871 P.C, Mid Rithel (fall), Hearth-Home, Luminya.

Mordai pulled his cloak tighter around him to fend off the chill of the night air. He walked down a poorly lit side street of Hearth-Home, and behind him a dozen soft footsteps followed. His entourage hid their various weaponry in their coats and cloaks, and his spells to quiet their footfalls had kept their strange march quiet in the busy atmosphere around them. He had removed the chains that usually adorned his curled horns and kept his red tinted skin covered by gloves and other articles of clothing. 

There was no reason to stick out on a night like tonight.

After a few more minutes of walking, Mordai signaled to the men and women behind him and they stepped into an alley and out of sight. He approached the side gate of the Castle-Keep of the city with his chin high and wrapped on the door four times, with a courteous pause between each. Knock—knock, knock—knock. He heard shuffling, and after a moment a small grate opened in the door to reveal a set of gray-blue eyes with oval pupils staring back at him.

Usually, he would have been nervous about such an open conversation, but he had most of the army in his pockets, already. They believed his words as deeply as they trusted in their weapons.

"Timely," the elf said, as he closed the grate and began unlocking the sturdy door.

"I wouldn't lie about my timing when it concerns plans of this import," Mordai said, as a shiver of anticipation ran up his spine.

The gate swung open to reveal a fully armored elf, with stout shoulders and tawny brown hair cut just above the cauldrons on his shoulders. "A wise choice." The elf's expression was grim as Mordai signaled again, and his followers appeared from the shadows. As they moved through, the elf eyed them all with a look of scrutiny, as if judging their ability.

"You really question me now, Grend?" Mordai asked, as he dropped a few coins in to the elf's hand. He supposed it was not unexpected. The man was high military, after all. But poking fun was the best thing he could think to do at the moment.

"I wouldn't be letting you in, if I didn't question the way things worked in our world. This needs done, and you can do it." Grend sighed. "The guards out here won't bother you, unless you approach the main door, or show any idiocy in public view. You know where your entrance is, and after that I have nothing that can help you."

Mordai brushed his thumb across the book at his side and grinned. "I have all the help I need." It seemed to surge in response, a comforting feeling against his nerves and the chill of the evening.

With that, he strode forward and veered to the right, disappearing between the shadows on the edge of the courtyard.

The small group all approached the kitchen entrance with anticipation rising in their chests, and they watched as one guard stood before it, looking bored and as though he would rather be anywhere else.

Mordai laid one hand on the book, while his other hand pointed towards the guard before him.

The guard froze for a moment, blinked, and then dropped his weapon and strode for the front of the keep with rushed steps. Each of Mordai's followers flinched as the weapon clattered, but he paid it no mind. As soon as he was away from the torchlight, Mordai crossed the last stretch of open air to the castle, and held open the door with a smile. People had always been easy for him to charm, and now with this book he did not even need to waste his breath to do it. It was amazing what one could do with enough coin to grease the right palms.

The men behind Mordai murmured and their excitement grew as they wound their way into the castle and up a narrow set of steps. They crept through the darkened halls where only every fourth sconce was left lit to guide the servants as they worked through the night. The castle keep of Hearth-Home was a complex place. One that buzzed with life at all hours. Unless, of course, one knew the right path to follow to remain unseen and unheard.

Hearth-Home liked to boast that it was socially forward, paying its servants and even allowing them important days off. But in reality, it did not differ from any other city or castle. Servants were to be seen and never heard, whether they were paid or chained, and thus they were kept within narrow halls that only they knew.

Mordai's belt felt heavy tonight, even with only a dagger upon it. There was a weight on his shoulders, like one that many a thief surely felt when they attempted an impossible heist. But his task was not a heist, and nor was it impossible. Once again he found himself saying it simply was not murder. It was only fair. It had to be fair. That weight deadened on his shoulders, and once again he repeated to himself.

It's only fair.

