The black stone cliff towered, piercing the night sky. The giant cave mouth gaped at its base. The dark tunnel swallowed the Dark Sapphire Moon's light illuminating the snow. The wind roared out from the mountain's belly, bringing the scent of rusted mine metal—the metallic tang of thick blood hidden by the aroma of wet moss.
The main headquarters of The Hollow Syndicate.
Luka halted his steps. His boots stepped on limestone chunks. His right hand twitched. The scaled flesh behind the coarse cloth wrap responded to the threat. The heart at his solar plexus kicked, pumping boiling fluid that rejected the freezing temperature. His muscles tensed, preparing.
Rhea stepped forward. The lily scent swept away the smell of death. Her gray wool dress moved faintly. The woman's pale hand reached out.
"It is time, My Lord," Rhea whispered.
The maid's cold fingers groped the knot behind Luka's head, yanking it roughly. The dull gauze crusted with blood unraveled, falling to the stone floor. Oesteria's freezing air hit Luka's bare face. His skin stung, responding to the temperature. The thick semi-circular stitches from the base of his neck to his crown were exposed. The flesh around the coarse thread reddened, protruding defectively. That permanent scar ruined the remnants of the noble face that once clung there.
Rhea's gray eyes stared at the stitches. Poisonous hatred spilled from her tone.
"Ulric shattered my Prince's crown." Rhea spat onto the rocky dirt. "These stitches are your blood debt.”
Fwiiittt.
A bamboo whistle cleaved the wind. Its tone discordant. Piercing the ears.
The shadows on the cave wall peeled off. Five dark-leather-clad figures dropped from the stalactite ceiling. Their landing soundless. Two other assassins emerged from behind stalagmites. Twin daggers drawn. Dull metal scraped. Surrounding Luka and Rhea. The night air solidified.
Luka did not draw his sword. His posture hunched on automatic. The low stance of a street dog. His black eye locked onto the whistle-holding man at the end of the formation.
"I am Prince Luka." Luka's voice was gritty. Scraping against the cold air. "The heir of Eisenhart."
The whistle-holding man stayed silent. His eyes swept the thick stitches on Luka's neck. Calculating the cutting distance. His left hand reached into his belt. A piece of leather parchment drawn. A chunk of charcoal scratched rough upon it. He rolled the parchment. A low-pitched whistle slipped from his lips.
A black falcon glided down from a dark alcove. Its wings spread cleaving the wind. The bird of prey perched on the guard's thick-leather-plated arm. Its eyes glowed abnormal red. Its sharp talons embedded into the arm guard. The guard tied the scroll to the falcon's leg. A jerk of the arm threw the bird into the air. The black falcon shot piercing the vertical tunnel toward the mountain peak. Vanished.
The assassin formation did not shift a single inch. Their daggers locked onto Luka's neck.
"Wait," the guard commanded. His voice hoarse, dead.
Luka stood straight enduring the frost. The cold air tried freezing the synovial fluid in his knees. His gut contracted hard. Hunger. The sweat scent of these assassins triggered saliva production at the base of his tongue. He swallowed it by force. His instinct thrashed wanting to tear their necks. His ego held the urge. He came to subjugate the pack. Not eat the gate dogs.
Far at the mountain peak.
The Dark Sapphire Moon illuminated the rock crevices. The main hall of The Hollow Syndicate was massive in size. The suffocating air smelled of dried blood and cheap incense. The cave walls blanketed in phosphor moss. Radiating a dark blue glow. Water dripped from sharp stalactites. Drip. Drip. Striking a slimy puddle on the floor. Its rhythm constant. Resembling the heartbeat of a dying man.
A throne stood at the end of the room. The metal structure formed from hundreds of broken weapons. Rusted swords. Blunt axes. Shields smeared in blackened blood. The remnants of targets eliminated by the syndicate for gold.
Silas sat atop that pile of cold metal.
His cheekbones protruded sharply, piercing the skin. His face was pale, turning blue. Both his arms extended unnaturally long, dropping and floating past his knees as he sat. His forearm bones curved defectively. His fingers were gaunt, resembling dead twigs and ending in thick pitch-black nails. A pair of legs bent backward at the knees, resembling the claws of a giant crow.
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The black falcon shot in from the cave roof hole, diving straight and dropping the parchment scroll onto Silas's lap.
The black nail tore the seal, and Silas's eyes swept the charcoal scratches on the parchment skin.
Prince Luka. Bringing one maid.
Silas's breath hissed, producing the sound of blunt metal scraping. "Prince Luka.”
Reinhardt was decapitated. Ulric hunted his remaining bloodline to the edge of the continent. If this boy at his cave door was truly Prince Luka surviving that bloody night, he must be insane. A broken prince delivering his life to a wolf's den.
