“You have the tools, now complete the task.”
How many times has Risens taken a life? Too many to count. The King’s bloodlust for his enemies nearly trumped that of the daggers he now held. But this felt different. Or perhaps it was the King’s commands that were… off. The question repeated itself: how many times had Risens taken a life?
He closed his eyes and stepped forward, using great effort to tamp down the desires of the blade which strained to complete the gruesome action on its own accord.
The man moaned softly as he writhed on the table.
“What are you waiting for? Kill him.” Venom leaked from the man’s cursed lips.
Risens spun one of the blades into a reversed grip, but stopped inches before plunging it into the chest of the bound victim. He expected the trial was a test of his obedience, his willingness to kill at the command of his superiors, yet he stayed his hand.
With the tip of the other dagger he hooked it under the hem of the cloth that covered the man’s face. He paled as the face came into view. A violent rage exploded into searing flame within him.
Unlike the one issuing orders, whose face was a blank, emotionless slate apart from the chapped lips and mouth, the details of the other, bound and gagged on the table were clear.
It was Risens’ own face that glared back at him. Desperation settled deep into his expression.
The room’s pressure grew thick as the mouth of the figure curled into a painful snarl he knew too well. He also knew he would soon see his painful exit from the room.
Risens speed, however, beat him to the response. Fail or not, he was leaving this room. The blade he held was unfamiliar,but the distance, so close, he expected the margin of error to be small. Spinning the weapon in his palm to reverse his grip as he reared back, he snapped his arm forward and released the dagger.
It whistled, cutting air, screaming with expectation as it buried itself into the throat of the commanding figure. Throwing the other blade to the ground he turned, caring nothing about the result.
He would show himself out.
Risens was surprised that no response followed his action, that no unseen force ejected him from the chamber. With his hands clenched, he stormed into the windStep. The test had frustrated him to no end. That the effigy on the table was crafted in his image was confusing as it was infuriating. Was it a symbol for his recent betrayals or was there another statement to be made?
Reaching the other side of the portal, his feet ground to a sudden stop, his hands instinctively returning to his blades. He’d entered the separate trials of the Roost on several occasions, both on his own and by means beyond his control. Each time, they had returned him to the familiar confines of the main hall. This time, however, he found himself in another small chamber—perhaps five meters long. It was empty beyond the raven statue perched on one arm of a small wooded stand at the opposite side of the room.
A black belt hung from the other, holding a pair of scabbards.
The strength that emanated from the shrine was remarkable. It lured him forward, pulling him toward its power. The black raven tilted its head from side to side appraisingly at his approach. A step away, it hopped to the other arm of the stand closing one taloned foot around the belt that hung from the peg. The scabbards were not empty. With awkward motions, the bird shuffled to the edge, dragging the weapons with it. It stopped, looking at him and then again at the gift it now grasped in its talons.
Holding out his arm, the raven made one final move, taking to the air, and dropping the weapon belt into his hand. The moment the leather touched Risens’ skin, the searing—yet all too familiar—agony doubled him over at the waist. On either side of his abdomen, the burning signified the application of yet another Brand.
His third.
He had never dreamed of obtaining one, yet alone two. Three was entirely unheard of and yet there were still more doors to open in the roost. Would each one grant him a unique Brand?
He rose from the floor as the pain ebbed before fading in its entirety. With his free hand, he tugged up at his shirt, revealing the freshly dimpled, angry skin. On each side of his stomach, the designs mirrored each other, both unmistakeably in the minimalistic design of a raven’s claw.
Letting his shirt drop, he gazed at the bird perched once more atop the stand. It had relocated to the pole’s center, its majestic body frozen into place like stone. He nodded appreciatively as he knew it would move no more. Having completed its task, it would remain silent, a solemn reminder of the trial faced.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Risens’s anticipation grew as he turned his attention to the weapons in his hand. The belt was sturdy but plain, matching the black of the scabbards. Though they were decorated with neither gold nor jewels, he appreciated the subtle beauty of their craftsmanship. Each was rigid, and curved to complement the blade they held. The gentle bend seemed to perfectly match the form a bird’s feather—each individual barb expertly and intricately etched into the holster.
There could be no doubt these were the same blades he’d been commanded to yield in the prior room. Though he’d only held them a few times, the handles of the blades, wrapped in black feathers were intimately familiar to him. His right hand closed around the hilt, the feeling that it belonged there in his grip was potent. As he pulled it from its sheath, the undeniable sensation—the thirst for blood—was intoxicating. The steel, and decorated handle felt as if they would fly from his hand if he released them, striking down the first victim they saw.
At the bottom right corner of his vision, a symbol flared into view as he inspected the blade. So, these too, it seemed would be bound by a countdown as well. Understanding the symbols, he knew the number immediately.
