Chapter 6: Maliane (Part 1).

  ****

  Near Kalista, Month: 94, Year: 226.

  Beneath the dense canopy of leaves tangled overhead, the air hung heavy and wet, clinging to the skin like sweat-soaked cloth. Water gurgled softly nearby, one stream winding in from a narrow river bend, another seeping through the stone mouths of underground tunnels. The ravine was lush, almost overgrown, its thick ferns, moss-covered roots, and curtain-like vines sharply contrasting the plain highlands above.

  A dozen assassins waited in the green gloom, not with tension, but with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition. Some sharpened their hidden blades with slow, careful strokes. Others sat on rocks or roots, whispering quietly, trading dry humor or spending plans. They weren’t soldiers. They didn’t fight in wars. They slipped through cracks in manors and fortresses, disappeared into shadows, and left only silence in their wake, until the next morning, when someone failed to wake up.

  And at their center sat their commander.

  Maliane.

  Middle-aged. Haksari. Hardened by over ten thousand days of this labor. Her face bore the quiet confidence of someone who'd never needed to draw a blade unless something had gone wrong. The creases at her eyes were deep, but not lacking in concentration. As she stared into the distance, her fingers moved in muscle memory alone, dipping a cloth into poison and dragging it along the dagger’s edge, one stroke at a time.

  She didn’t speak.

  She didn’t move.

  She just remembered.

  The negotiation that had unfolded like the quick water running through this shallow river.

  She remembered every word, every breath, every pause. Everything had gone perfectly, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

  Their employer had been a Drakvari princess, an elegant, disarmingly charismatic, and sharp-looking woman. She spoke with a soft, melodic voice, her every gesture endearing and warm. She smiled often, radiantly, like someone genuinely pleased to be in the company of others. Her politeness was effortless, her confidence woven into every word. But beneath the grace and glow, Maliane recognized it: the hunger. Greed. Ambition. That taste for power that always lived behind a royal smile. Drakvari or Haksari, it made no difference. Royals and nobles were all the same.

  And yet… the princess had unsettled her in a way no man ever had.

  She had arrived in secret, followed only by a few of her warriors. She was cloaked and unadorned, her wings hidden beneath a drape of fine black silk. Maliane had almost believed the rumors were exaggerated, that this truthbound royal was merely a flying symbol rather than threat. But when the negotiations began and the princess seated herself in the privacy of the chamber, the cloth slipped aside and Maliane saw them.

  Silver-hued wings shimmered like moons, remarkably strong and radiant, and streaked with crimson patterns. Not paint. Not jewelry. Living marks, etched through her skin and every hair in it, like blood on top of the brightest moon. Maliane had faced beasts with long serrated teeth that roared inches from her face, yet none had ever made her heart seize the way those wings did.

  Maliane would’ve refused the contract under any other banner. Kingslayers didn’t live long, and she wasn’t in the habit of dying for someone else’s legacy.

  But this princess had something that prevented Maliane from leaving the room.

  She was truthbound, and offered too much gold to ignore.

  A sworn follower of Auron, the god whose blessings were entwined with truth and diligence. For such followers, a lie, especially one spoken in Auron’s name, would shatter more than trust. It would strip them of their magic, their status and their god’s favor. No princess clinging to power would risk that.

  Still, Maliane hadn’t walked into the negotiation table without precautions. She barely spoke the Drakvari tongue herself and wouldn’t stake her life on the filtered words of a palace mouthpiece. If the negotiation was going to take place at all, she would only hear the princess' words through the translation of the one person she trusted in this world.

  Selya.

  Her second-in-command. Her quietest and most reliable blade. The one constant since the beginning. Not just a comrade. A sister, perhaps, in all but blood. Maliane and Selya could read falsehood the way others read maps, through breath, tone, hesitation. If anyone could catch a lie buried beneath ritual and reverence, it was them.

  And that day, they hadn’t flinched.

