Peony's Blade

Chapter 2

    What was a blade? Sharp, lethal, cold. A basic tool created for the most basic human necessity. Survival. Whether it was for cooking or hunting, blades were flexible in their use. Their range in size, their malleable nature, their silence was the reason a blade was his choice of weapon.

    He ghosted through the night, leaping lightly from roof to roof, a dark shadow against the starlight sky. His boots barely made a sound atop the shimmering wood. The moon was full, casting a cool glow over the lively city. When he reached the walls that surrounded houses, he knew he’d reached the district of nobility, and it was here that he slowed, crouching next to the wooden gates to consider his next move.

    There was laughter in the air, of wealth and prosperity and carefree comfort. He leaped over the gate and sprinted down the path laid by the stone walls. It was at a particularly well-lit building that he flung off the wall and rolled over the dirt. He came to a stop at the corner, hidden within the shadow cast by the bright glow of the gaming house. The laughter was much louder here.

    He unsheathed the dagger at his hip, twirled it in his hand with practiced legerdemain, and waited. The hilt was familiar, bound with leather that had been worn by years of use, and the obsidian blade was pressed against his forearm, cold, sharp, deadly, and blacker than the night. Its twin rested safely on his right hip. He wouldn’t be needing them both tonight, but it was assuring to have it with him, an old friend that was never absent for bloodshed even if it didn’t partake in the act.

    A stream of nobles entered through the wide-open gates of the gaming house, a colorful array of robes set on display. Silk, the finest in all of Paeonia, sewn with the most beautiful embroidered flowers and vines. It was a waiting game, now. He twirled the dagger once more out of habit and licked his lips. Patience. It was one of the most important part of the hunt. Wait for the prey, wait for the opportunity, wait for its weaknesses, then strike without hesitation.

    For an hour he waited, crouched in the shadows, keeping a watchful eye on the gaming house for a single noble wearing blue silk robes. Silent, still, a shadow within a shadow. No one paid him any heed. No one seemed to even notice him. It wasn’t easy, staying so still for so long, but he hadn’t gone through years of torturous training to be bested by impatience. Still, his hands were beginning to sweat, and the leather was getting a little too warm. It was the fourth twirl of the night. Four twirls of his dagger, and the noble finally emerged.

    Red-faced with his pointed hat sagging over his head, Lord Teran Aeole staggered out the gleaming red gates. He nearly tripped, his toe catching the lip, and he stumbled into a few noble women.

    “Eh, watch where yer going!” he slurred. A lady pushed him away when he got too close, resulting in his hat falling to the ground.

    “The indecency!” she fumed, pulling out a fan and airing her anger. “How rude! Do you have any idea who we are?”

    “Like I give a damn!” Teran snorted. He snatched his hat from the ground and plopped it on his balding head. “I am Lord Teran Aeole! You should show me some respect!”

    “I shall remember your name well!” The woman glared at him from behind her fan. “Come tomorrow, I will make sure all of the Wirran District knows you as a terrible drunk who attacks women! Come, girls, let us go!”

    Harrumphing in offended dignity, the lady stormed through the gates, leaving behind the drunk slurs of Teran Aeole. He shook his fists for a few more seconds before he pivoted around and started his way home. A little delay in schedule, but that didn’t matter.

    Where the nobleman went, the blade followed. Silent as a shadow, keeping in the dark, he crept behind Lord Aeole, looking for the opportunity to strike.

    The streets were wide, still lively with the bustle of nightly activities. It was emptier than it was in the day but still populated enough that his mission would be compromised if he made a move. Not yet. Just a little bit more.

    He was running out of time. When Lord Aeole reached his home, the chance to strike would be lost. Teran was a particularly paranoid man. For good reason considering his secret activities was what landed the assassination job in the first place. Still, that paranoia was what kept him alive this whole time. He had watched the nobleman for close to a month now, and every night Teran had guards with him. Tonight was a lucky break. It seemed Teran had gotten a boost of confidence recently, most likely because he had hired a Viper to protect him at all hours of the day. And tonight, he had made the cocky mistake of leaving his home without his usual circle of guards. A mistake, because the Shadow had already taken out the Viper.

    They were close to his home now. Teran stumbled through the darkness. The darkness that gave the shadow the perfect cover to strike. This was it. In this narrower street, the moon cast a light behind the massive house that rose higher than the walls. A shadow was cast from one side to the other, and the ground was black enough to conceal his black clothing and obsidian blade.