So the use of the blades would be limited to thirty minutes.
What would happen when the time expired?
The remarkable urge for unfiltered savagery that he felt with the weapon in his hand seemed disparate from the trial he had just completed. His mercy, his rebuttal to unwarranted violence had proven the right course of action, yet he knew there was a greater, deeper message hidden within the task.
He had been ordered to kill. To murder without question or pause. To have done so would have amounted to killing a part of one’s self. To blindly follow, to deal death without justification, understanding, or cause would only lead to one’s demise.
If that were truly the lesson, then why did the blade possess the undeniable hunger for blood?
Strapping the belt around his waist, he exited through the windStep. The details of the Roost came into focus, confirming his expectation. As the raw emotion and unbridled excitement of the completion of the trial began to subside, he recognized just how exhausted he was. The doors and the trials contained within continued to be draining in ways that were entirely unexpected. He felt the bruises mounting, darkening on his skin from his several failed attempts. His legs and arms burned as if he had just swam the length of Sea Solace without break or respite. He pondered if he could rest here in the Roost, if he could complete another trial, though the idea again felt wrong. He doubted that the voice that demanded his loyalty would allow it.
Moving to the pedestal at the base of the shrine, he collected another morsel of foodstuff before turning his attention to the large tome nestled on its surface. Gently sliding his hand across the page, he flipped the stiff parchment to reveal the next marking beyond.
Brand of the Talon
One of the twelve key brands. To the bearer belongs The Raven Talons. May the gift of my talons bring fortune to your hunt. The Raven Talons will honor the command of the one who’s proven their worth. The blades are but extensions of his will, though their thirst for violence is something that must be tempered, moderated by experience. Further evolutions will permanently increase their duration, while feeding their desires will rejuvenate them.
Etched into the page above the script the black, simplistic images of three claws spread out wide as if in mid-strike were a perfect match to the Brands on his skin. He pulled the compact guide from his pocket. Leafing through the pages, he placed it reverently atop the larger version. While he waited, he collected another morsel of food, watching in awe as the design burned itself into the parchment. As the thin trails of smoke cleared, the page appeared as if the script had always been there. Quickly reading over the passage again, committing the words and design to memory, he stowed the book in his pocket and returned the spare candle to the pack.
He had enough food to last for a few days still wrapped carefully in the satchel and the candles would last far longer then he expected to need them—so long as he resolved to only illuminate one door at a time. The burden of the extra blades was a trivial concern, yet the thought of leaving either pair here just didn’t seem right.
The Raven Talons would stay with him as a permanent addition to his gear. They would undoubtably be noticed at some point, yet unlike the mask, his choice of arms was not something that merited question as long as his tasks were completed. There were dozens of master smiths throughout the city and surrounding towns and his personal expenses in equipment were none of the King’s concern. Though the designs of the handles were unique, he would earn nothing more than a disapproving frown—if anything.
He’d hoped to earn the skill of Dull Flight, yet he was still pleased with the path he’d unknowingly followed. He wasn’t ready to say that it was chosen for him, yet the timing and coincidence were too great to overlook as mere chance.
He knew that the light of the day would still be fading by the time he reached his quarters, yet with his report due to the King in the morning, and his current level of fatigue, a good night’s sleep was due. He’d rise early and spend some time in practice with the blades on the dummies in his training room.
He bade the watching ravens farewell as he slipped through the portal.
Unsurprisingly, the Raven’s Court was deserted when he emerged from the Shrine of the Appraiser. Of his last views of the sky before entering, Mother Raven, his cryptic guide soared out of view. Unless she was unburdened by the strictures of time, there was no way for her to have made the return flight in time having just left. A part of his mind fought with this convenient explanation.
There was much he didn’t know or understand about the ancient figure, yet it was not something he would put past her.
Risens moved through the growing shadows of the city, finding them as deserted as they’d been when he’d arrived. In the wake of the King’s brutal exhibition, the great festival grounds and market stood as if infected with a plague. There was no joy left in the fields or manicured gardens, no stomach for the sales of fine jewelry and goods.
He stopped as he reached the edge of the expansive strip of greenery marking the Exposition. Far to his right, the flock of buzzards circling high above the tournament ground threatened to spill the meager contents of his belly. Even in death, the King’s punishment endured. He had no doubt the soldiers had left Lady Myrenas’s for carrion. Lathrenon would let their beaks compete what his hands couldn’t, dismantling her to nothing but bone and sinew. An uncontrollable snarl formed beneath the Shadows Shroud.
Risens was beginning to understand the true meaning of justice, and that King Lathrenon made decisions borne of petty vengeance.