deciphering ancient traps and dodging enraged professors, screamed danger. This wasn't a gardener. Six figures emerged from the twisting arbors, their faces obscured by dark, featureless masks, their movements precise and predatory. They carried short, curved blades that glinted dully in the nascent light. Hired blades. And they were here for *me*. “Well, this is just typical,” I muttered, my voice flat with a familiar weariness. Chayaz, no doubt. Humiliated, banished to the cheap seats, now attempting to restore her 'dignity' through murder. So predictable. I braced myself, my hand instinctively going for the small, obsidian letter opener I kept hidden in my sash. Not much against six trained killers, but it was better than nothing. The first killer lunged, a silent blur of black fabric. His blade arced towards my neck. I twisted, narrowly avoiding the swipe, the cold steel whistling past my ear. This was going to be a messy morning. Suddenly, the very air ripped apart with a sound like tearing silk. A massive, dark shape hurtled through the trellis of crimson vines behind the ambushers, scattering leaves and snapping branches. Zhurakh. He landed amidst the masked figures with a thunderous impact, his towering form a silhouette against the paling sky. His massive two-handed sword, Ravager, a slab of dark, gleaming steel, flashed like lightning. One swordsman, caught mid-lunge, was cleaved in half before he even registered the new threat. A spray of dark, viscous blood splattered across the flagstones, coating a pristine sandstone statue in crimson. Another tried to parry, but Ravager simply sheared through his smaller blade and then through the man himself, a sickening crunch of bone and sinew. Zhurakh moved with a terrifying, brutal efficiency, a whirlwind of controlled violence. He wasn't fighting; he was executing. The survivors, clearly overwhelmed by this unexpected, monstrous interference, tried to flee. But Zhurakh was faster. He caught one by the ankle, yanking him back into the fray, then crushed his skull against the base of a fountain. Another tried to scale a wall, only for Ravager to pin him there, a grotesque ornament of flesh and steel. Within moments, the courtyard was silent again, save for the dripping of blood onto stone and the ragged rasp of Zhurakh’s breathing. He turned to me, his broad chest heaving, his dark eyes fixed on me with an intensity that bordered on feral. A trickle of blood, not his own, but from one of the corpses, ran down his cheek, catching the light. He wiped it away with the back of a gauntleted hand. The air around him shimmered with raw power. “Pitiful,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Such amateurish attempts.” He stalked towards me, his gaze sweeping over the carnage. “Do you think I would allow such insolence? No one,” he loomed over me, his shadow eclipsing the rising sun, “no one slaughters you but me.” The amulet Oruvan had given me, still tucked against my ribs, suddenly burned, a searing heat blossoming through my tunic. I gasped, pressing a hand to it. The internal glow intensified, pulsing with a dark, almost malevolent energy. A drop of Zhurakh’s blood, flicked from his sword, had landed on my tunic, just above where the amulet lay. The moment it touched, the stone flared, the light twisting into a deeper, angry red, the warmth turning into an uncomfortable, almost painful heat that radiated from my chest. It felt… wrong. Like something was being drawn in, or pushing out. I quickly moved my hand, trying to shield it, to dampen the unsettling pulse. Zhurakh noticed my discomfort, his gaze sharpening. “What is that?” he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion. I fumbled, trying to pull the carving free, my fingers clumsy with the sudden pain. “Just… a trinket! From the elder! It’s nothing!” But the red glow pulsed, matching the beat of my own frantic heart. He looked from the charm to me, then back to the blood-spattered flagstones, his expression unreadable. “Your security is incompetent,” he declared, his voice flat, definitive. “Pathetic, truly. And dangerous. Such a valuable… asset cannot be left to such haphazard protection.” His eyes locked onto mine, unyielding. “Effective immediately, Lady Vreshna, you are relieved of your current lodgings. For your own safety, of course. I’m relocating you to my personal palace wing. As my political hostage.”

Assassins and Amulets