Sword Blade

In the dimly lit chamber of the castle, Alden leaned back in his ornate chair, his gaze drifting to the flickering candle flame that cast dancing shadows on the ancient tapestries. His thoughts, as elusive as the shadows, flitted to Delilah, the girl with the long hair and shiny eyes that had captured his heart long ago. The grandeur of the room, the gold-leafed ceiling, the velvet drapes-all that seemed to fade into the background as he was transported to another time and place. To a simpler time, when crowns and duties hadn't walled him in.

He remembered the cut grass scent and the feeling of the sun on his skin as they ran through the meadows, chasing after butterflies with laughter echoing through the countryside. Her giggles, so pure and innocent, still echoed in his mind like the sweetest of melodies. The way the sunlight caught the strands of her hair, making them shimmer like threads of gold, was a sight that had never left his memory. They had been inseparable, two souls bound by the unyielding threads of friendship, weaving their destinies together without a care for what the future held.

His smile grew wider as he remembered the day he had saved her from a bull that had escaped from the village herd. She had stumbled, and he had dashed to her rescue, pulling her to safety just as the creature's horns had grazed the ground where she'd been standing. Her eyes had been wide with terror, but as soon as she had seen him, she had burst into laughter, and the joy in her face had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. That moment, as he'd brushed the dirt from her cheek, he'd felt something stir within him—a feeling that had grown from a simple friendship into a love that was as fierce as it was unspoken.

His hair, which had grown longer in the months since their last meeting, fell into his eyes, and he absently pushed it back. The candlelight danced on the walls, casting a warm, amber color in every corner of the room. In his mind he could feel the softness of her hand in his-the gentle touch that had caused him a thrill no royal decree nor battlefield victory ever could. He wondered whether she remembered that day as well or if she ever thought of that promise they made to each other under the old oak, their hearts beating together for them as they swore to look over each other, no matter what.

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Two raindrops slid down the dusty windowpane, tracing a crooked path before merging into one. Delilah sat inside, her eyes fixed on the blurred world beyond, lost in thought. The rain's patter grew louder, each drop a muffled beat echoing her heart's rhythm. The room was a cocoon of shadows, the candle flickering its final dance before succumbing to the night.

Her fingers closed around the small wooden figurine, an heirloom from a better time. It was a carving of Alden, his features etched with love and care. The warmth of the wood was a far cry from the cold metal she had once held in her hand. Delilah was the best in her guild, known for her swiftness and precision. But that was all being nullified. All that had left were the whispers of a love that could never be.

The rain outside reached a crescendo, as if it were a reflection of the turmoil that churned inside her. She could almost feel his presence, the warmth of his skin, the gentle caress of his breath against her neck. His eyes, so full of passion and pain, haunted her dreams and waking moments alike. The fierce longing for him was a living entity, pulsing through her veins.

Alden's eyes, pools of starlit water mirrored in twin, had been Delilah's weakness. They reflected the boundlessness of his soul, that place where she had once hid from the shadows of hers. His smile, ah that smile, could brighten the darkest recesses of her heart.

Her thoughts grew heavy with regret. She wished she could turn back the clock, to a time when their future was untainted by the cruel hand of fate. Marrying Alden would have meant a life of peace and belonging, far from the blood-soaked path she had chosen. The Chief of Command was a powerful figure, offering status, but he was not the one who made her heart flutter with a mere glance.

The marriage plan to the Chief was well thought out. It was a strategy to save her kingdom. However, at every step that she was taking towards this alliance, a part of her soul was as if being chipped away.

But now, Alden was not with her. Rain outside reflected her inner chaos, a symphony of drops singing of loss and longing. Her heart ached with a pain so sharp she could almost touch it, a physical reminder of the love she had been forced to leave behind.

The candle's flame danced and flickered, casting eerie shadows across the room. Delilah wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, leaving a salty trail on her skin. She took a deep, shuddering breath and closed her eyes, willing herself to be strong. The sound of the rain grew louder, a cacophony of whispers that seemed to carry his name.

Meanwhile, Alden sat in the grand room of his palace. The luxuries that once comforted him now felt like prison walls, and the grandeur mocked the simple life he had envisioned with Delilah. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, his cheeks wet with unshed tears. The memories blurred before him as the rain outside painted the windows with a mournful melody.

