The dawn soldier pressed his body against the base of the obsidian tower, the carvings on the wall digging into his back, the whitewashed walls of Rayalis gleaming in the sun that sank towards the black wall. He knew that the sinking sun was an illusion generated by the magic instilled in the barrier by the forebears of the Royals, the same magic that gave them their flaming hair. He knew it would pop back up the second it disappeared over the horizon, creating a spectacular sunset, or sunrise, depending on where you looked. But he couldn't help but savour the feel of the shadows that stoked his rage, that beckoned and called to it as he threw his grappling hook over the top of the wall, letting it catch on the opposite edge. He gave it a few experimental tugs before he started to climb, hauling himself up arm over arm, the dagger on his back a second weight to bear, his white-blond hair exuding beads of sweat down his neck. When he swang a leg over the lip of the wall and heaved himself to the other side, the world seemed to shudder and spin, and he nearly tumbled off, his head spinning, only remaining on by his knee crooked on the edge as he struggled to re-orient himself. Already he could feel a weakness spreading throughout his body. And then his eyes sprang open and saw nothing. He nearly cried out, having only seen black when he shut his eyes to sleep, and even then it was reddish-black. He had never experienced blindness, but this is what he imagined it to feel like. A deep, impenetrable black that suffocated his senses, leaving him vulnerable. His resolve nearly crumbled, but the fire in his chest burnt higher, pushing and forcing to go forward, to keep going, to avenge Darius. The only thing he could see was a hazy mottled white circle slowly progressing towards the opposite horizon as he dropped to the ground, his knees groaning from the impact. His breathing quickened, hot and warm against the thick wool of his mask as his eyes slowly, so slowly, too slowly adjusted. He crouched by the base of the wall, letting the outlines of the landscape fade into view inch by inch, his pupils dilating as far as they could, straining to make out the landscape. It was still incredibly dark, but he could just make out the lines of the trees. The forest loomed forbiddingly, the tree branches reaching out to claw at the sky, the stark brutality of the forest totally contrasted to that of the Dawn Kingdom's grassy plains.

Once his eyes accustomed to the dark, he could see the faint outlines of the forest, edged in silver of moonlight, the chirping of night creatures barely audible over the ringing in his ears. He brushed his hands over the ground, thanking the Royals that his dark skin would blend with the ground, even as he wished his pale blue Dawn clothes were less conspicuous. 

He felt around for his dagger then drew it, the engraved suns gleaming in the first moonlight he had ever seen as the clouds drew back and the moon came out. It bathed the landscape in silver, giving him a little more light to see by as he cautiously ventured towards the treeline, moving in between the trunks as his training instincts kicked in. His steps were nearly soundless as he ventured deeper into the foreign landscape, the leaves crackling slightly under his feet as he made his way through the forest, towards the smell of smoke.

He'd gotten information from the Kaihoko, the best-known source of illicit goods in the Kingdom. He could get you anything under the sun: silverbell, nightbeast heads, any potion ingredient under the sun, not to mention knowledge, at extortionate prices. He'd paid a ridiculous amount, not to mention the equivalent of his arm and leg to obtain it, just to know that the Midnight General would be hunting the legendary White Stag seen near the border here. 

So he could avenge Darius. So he could die knowing that the leader of the band who killed his brother had suffered every inch he did. 
More.

His neck beaded with sweat despite the chill, soaking the back of his tunic, as he stalked through the trees, dagger gleaming cruelly like his eyes, the name Vulcan, his name, etched into the hilt. It was common knowledge that Midnight people only needed fire for warmth, as the moonlight was plenty enough light for them to see. But it gave him an advantage. He could use it. Maybe set their tents on fire. The more dead, the better. He snuck closer, heart beating wildly in time with the pounding of the relentless waves of anger and sorrow and grief against his consciousness, hoping and praying the smell of the smoke dulled his own. Hope that the deadly nightbeasts didn't get him before he finished the job that he needed to do. The forest began to fill with the silverbell flowers the further away from the barrier he got, swaying from the branches, their glow mixing with that of the bittersweet strands, pink and blue and purple all mixing in a gorgeous kaleidoscope. They tumbled around his body, the individual strands hanging to frame him against the perpetual night, the silverbell's fragrant scent washing over him. He'd only ever seen bittersweet once, in Dayschool when he was a Minor, during a history lesson where a Carrier shared the tale of how the Dawn Kingdom was made, and how. Bittersweet was incredibly rare and precious in the Dawn Kingdom, almost impossible to cultivate and grow, making the potions it contained extortionate. He almost couldn't believe that so much grew in such abundance. He almost couldn't believe a place so beautiful belonged to a race of people so evil. They'd killed Darius, so he'd kill one of them. One as important to him as his brother. Strike them as they had struck him, but harder.