The boots on his feet were enchanted to make no sound, so he strode easily down the hall, and could not help but grin when he found the ajar doorway that would lead him up several floors to the bedchambers he searched for. His thoughts turned to ponder those who had followed him here. He wondered if they would follow through with their attack on the outside walls of the castle keep, and he wondered if he even cared.

Of course he did.

They were the perfect distraction to grant him entrance, and he knew that without them—those members of the city who knew deep down that nothing was as it seemed—he would not make it nearly as far as he wanted, with his plans.

Luminya needed a change. Who, after all, would have sixteen children if they were as busy as they claimed protecting a kingdom and warding it from evils. Sixteen. Not counting the uncountable bastards laden onto tavern keepers daughters and lonely merchant's wives.

Mordai took the steps two at a time, knowing his mob would be at the gates, harrowing the guards in a matter of minutes. That weight on his shoulder turned to a buoyant feeling as he jogged, and he could not help but feel good about his plan. It was genius. Just subtle enough to be surprising, just commonplace enough to never be suspect.

Bernard Varsly sat stretched out in his chair, appearing to be intent on the guard giving a report on a group of rioters at his gate.

The man was so frantic he only pronounced every other word correctly, a grating trait that Bernard was much more lenient about since his early days. He caught the fragments; "At least fifty," and "Even the higher class," as he plucked a piece of pork from the plate before him.

Finally, the guard finished rambling and straightened his shoulders.

Bernard looked up and smiled at the man. "Be easy," he said, and he watched the guards stature relax. "Gather a contingent from the guardhouse and disperse them. Use no violence unless necessary."

"Of course, my king," the guard said, bobbing like an apple in a pool.

Bernard waved a hand, and the guards' footsteps disappeared in an echo. He sighed. Why was it so easy for them to believe he was listening? There was nothing to fear. Rioters were never commonplace, but still. Peasants with pitch forks had been no threat to him for ages. He pondered going out and speaking to the rioters himself as he finished his plate. But that seemed a very boring thing to do.

Maybe one of them would stray from the group and find themselves in the castle. Then he might have some hint of freedom from the boredom that seemed to plague him these past years. He was tired of talking, of smiling and faking his concern.

He was tired of hiding.

He knew that such hiding was wise. After all, it had given him wealth and the respect that nearly everyone in the world could covet. People looked at him as they should: with awe in their eyes. Lately, though, there had been no fear in the gaze of the masses, and that annoyed him. Awe and respect were only boring, now.

One thing still never bored him, and he smiled as he thought of his wife. He stood from the table, thanked his servant, and left the dining room to find his bedchambers, and hopefully that beautiful creature he called a mate. He might as well enjoy the finer things this form could offer him, so long as he had it.

His guards followed him, but he waived a hand and dismissed them as he came to the double doors to his bedchamber.

The bedchamber was not simply a room with a bed in it. Instead, it was a complex series of rooms. It held a small living space with ornate couches organized in a circle. A private hearth, behind a small stage for performers, usually dancers.

There was a bar stocked with the finest wines and other alcohols from every part of the world, several bookshelves filled with rare history books, a balcony that looked out over the city, with a window seat for reading on the rainiest spring days. He knew every detail of the place like he knew his own name.

Many of his guests had insisted it was a lavish place where one could live in the highest of luxury and never want to leave. But he had spent so long here that seeing it only brought the urge to be sick.

To him it was a prison.

He stripped away his coat and hung it on the ornate rack and haphazardly kicked off his boots. The finest of quality, yet still so uncomfortable to him. He cracked open the door to the bedroom, holding a candle in one hand, and let out a sad sigh as he saw that his wife was not to be seen, her shawl and boots missing from the pegs that they usually decorated. She must be out with her friends again, he thought. No matter. He could always visit one of the many ladies of the castle, and it was not like his lady wife to leave him without entertainment for the night.

No one ever refused a visit from the king when he came with an offer to warm their beds.