    “Teran Aeole.” The name was familiar to his tongue. He weaved his way through the darkness. Where darkness was, the shadow thrived. “Master of liquor. A price has been set on your head.”

    The lord froze. A shudder broke through him, rattling the coins hidden in the sleeves of his robe that waved like silky, blue flags.

    “W-who are you?” Teran asked, his voice pathetic and small in the expanse of the shadow. He whirled around but could not see anything.

    “Embezzlement.” In contrast, this voice sliced through the air, sliced like a blade. “How much was lost in that gambling house, tonight, Teran Aeole? The reason for stealing, isn’t it? You just couldn’t stop your addiction, so you decided to feed it with the people’s sweat and blood.”

    “I-I have no idea what you’re talking about!” The flushed face of the lord drained of color. Sobriety somewhat returned in the presence of danger. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

    Boots silently sprung over the dirt, speed waking up the wind. “Show myself?”

    The Shadow laughed, and the lord trembled from the breeze at the back of his neck. He shook as he turned, fear permeating from every pore on his skin.

    “H-how did you—” A scream cut the lord off, and he fell to the ground with a s***h in his arm. The whites of his eyes were a stark contrast to the dark, and he cried out in pain as the cut began to register.

    “W-what do you want from me?” He held an arm over his face. “Please! I have money. Please, I beg of you. Just spare my life! That is all I ask!”

    “My blade has tasted your blood. There is nothing that can stop its thirst.”

    “Whoever is paying you, I’ll pay you double.” Teran flinched when the assassin took a step forward. “Triple! I’ll pay you triple!”

    “It’s funny. You have no idea how many have offered exactly what you are offering now. It seems that you nobles have no idea how we Shadows work.” He crouched in front of Teran and pressed the tip of his blade under the lord’s chin. “You see, my lord, Shadows are bound by their agreement with their clients. Unlike the Vipers, we remain loyal to our clients until the end. It wouldn’t be good business if we switched sides so easily. It’s an oath we must take. Do you know what the punishment for breaking that oath is?”

    The frightened man shook his head, unaware that his motion had cut his goatee against the blade.

    “Death.” His grip on his dagger tightened.

    “Y-you wouldn’t kill a helpless old man, would you?” Teran scrambled to his knees and held his hands together. “Please! I beg of you! I have a family.”

    “Unfortunately, so do the merchants whose money you stole. What do you think, old man? Winters are vicious. How many people have you killed by taking their livelihood? How many won’t survive because the money they need to make through the winter was wasted on gambling and drinks?”

    “I-I…But, I…”

    “A true shame.” The Shadow clicked his tongue. “Do you know who I am?”

    Teran blinked away his tears. He shook his head, stopping when the knife dug into his skin. He gulped.

    “They call me Blade.” He smiled, flashing his teeth.

    “B-Blade?” Teran gasped. “The Blade?”

    “You must understand,” Blade yawned, “that this is a menial task for me. But a job’s a job, and you have angered my client enough that I must take you out. I hope I have made your sins very clear, Lord Teran Aeole. Now, it is time to die.”

    “No, wait! Plea—”

    Teran’s pleas were snuffed out, replaced by a gurgle as blood spurted out his mouth. A crimson smile spread over his neck, and the obsidian blade had quenched its thirst.

    Blade reached into his black cotton robe and pulled out a piece of rolled up parchment. Within it broad strokes of ink spelled out ‘Raigu’ in ancient calligraphy of the dead language, Hozen. ‘Raigu’ meaning ‘Shadow’.

    Blade let the parchment unroll, and a snap of his wrist had it fluttering onto Teran Aeole’s still chest. With a fifth twirl, Blade flicked the blood off his dagger and wiped it clean on his shoulder before returning it to its rightful place. His job here was done.

    A sigh sent a whiff of steam into the air, and Blade took a moment to gaze up at the ethereal orb suspended in the sky.

    What was a blade? A means to survive? Cold, hard, merciless. Efficient killers that could pierce skin without a care in the world. Because that was what they were made for. To slice, to pierce, to cut. That was what he was made for. Sharpened by his mentors, forged by his oath, he was a lethal weapon created to kill.

    That was why he was called Blade.