He scanned the cold, empty space with his eyes, and what had been grand about the room became a cruel reminder of how isolated he was. The battle scenes on the great tapestries spoke of a life without warmth, won battles, and lands conquered, but that was not something he would ever have for himself. The crackling of the fireplace sent dancing shadows on the polished marble floor, each flicker of flame bringing him to remember a moment with Delilah.

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"You know the drill, Zelkor," Kael whispered, his eyes sparkling in the candlelit room. He and Zelkor were sitting at a scarred wooden table, the dancing flames playing shadows across his features and Zelkor's.

Zelkor nodded solemnly, his gaze not breaking from Kael. He had been on many missions before, but something was different this time. Tension filled the air, almost dense enough to cut with the knife worn on his left side. His master sat back in the chair, fingers drumming out a silent beat against the armrest. "This is high-profile; and the Chief of Command no one wants to take risks against. Security at the noble's location will be tighter than a dragon's talons," he said, warningly.

He passed a rolled parchment across the table as he dropped his voice low enough to be almost conspiratorial. "These are details you'll need: how the manor's constructed, the guard's movements, and when you strike. The Chief of Command has brought in the Royal Shields—the country's élite guards. You must be as silent as a ghost."

As Zelkor went over the map with his eyes squinting into sharp focus, running his fingers across the route to be traveled, he recognized the grandeur of manor upon manor built around towering turrets with walls and passages whispering age-old history of protection built over many a century. Then, risk-versus-reward calculations racing through his thoughts, preparing escape routes-the meticulous part of him went on; however, gravity was taking its toll today.

"You're sure about this?" he asked, his voice tight. Kael met his gaze steadily, a hint of pride flickering in his eyes. "You're ready, Zelkor. You've proven yourself time and again. Besides, we have no choice."

The weight of the mission settled into Zelkor's bones like a cold, hard weight. He nodded, his hand curling around the parchment. "I'll leave tonight," he decided. "The sooner the better."

Kael nodded in approval. "Take what you need from the armory," he said, gesturing toward the back of the shelter. "And beware of the traps the Chief of Command is bound to have set. He's paranoid as a hunted hare."

Zelkor pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor. He made his way to the armory, his footsteps echoing in the dim corridor. The room was lined with weapons and armor, each one a silent testament to the lives they had taken. He selected a set of lightweight chainmail and a pair of vambraces that had served him well in the past. For his primary weapon, he chose a sleek short sword that whispered through the air when drawn, and a set of throwing knives that never missed their mark.

He was finally leaving the hideout for a moon that was merely a sliver in the sky. The night air was cool and crisp. This journey to the nobleman's mansion was familiar enough, but tonight it felt like trekking into enemy territory. Cobblestone streets in the city were deserted, playing tricks on his eyes in the shadows. He moved with the grace of a predator, staying to the shadows, his heart beating a steady rhythm in his ears.

He arrived at the walls of the mansion, pausing to survey the ground. True enough, the Royal Shields were there, crimson cloaks standing out against moonlit stones. They were patrolling with a well-synchronized precision, the perfect machine. He waited and studied their patterns, letting his pace match theirs. Anticipation was a coiled spring in his chest.

With a deep breath, Zelkor scaled the wall, his gloved hands and boots finding purchase on the carefully placed handholds and footholds that only an experienced assassin would know to look for. He moved swiftly, his movements a silent ballet of death. As he reached the top, a guard passed beneath him, so close Zelkor could see the gleam of sweat on his brow. He waited, holding his breath, until the footsteps of the man faded into the distance before dropping down into the courtyard.

He knew the layout of the manor from weeks of reconnaissance, but nothing could prepare him for the reality of it. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender and candle wax—an attempt to mask the stench of fear and paranoia. He kept to the shadows, the soft soles of his boots making no sound upon the cold, hard earth. Above him, the manor's windows stood, their soft light of night candles casting a warm glow-a stark contrast to the darkness within his heart.

The movements of the guards became almost spastic as he drew nearer to the manor doors. Zelkor knew the Chief of Command had to be informed of the coming danger, his mind racing to anticipate where the attack would come from. He waited for the perfect moment, the exact instant when two of the Royal Shields would pass each other, creating a temporary gap in their surveillance. With a silent prayer to the God, Zelkor slipped through the door while brushing his hand on the intricate carvings that adorned the oak surface depicting ancient battles.

Just as he was able to push the heavy door nearly closed, a cold, steel-edged presence pressed against his throat. His heart stuttered in his chest, his eyes flying wide open. He froze, his breath catching in his throat, as he felt the unmistakable touch of a sword blade.