Silas smelled gold coins.
Ulric was a generous payer for the heads of his political opponents. If this corpse was truly Luka, the payment was the no-man's-land territory at the border. An intact castle. Silas's forces would no longer need to freeze inside a moldy cave. Easy prey walked itself right into his slaughterhouse.
Silas's black nail scratched the charcoal. Writing a brief reply on the back of the parchment. Let the corpse in. He threw the parchment into the air. The black falcon snatched it. Flying back piercing the vertical limestone tunnel.
Silas pressed his chin on his defective fist. His eyes glanced at a corner of the room lacking phosphor light.
"Vance."
The stone shadow shifted.
A giant man stepped out. Vance. His height nearly two meters. Pure wire muscle wrapped his body. Hard flesh forged by constant slaughter. A sword slash scar cleaved wide from the right corner of his lips down to his collar. Healed with reddened flesh lumps.
The man twisted his neck. Crack. Crack. His spine scraped loud.
Vance opened his mouth. His lower jaw stretched. His cheek flesh pulled taut. His jawbone dropped detaching exceeding the limits of a human skull hinge. A snake's mouth swallowing prey. His original teeth fallen clean. Replaced by three rows of sharp serrated fangs. Feral shark teeth growing from filthy black gums. Thick slime dripped soaking his chin.
His giant hand dragged a massive meat cleaver. Its blade double-serrated. Old rust merged with meat chunks and dried blood on the weapon's surface. The drag of thick iron on the stone floor deafened the ears.
"Welcome our guest." Silas pointed to the lower tunnel using his black nail. "Herd them into the labyrinth. Break their legs. Bring the fraud's head here. Do not kill the woman."
Vance did not answer. His shark jaw closed with a wet clashing sound. He walked dragging his giant cleaver down the stone tunnel. Swallowed by pitch black.
At the lower cave mouth, the black falcon landed.
The guard caught the parchment. Reading it brief under the moonlight. He gave a single hand signal. Seven twin daggers sheathed in unison. The assassins retreated merging into the wall shadows. Vanished lacking sound.
"Weapons." The guard held out a dusty leather-wrapped hand.
Luka stared at the man. His left hand gripped tight the rusted sword hilt. The veins on the back of his hand bulged. His gut twisted responding to the provocation. His ego refused to bow to a subordinate dog.
A pale hand held his arm.
"Patience, My Lord," Rhea whispered right in Luka's ear. The maid's breath was cold. "Mad dogs need to be controlled from the inside."
Luka exhaled. Vapor spewed heavy. He released the iron scrap from his waist. Throwing it to the stone floor. Metal clanged loud. Rhea drew her hidden bronze dagger. Throwing it falling clattering near the guard's shoes.
"Walk." The guard turned his back. Leading the way into the bottom of the mountain's belly.
Luka and Rhea followed the direction of his steps.
The Dark Sapphire Moon's light left behind. Black swallowed their bodies. The guard lit a wooden torch. Orange fire reflected on the wet limestone labyrinth walls. This tunnel was narrow. Stone walls squeezed their shoulders. The ceiling lowered.
The echo of water drips bounced random. Ruining directional orientation. The air smelling of ammonia and sulfur clogged the throat. Luka's lungs worked hard pulling filthy oxygen. The pressure in this tunnel strangled slow. Turn after turn passed.
Luka counted the number of steps. One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred steps.
Suddenly, the torch fire died.
Pitch black struck the corneas. Light vanished lacking a trace.
Whoosh. The sound of fabric scraping fast before them. The torch-bearing man ran. Vanished into an unseen crevice.
"My Lord!"
Rhea's voice broke on the left. Trembling. The scream was muffled in an instant. The sound of a body dragged by force and a mouth gagged with cloth sounded rough.
Luka stood alone. His eyes failed to grope forms. His right hand empty lacking a weapon.
The scales behind Luka's sleeve rubbed. His blood vessels dilated. His muscles heated up. His ears caught the faint scrape of coarse cloth cleaving the air. Ahead. Right side. Right above his crown. The sound of breaths smelling of raw meat approached fast.
Ambush.
Luka dropped his chest to the floor. Ducking total to the limestone bottom.
A giant axe cleaved the empty space where his neck was a second ago. The wind of the iron slash slapped his face. Cutting several blonde hair strands. The impact of the axe blade on the cave wall produced a spark.
Sparks flew sharp. That one-second orange light illuminated the stocky face of a man grinding his teeth. Brog.
Luka's left arm tensed. His fingers curved feral. That empty hand shot forward piercing the darkness, aiming for the stocky man's throat right before the firelight died.