As he pondered who might be graced with such a visit from him, he heard a small huff of breath from the darkened corner of the room. He swung the candle around and beheld a cloaked figure brandishing a knife.

His first instinct was to laugh, but ignored it and sucked in a sharp breath, fixing his face into a frightened mask.

"Hold, my friend," Bernard said, hand shaking slightly as he regarded the form in the corner. "Perchance you put that knife away, and we could simply talk things out?" He thoughts turned sour, but he made sure anxiety coated his voice. He had been acting so long that his first response when presented with danger was now fear. What a cowardly thing this little act had converted him to. "There's no need for such violence."

Mordai blinked. There was fear in the king's eyes. He looked shaky, alarmed. Mordai tightened his grip on the bloody dagger in his hand. Such a warrior, he thought sarcastically. Though he knew he had to end this before the guards heard him. He shook his head. "I have to do this."

With that, he charged forward, and plunged his dagger into the kings sternum, or he tried to.

His dagger cut through the silk shirt the king wore, but as it touched his skin the dagger bent, folding in on itself with a screeching noise. He knew that the book he carried would have alerted him to any of the common enchantments nobles wore, that could harden skin to such a degree. He saw no such magic upon this man.

Bernard laughed, and one hand casually slapped Mordai, throwing him to the floor with the force of the blow. He tsked. "So rude."

Mordai gasped, clutching at the pain in his jaw, feeling the loose teeth there. "You're not... human. How?"

"No." More light sparked into the room, as Bernard touched the candle he held onto a candelabra beside him. Now, there was no hint of fear or unease. No hint of that kindness, as all the softness faded the second that dagger had struck him. "How what?"

"You... you have no enchantments."

"Only what I was born with."

"You're not Bernard Varsly." Mordai felt cold panic rising, as he glanced to his ruined knife.

Bernard's gaze fell from him to the prone form on the floor. A half naked woman, wrapped in a silken robe, lay with her throat slit from ear to ear.

"You killed my whore?" he asked, blinking.

"You're not the king."

"I am!"

Bernard's voice bellowed out, and it was so powerful that Mordai felt weak as the sound rushed over him. Fear pricked his heart and quickened his pulse as sweat beaded on his forehead.

Bernard stepped forward and loomed over him. His skin changed again, morphing away from the tanned skin of the king, and into glistening red scales. He snatched Mordai from the floor, one hand grasping his throat and lifting him easily, the talons upon Bernard's fingers digging points into soft flesh. "I have always been, and will always be the ruler of this kingdom."

Mordai felt the grip tighten around his throat. He kicked and struggled, unable to watch the look of mirth in the king's eyes as his vision began a strange dance, flickering white and darkening to a smokey gray. Mordai stopped struggling as soon as his hand found the small book in his pocket. As soon as his skin touched it, he felt magic pour into him. Magic so powerful it could have knocked him senseless had he not known what to expect. He willed his thoughts to focus, and as he fought to breathe, he pointed a slender finger at the creature before him.

He felt the magic in the book surge through one arm, and out the other in a painful yet pleasant way. He willed it towards purpose.

There was a flash of brilliant light as Bernard Varsly blinked out of existence. Where he had once been was nothing, save for a strange, unexplainable smell of some kind of smoke.

Mordai hit the floor with an unceremonious thump, and spit blood upon the fine rug beneath him. Whores mothers and their patrons, he thought, slamming a fist down in frustration. He had wanted a body, but he supposed he could come up with a story of a rather gory death, or a cowardly man who had fled. Either would work as long as he was careful.

The king was not dead, but he had never heard of any creature powerful enough to refute the powers of the book he held. So, in that logic, Bernard—or whoever had masqueraded as him—was gone for good.

Still, a body would have been better.

With one last look to the body of the woman on the floor, Mordai straightened, cast a small spell to hide the evidence of his injuries, and strode from the room to finish what he had started, and take his place upon the throne.