  Maliane had listened through Selya’s steady translations, eyes fixed on the princess’s lips, her tone, the rhythm of her breath. She didn’t need to understand the words to feel the truth in them–and she didn't catch any lie or twisted truth. There had been no proxy. No veil of ceremony. Just the would-be traitor and the hired blades, face to face in an oath and contract too sacred for falsehood.

  The details had been laid bare with tactical precision: where the target would be, the moment she’d be alone, the path of escape. Every stone accounted for. Every guard misled. Every moment timed to a breath.

  Flawless and clean.

  And now, all that was left was to wait.

  “Boss, here it is!” one of the younger assassins called, wading knee-deep through the stream. Her voice cut through the low hum of conversation, snapping heads toward her.

  She held something aloft, small, wet, and glinting faintly in the filtered light. A toy boat, carved crudely from pale wood, its hull marked with red ink.

  Maliane straightened slightly as the young woman brought it forward. Another assassin, slightly older than Maliane, intercepted her midway, plucking the toy from her hands. A faint glow shimmered across the back of her palm, one of her sunmarks flaring as she inspected the object. Her gaze lingered on the markings, then drifted to the flow of water slipping past their boots.

  “It’s the right one,” she said, nodding. “And it definitely came from the city.”

  Selya stepped up beside Maliane, arms folded, eyes scanning the stream like she was already mapping the escape in her head.

  “That confirms it,” she said. “The tunnel’s active. The current carried the signal through, just like they said. This channel’s directly connected to the drainage system beneath the city.”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  She turned toward Maliane, her voice lower now, steady.

  “And it will be our way out.”

  A few of the assassins exchanged nods. One quietly packed away a whetstone. Another cinched her cloak. The waiting was nearly over.

  It didn’t take long for the first footsteps to reach them, soft at first, then more deliberate, crushing leaves and damp soil with steady weight. The assassins turned toward the sound, slipping into a loose semicircle as the figures emerged from the foliage.

  A group of Drakvari.

  One was a warrior, taller than any Haksari by far, with broad shoulders wrapped in armor that looked battle worn. The other seven were workers, smaller by Drakvari standards but still as tall as the assassins. They moved in silence, their expressions cautious intertwined with hesitation.

  The Drakvari group, though obviously being backed up by warriors standing on the edges of the ravine, seemed more afraid of the assassins than the assassins were of them. But the assassins were not without doubts of their own, as even an experienced assassin like Maliane, was still not used to their imposing presence.

  Drakvari warriors were massive, twice her height and many times her strength. In all her days in this world, she had never seen one struggle to carry anything.

  Until now.

  The warrior’s arms were taut with effort, her pace slowed by the weight of the chest she carried. A box, plain, rectangular, sealed with reinforced bronze corners. When she reached the clearing and set it down, it hit the mossy ground, splashing mud on Maliane’s boots and partially sinking in the ground.

  It was the kind of weight only lead… or gold… could make.

  One of the workers stepped forward and said something in the Drakvari tongue. None of the assassins responded. Only Selya moved.

  She nodded slowly, firmly, her expression unchanged.

  “They come in the princess’s name,” she said, turning to Maliane. “As promised.”

  That was all the confirmation the crew needed. Eyes darted to the chest as the Drakvari workers opened it for them to see the gold it held inside.

  The chest sat between them all, inert and gleaming faintly in the filtered light. But it wasn't theirs to take… not yet.

  If any of the assassins had, even for a moment, entertained the thought of seizing the chest and vanishing into the trees, that thought died quickly. Drakvari warriors lined the rim of the ravine, watching. Their presence alone was a warning. Trying to escape with something that heavy, under so many of these gigantic warriors gazes, would be suicide.

  One of the workers stepped forward and reached into her satchel, pulling out a collection of thick gold necklaces, one for each of them. She spoke in her native tongue, the words fluid but unfamiliar.

  Selya translated with a faint smile. “She said these are already ours. A gift from the princess.”

