I haven’t been on this thing in some time, but I wanted to write something that I kind of had an idea for a while now. I figured I’d just sit down and write it out. This is how the beginning has turned out. I hope you enjoy your time reading it:
The heavy doors of the church opened slowly, as a young cloaked boy, with his hood down, walked into the empty chapel. As he walked forward, he noticed how the shadows clung to the stain-glassed windows, leaving the mind to conjure many phantoms that would threaten their creator.
Many did not make their way to the church nowadays. Even fewer came at such a late hour. The boy stroked his finger across the impressive seats, revealing a thick layer of dust. Hesitantly strolling to the front, he looked over the altar where red blood stains of those who had spoken too freely marred the floor around it.
A lump formed in his chest and anger filled his eyes, but he swallowed it down. He would have his chance, but the time wasn’t right. He bowed his head and lifted his hand with his index and middle fingers extended. A simple prayer, nothing more. He didn’t know if he could believe in any kind of deity, but his actions, engrained by his parents in no small part, clung to him even in these times. This city, its insides ready to implode, was no place to live!
Turning back towards the door, the boy noticed a figure pass by the edge of his gaze. It was perhaps a priest that had returned to pick up something he had forgotten. Regardless, he grasped onto the dagger he held inside his cloak. Even the priests were not beyond trying to steal in order to further endorse the messed up system everyone had been brought into.
Whoever—or whatever—it was disappeared shortly after he noticed its movements. He inched forward, his every sense heightened by the threat of a potential attacker from any direction. The shadows seemed to cling to his form, following his every movement. Not knowing what was real and what was an illusion his mind conjured left him wide open. He knew that! It still didn’t make it any easier to handle. When he had reached the door again, he craned his neck back to see if his potential assailant was anywhere in sight. He wasn’t. As quickly as he could, he grabbed the large ring handle and dragged the door open and slid through the narrow opening he created.
He took a deep breath as he slid down against the door into a sitting position. Somehow in that moment he had forgotten to breathe. His heart beating violently, who knows if that moment could have very well been his last. It’s unfortunate, but that probably wouldn’t be the last time either.
When he had finally regained his composure, he threw his hood over his head and took to the streets that had been darkened by the dusk light, his hand still clasping to his hidden dagger. He had a lot of work to do, and it was going to be a long night.
Peering into the lavishly decorated room, the cloaked boy, his bangs sticking to his forehead, breathed low, trying not to even make a peep. One of the Dargons, Matthias, lay in his bed. He was a bitter old man who would take even a copper coin from a poor mother who had nothing to feed her children though he was one of the richest men in the city. The boy bit the inside of his cheek, even just seeing the man filled him with a blind fury.
Still, many of the Dargons held similar reputations though few compared to Matthias. The boy brandished his dagger, eyeing it with a reverent focus. Turning his eyes back to the aging Dargon, he imagined the taste of justice on his lips. As he watched, Matthias called out, possibly to a servant, “Drake, where is my medicine?”
That’s strange. The boy never knew that anyone ever lived or served the man. He peered closer, his interest rising as the man stood to his feet and looked towards the hallway door, to the side further next to the closet, where the boy had set himself in. The aged man spoke again, “Aw, there you are, Drake. How have the children been doing?”
Matthias swiped a match across the table beside him and lit a cigar that he pulled from his pocket. When the cigar touched his lips, he wheezed and coughed violently. The boy expected some kind of response from the unseen fellow, but he heard no voice other than that of Matthias’s.
Again, the boy peered closer. He still couldn’t see the unseen person though he could already start to see the doorframe that had led to the hall. Either this was an extremely skinny person, or there was no one there at all. Though it seemed very peculiar, the latter seemed more likely as many nobles, including the Dargons, and their servants were very well-fed. Just one look at Matthias’s potbelly would make you believe that any of the nobles stuffed their faces morning, noon, and night, while many families sat in their houses with barely a crumb to eat.
Heat rose once again to the boy’s cheeks, but he stayed himself. There was something strange here that warranted waiting. He turned back to the man, his eyes, though very cloudy normally, seemed as if they were looking into another place entirely. The man also appeared to be in a cold sweat and he clasped tightly to his heart.
He answered an unheard response, “I see, so they are doing quite well then. That’s—” Matthias gasped, his breathing grew sporadic. “How could you do this?” he whispered just loud enough to be heard, and he hunkered over and fell to the ground.
The boy’s eyes widened. It seemed that his target had been taken out by some invisible assailant. He gingerly opened the closet door and glanced over the room. Not a soul was there. Dragging his feet to Matthias, he dropped down beside him and checked the man’s pulse. Nothing. He drew his hand back swiftly. The body had already lost all its heat as if it had already been dead for some time.
He stood up. Something weird was going on, but he had little time to think on them. It’d be best to leave before anyone came and happened to find him along with the body. He brushed his hand across his hair. At some point, his hood had fallen from its place. He returned it to its place and left with all the strength he could muster.