I woke 48 hours ago, finding myself bleary eyed from the night's drunken stupor. Upon waking, I lifted my hands to my eyes to wipe the sleep from them only to find cold, heavy shackles hanging from my wrists. Initially, I panicked and searched my pockets for the folded piece of parchment containing the identities of last night's find. It's gone, taken along with the small knives once lining the folds of my jacket. Thankfully, I feel the familiar lumps of two knives hidden under the soles of my boots. However, the steel dagger that hung at my hip hidden underneath my pants is gone. Even my sword, perfectly balanced with a comfortable leather hilt has been relieved from my possession.

I had wracked my brain for memories fogged by drunkenness, recalling only bits. I must have incriminated myself in some way. Perhaps my displeasurable actions were connected with the childhood trauma Captain Bassek actively dredged up. I distinctly remember cracking a man's wrist, bloodying someone's- maybe two someones' noses, as well as Captain Bassek's untimely entry.

Fucking hell, I curse internally, realizing I've been a complete idiot. I knew the man was prodding me for some sort of undesirable reaction. Proof of my resentment of the king's past sins against me. Some slight reason, any reason at all to doubt my loyalty. I all but called the man Niklas in my mental haze.

I'd forced myself back to sleep for the long journey to the capital after finding myself disarmed and shackled. I now mull over the events of the days past, but also my future. The ride will be long, about a three days journey at our pace.

It has served my best interests to play King Hector's game. To do as I've been told. I have never much believed in Agni, or any god for that matter. Thus, killing wasn't much of a moral barrier for me. I know the Orders teach that morality preserves life, but I believe the opposite. You live and you die. Even the kindest souls are powerless against sharpened steel. No use worrying about the future when all that truly matters is the present. Nothing more is guaranteed.

The grim realization that my tomorrow is especially endangered causes my heart to beat rapidly in my chest and adrenaline to course through my veins. I force myself to breathe evenly and close my eyes, counting my breaths. My old master's voice reminds me,

The worst decisions are made in fear. Relax, Aedan. Think critically.

Lord Daemon wasn't the king's prized assassin for nothing; He was a master of death, yes, but also over his own mind and body. So I learn to master my own, every single day. I summon a pleasant memory— the fragrant acres of my family's vineyard in the summertime warmth. I remember my siblings vividly, their matching deep blue gaze, inherited from my mother. I spent afternoons laughing with my brother and sister, her long platinum hair flowing in a temperate breeze.Flegris summers never were scorching. That weather is reserved for the equatorial civilizations like Naidara, The Ciloco Isles, southern portions of the Zalasi continent, and I suppose the distant Cavanna would be positioned further south than north. Maps are few, but I'd laid eyes upon the king's map— just once. I'd been humbled by the vast expanse of the world.

Three men sit on a bench, supposedly guarding me, though all three are fast asleep, slouching against one another. A grin spreads across my face. I reach for my boots painstakingly slowly so as not to rattle the shackles on my hands. I carefully slide one off and free my knife. I grasp the thin blade by the handle, and artfully flick it across my knuckles then back again so it's firm in my grasp. Now for a little diversion.

"Driver! I need to relieve myself!" I holler at the top of my lungs making sure to rouse the sleeping soldiers guarding me. An answering thud on the front of the coach does nothing to dissuade me. The small knife is about the length of my middle finger, so I tuck it flat against my ring and middle finger for easy access. When he doesn't answer I call again, "Driver! It's urgent!"

"You can piss yourself for all I care, scumbag. Think you're special just because you're the king's pet demon, do ya?" He grumbles some other unintelligible words over the rattling of the wooden wheels. The steady thudding of horses' hooves on the rough terrain continues.

"Not at all. Even dogs urinate. What harm can it really do? My hands are shackled and you outnumber me."

"Just shut up will you?" One of the guards grumbles. Another has stood, leaning against the wall and using one hand against the roof for additional support.

"Well, Geoff, I could use a piss break too, to be frank with you." The standing guard tells him sheepishly. This one is younger, I sense his deference toward the other men.

"To hell with this. If anything happens it's on you, Smithy!" The coachman calls back to a party following up behind us. I hadn't counted on that. The carriage is pulling to a halt, the horses nickering at the front of the coach. Geoff and Smithy each grab me by a bicep, while the third, silent soldier standing guard watches me warily. He makes way toward opening the back of the coach for us to step out. The coachman comes around from the front, a whip in one hand, a short sword in the other. He levels it at my face as I offer him a toothy grin. That only seems to make him regret his choice even more.

"Here Geoff, I really need to pee. Take him." Smithy releases my right arm, and shoves me toward Geoff. I've managed to slip my knife into the pocket of my trousers to prevent the men seeing it. Especially the quiet man. He doesn't appear at ease, even outnumbering me. Is it possible he heard stories of Kalape? I push away the thought and allow Geoff to lead me past the trees. Smithy retreats several paces away to take care of his business. I watch out of the corner of my eyes as a small company of about ten additional men riding in another carriage arrive on site. They're filing out and standing in a semicircle around the clearing. We disappear into the trees though Geoff is careful not to go too far.

"Drop them drawers, boy," Geoff bites out in his gruff voice. "We don't have all day."

I saunter toward a bush, yanking my arm from his grasp. He's about to bite out a protest but I cut him off with a simple, "What are we, pigs? You don't need to watch me piss." The retort dies in his throat. Oh, this is going to be so easy. I hear faint conversation through the trees. I think it's the coachmen speaking to the others and remember just how outnumbered I really am.