  The assassins exchanged amused glances as they accepted the necklaces. Each piece gleamed faintly in the jungle light, simple, elegant, and unmistakably expensive. Payment in advance… huh? Most of them slipped the gifts over their heads without hesitation. But Maliane held hers a moment longer. Jewelry wasn’t her style, especially not something that could make a sound or glint at the wrong moment. Without a word, she slipped the necklace into her pocket instead.

  Another worker lowered her pack to the driest patch of ground she could find. She unwrapped bundles of clothing, smooth and elegant, clearly tailored for Drakvari workers of the palace.

  “She says,” Selya added, “you’ll need to look like us.”

  The woman handed out the garments and began gesturing how they should be worn, layer by layer, fold by fold. There were even small pots of makeup tucked into the bundle.

  “She says to use these as well,” Selya went on. “It won’t fool anyone up close, but from a distance, in the tunnels… it should be enough.”

  The assassins nodded and began changing, laughter and dry commentary murmuring among them as they paled their skin, painted their hair silver and fastened the delicate accessories with an ease that came from long experience in becoming someone else.

  The disguises fit perfectly, and the assassins bore them without complaint. With their skin powdered pale, hair painted silver, and gold necklaces resting gently at their throats, hidden from view by the slightly strangling tunic, they looked the part. From a glance, at least.

  They climbed into the cart without a word, most of the assassins in the back, cloaked in shadows and crates, two sitting closer to the front, heads bowed. The Drakvari warrior who had carried the chest earlier now hauled the cart’s handles forward. Her pace was steady, measured, like someone used to hauling much heavier burdens. She didn’t glance back.

  The foliage thinned. Then vanished.

  They entered the underground city through a stone arch half-swallowed by roots, soil, and Drakvari warriors, but none of them bothered to inspect their cart. The air changed immediately, cooler, but thicker somehow. Older.

  The walls were not merely carved but etched with design, spirals, glyphs, scenes of winged figures kneeling before thrones or gods or each other. The little light there was, came from bioluminescent fungi embedded in the ceiling and the walls.

  None of the assassins spoke at first, but eyes flicked and widened.

  “Goddess,” someone whispered in Haksari, low enough to vanish under the rumble of the cart wheels. “We’re probably some of the few Haksari to set foot this deep in a Drakvari city.”

  Another assassin leaned forward slightly, her fingers trailing along the edge of one engraved wall. “I always thought the tunnels were just functional. This is… a work of art.”

  They continued downward, the slope almost imperceptible but steady.

  Soon, the walls widened into an avenue, a vast corridor flanked by columns and illuminated by glowing sconces shaped like open wings. Statues lined either side: tall, graceful figures with inlaid eyes and detailedly sculpted hands and wings. Some had swords. Others tools. One stood with both arms raised toward the unseen sky.

  “The Street of Auron 's devotion,” Selya murmured. “It's supposed to lead straight to Auron’s temple… and the palace.”

  “And we're just rolling through,” Maliane muttered under her breath. She scanned the statues, nearly expecting one to blink, before long, they could see the palace up ahead.

  The cart slowed.

  A checkpoint loomed ahead. Half a dozen armored Drakvari warriors stationed before a tall silver-adorned gate. One of them stepped forward, raising a hand.

  The cart came to a halt.

  Inside, the assassins froze. A few let their hands drift toward their belts, fingers brushing the blades hidden beneath embroidered sleeves. Breathing slowed. Muscles tensed.

  Maliane didn’t move. She simply shifted her gaze to the narrow slat between boards, watching.

  The inspecting warrior approached. Her footsteps were slow, deliberate. Her eyes swept the length of the cart, lingering on its shadowed corners.

  For a breath, she hesitated, just long enough to matter.

  Her gaze landed on one of the assassins seated near the edge. She frowned, the slightest twitch of her brow betraying a flicker of suspicion.

  Before she could act on it, a voice rang out behind her: warm, animated, and followed quickly by a ripple of laughter.