"The general expects us to be there by sundown. He's riding ahead of us to have an audience with the king—" Ah, so that bastard is trying to fuck me over. My sour mood begins to curdle. I pretend to unbutton my trousers whilst slipping a hand into my pocket. I grasp my knife then whip around. Geoff is startled, stumbling backward. Before he can call out, I step forward jabbing him in the throat with my left fist, making the man wheeze and bend forward. He fumbles to grab my arm before I strike again, but even with the shackles, I move quickly. I dart behind him. I grab Geoff by the hair, yanking his head back. The edge of my blade is pressed firmly against his jugular and I hiss in his ear, "Do not make so much as a sound or I slit your throat."

My mind races trying to figure out what my next move is. I have to be fast, lest the others come looking for us. Do I hold him hostage and demand the keys to my shackles? He might be expendable. Do I simply make a break for it now? I won't get far with no way to break these chains. Before I can decide my next course of action, Smithy comes tumbling through the thicket, the silent one beside him. Smithy goes pale, likely at the sight of the small cut my blade has left on Geoff's skin. I stare them down, putting space between us.

"Give me the key to these shackles or this one dies." I nudge the man forward gruffly, my blade digging deeper into the already shallow cut. Smithy starts forward at Geoff's bark of pain. His eyes are narrowed at me, anger lining the etches on his face.

"Don't be stupid, Smith. He would kill us." Oh, I'd kill them either way. I flash them a wicked grin, bloodlust in my eyes as I slit Geoff's throat, whirling out of the way before the silent man's drawn sword can swipe through the air where my neck had been. I hear the body thud against the ground. Smithy calls out but I'm focused on the silent one. I have a tiny throwing knife in my hand. It will do nothing for me against a sword. So, I throw it. The blade lodges itself in the silent one's shoulder. He had turned at just the right moment or that would have been his heart.

"Lachlan!" Smithy cries out, getting to his feet, hands bloody. Lach— lets call him Lach— sends him away just as I pounce on him. I ram into his chest, knocking the two of us backward. I grab the knife from his shoulder, then twist my upper body to throw the knife at Smithy, hitting him in the thigh as he makes his escape for help. He tumbles, crying out again but gets up and keeps going. I do not have long. I'm on top of Lach, landing blow after blow to his face when he lifts his sword arm. I know what to expect, rolling my body onto that arm, pinning it. I reach over to pry his fingers from the sword but I've made a mistake. He's heavier than me, and rolls onto me as I did him. I'm trapped beneath this mammoth of a man. He bares his teeth at me, rolling again trying to yank the sword from my grasp to bring it down into my flesh. His focus thus occupied, I roam my other hand across his torso to his side and feel the familiar hilt of my own dagger. Triumphantly, I pull it free and immediately swipe the four inch blade across his side.

No sooner am I on my feet than soldiers enter the scene. They swarm me, swords drawn and pointing at my neck. I count eight in all, two having held back. Lachlan stirs, rising to his feet with a grimace of pain. Alas, he lived to tell the tale. Great. I slowly begin to raise my arms, and at the last second, I dive toward the nearest soldier's feet. Sliding across the dirt and rock , my shoulder taking the brunt of it, I swipe with my blade at the back of the man's knees. He buckles. In a crouch, I pivot on the balls of my feet, sweeping a leg out to throw another man off balance. Again, mayhem, but this time I am not entirely confident to remain unscathed. A sword bites into my bicep as I stand to my feet. I wrest a sword from the hands of the man whose knees I slashed and meet the next strike with steel. Three more men behind me, three before me. When the tip of a blade presses against my back, another on my shoulder, I know my resistance is short lived.

"Just kill him, he isn't worth the trouble," Smith bites out. He and Lachlan stay by Geoff's corpse. Lach levels a killing glare at me. I blink at him, connecting their rage to the fact I'd killed one of their comrades. I'd do it again. How I always find myself trapped in an irony, I'll never know. I've killed agents of the crown I serve, the crown I cannot despise despite its sins against me. Now I'm being brought to the feet of my king by some incessant, scheming pig.

"Come on, Smithy, you don't mean that," I say with a wink. I'd purposely used Geoff's nickname for the lad knowing it'd send him into rage. His temper wouldn't be enough of a distraction for me to free myself, but it certainly is amusing. I glance around me at the men's faces to commit them to memory should it benefit me in the future. I make mental notes of their countenance, too. They're pissed.

I'm shoved to the ground, catching myself on my hands and knees. Smith lunges forward and strikes me across the face, yelping in pain from the wound I left in his thigh. The knife remains in place, I catch the glint of steel. Smart. He won't lose much blood. Hands grab my arms and drag me through the rocky ground, I struggle to regain my footing. Lachlan and Smith have their wounds seen to. They pack the gash in Lachlan's side with torn cloth, and wrap Smith's leg as soon as the blade is removed. A mistake on their part. The blood is already soaking through the white cloth wrapping his thigh. He will bleed out before we arrive at the palace. I say nothing, my ego not allowing it. I can't have two men escaping the jaws of death on the same occasion. The king will need this reminder of my value, if all else fails.

I figured they'd bury Geoff here, but instead, four soldiers carry his body to the carriage and lay him inside. He's getting a proper Holtic incineration. They chain my ankles to the floor of the carriage this time, not taking any chances with me. It is to their own folly that Geoff is dead. They underestimated the king's baneman in the first place though certainly they've heard the stories. I suppose I deserve it after the shit I pulled, but when stars explode across my vision and my consciousness fades, I curse them all the same. Motherfuckers.