  The hauling warrior had turned toward the others, speaking with a casual ease and wide smile. She gestured broadly with one hand, playfully thumping the side of the cart with the other as if recounting some shared memory or joke. The tension cracked just enough for the guards to lower their guard. Two of them chuckled. One shook her head with amusement.

  The inspecting warrior gave a small, reluctant smile, then rolled her eyes and stepped back, waving the cart through.

  The gate opened with a grinding hum.

  The cart rolled forward.

  They were in.

  Maliane glanced at Selya, just enough to ask without speaking. A flicker of eye contact was all it took.

  Selya’s answer came after a pause, voice barely audible over the grind of the gate behind them.

  “Some of them have renounced Auron,” she murmured. “The warriors. The workers. Some of the ones helping the princess.”

  Maliane’s brow creased. “They gave up their magic… to lie?”

  Selya nodded once. “It's easy to smuggle a lie into a city where no one expects to hear one. Most of them wouldn’t even know what lying looks like.”

  She paused, then added with a faint shake of her head, “That’s the brilliance of it.”

  Then her voice sharpened, just slightly. “But they can't lie to us. We come from a world of liars. And we’ve taken every precaution.”

  The cart creaked onward, tension easing as they moved away from the guards.

  Soon after, they were waved into a side passage.

  They stopped inside a narrow storeroom tucked just off the palace kitchens. It smelled of roots and spices. Crates of dried fruit, smoked meat, and hanging herbs lined the walls.

  “This will be our holding point,” Selya said, standing. “We won't be bothered here. For now.”

  One of the Drakvari workers knelt in the far corner and lifted a heavy iron grate. The coladera beneath it exhaled a faint dampness. She spoke in Drakvari.

  Selya translated. “This drain leads straight back to the ravine. After the event, you leave through here. The current’s too strong to enter from below, but it’ll carry you out fast.”

  The older assassin who still carried the toy boat stepped forward. Her palm shimmered faintly, her sunmark flaring once more. She lowered her hand toward the opening, brows drawn.

  She nodded.

  “She’s right,” the woman said quietly. “Same magical trace as the toy. The path leads all the way back.”

  There was a shared breath between them.

  Everything was falling into place.

  All that remained now was the event.

  As they waited in the dim storeroom tucked behind the palace kitchens, time began to stretch.

  They passed the hours the way assassins always did when they couldn’t sharpen blades, pace, or brew poisons, talking in low voices, murmuring half-jokes and odd observations.

  The youngest of them sat cross-legged beside a crate of dried fruit, chewing slowly.

  “If they’re all daughters of Queen Kalista,” she asked casually, “doesn’t that mean… they’re all princesses?”

  A few glances passed between the women, amused, curious.

  “Don’t use Haksari logic on Drakvari,” Maliane muttered with a half-smirk and an almost-joking tone.

  Selya leaned against the wall, folding her arms. “They call the ones who grow wings ‘princesses.’ That’s basically it.”

  “That’s weird,” the young one said.

  “It’s Drakvari,” Selya replied, smirking faintly. “We probably seem just as weird to them.”

  She reached for a small pot of dried roots and idly split one apart between her fingers. “Today’s event, for example. it’s a recognition ceremony. The newest princess must’ve shown her wings recently. Probably still a child.”

  Another assassin signed dryly, “They say Queen Kalista has had several thousands of babies so far… I do not envy that woman.”

  “One was enough for me,” another muttered.

  The room cracked with hushed laughter, quickly muffled by glances at the door.

  The conversation drifted, whispers about the glowing murals, the bioluminescent light, the statues of their main street. The city felt alive and at ease… something that was always a good sign.

  Eventually, the quiet returned. Thicker than before.

  Selya checked the time using a small mechanism etched with glyphs. She nodded.

  “It’s close.”

  They left the others behind. Just Maliane and Selya, stepping lightly through the palace’s stone halls.

  Qilani's Campaign.

  Chapter 6: Maliane (Part 2).

  Thank you very much for taking the time to read my story.