He soon sighted an encampment ahead, across a small black bridge (At least, he assumed it was black since everything was either the plants or variations of black to his eyes), inlaid with silver that reflected the gentle glow of the bittersweet. His eyes adjusted yet again to the increasing wavering of the firelight as he snuck closer to where an encampment of shadowed tents was set up, the vague outlines of the packs he assumed contained their supplies barely visible. It was clear a considerable time had passed, as when he had left the Dawn Kingdom the sun had just been setting. And over here, in the Midnight Kingdom, the moon was doing just that: rising, outlining the wooden stakes that marked the border of the camp. The faint sound of snores was audible over the crackling of the slowly dying fire, the trickling of the dark brook. His dagger felt warm in his palm as he moved towards the biggest tent, straining to hear the breathing of the men as he identified the commander, the lion roaring in his chest. The one sleeping alone. He made no noise as he stalked through the tent flaps, the fabric rustling slightly.

No noise when he loomed over the sleeping commander, identifiable by the glinting silver around his neck, red clouding his vision with blood.

No noise when he plunged his dagger down, down, to pierce the chest of the general.

And then all hell broke loose.

The general choked awake, his eyes popping, breathing a wet rasp as he struggled to yank the dagger out his chest. He gave a weak cry and struggled to sit up, clawing at the dagger in his chest, his skin gleaming in the firelight streaming through the open tent as Vulcan watched impassively. Sounds of movement came soaring on the cool night breeze, colder than he was used to, as the commander struggled for breath, chest heaving as a dark stain soaked his clothes. Vulcan reached down and plucked the dagger out of his chest, making the general emit a harsh scream that broke through the rustles of the rapidly converging soldiers. He hurried now, knowing he had little time. He knelt down next to the commander's neck, positioning the knife at his trachea as he pushed down, twisting as he did so, whispering in the general's ear.

'You don't remember my brother. But I do, and now you'll remember me too. This is for him, bastard.' A gargle was the commander's only reply as Vulcan ended it, swiping across the neck with a crunch of bone and servering the head completely, the features still frozen in a death-mask of terror and agony as half-dressed soldiers burst in.
Their collective mouths gaped as they stared at the decapitated body of their commander, the bloodstained Dawn next to him, pure rage blazing on his face, clear as day. One slightly quicker-witted troop ran forward with his sword, raising it in a deadly arc and bringing it down with the force of a hammer, slamming down into Vulcan's dagger, who offset it with minute adjustments of his wrist. A dart, a whirl and slash and that brave soldier was down, his hot life bubbling out of him. Another and another fell, charging at him as he gave in to the blood lust, screaming murder as his knife sang with each swipe and parry, spilling guts onto the backpacks laying around the fire.

Soon Vulcan's clothes were more red than blue, congealing in great swaths of blood, drying to give his clothes a patchy look as the scent of burnt flesh, blood and smoke filled the clearing. The second-last soldier had run off, giving in to his fear as he watched his comrades fall around him. Vulcan let him go.

He knew it only took one to carry a message.

The bodies of the soldiers stared up with blank eyes at the forest canopy, still lit by the slowly dying fire, their limp corpses piled upon each other, each still frozen in unique death-poses as rigor mortis began to set in. Still, Vulcan fought with the last soldier, his skills matching that of his own, leaving them at a stalemate, both wounded as they continued. The knife and sword flashed in the moonlight, leaving strokes of crimson behind, glistening, as the sparring went on and on, the moon crossing overhead. His opponent wiped his purple-tinged forehead, his dark eyes narrowed in concentration as he struggled. Soon, Vulcan was panting, his energy flickering embers. And then, the soldier made a final thrust and he blocked it with his blade, flipping it to the side.
Then ramming the dagger home in his chest, letting it twist as the soldier gasped in agony next to his ear as his legs gave out and he was left to hang, the knife slicing upwards and inwards as his body weight fell on it. Vulcan smiled grimly and pushed harder, as the soldier went completely limp and slid off the edge of the knife, the blood flowing from the dark, diagonal gash already slowing as the heart stopped.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead as the grief inside him guttered, then roared in triumph, as he released a yell that shook the heavens. An idea struck him like lightning and he rushed back towards the tent, hopping over corpses, crushing blood-crusted fingers. He pushed through the ragged flaps, to where the grey eyes stared heavenward, the purple-flushed face curiously unmarred, the neck crusted with black. He reached over to pick up the severed head by its hair, cringing as the blood-clogged strands brushed over the pads of his fingers. He pushed the tip of his knife into the dead flesh, carefully carving a sun, his eyes narrowed with concentration. When he was done, he walked back outside, making for the edge of the camp. He ripped a stake out of the ground and forced the head on top, the wet crunching of bone and cartilage making him cringe. That done, he ran back toward the camp, where had His eyes watered, partially with the smell, but also the knowledge. The knowledge that he had avenged his brother overwhelming, the pain rushing back full force as tears dripped to mingle with the blood of the dead. Suddenly he became aware of the pain in his body when he moved, flashing through his blood, electric. He groaned through his teeth, but was able to ignore it, the wounds being superficial, if painful. Whilst he was examining his wounds, the sounds of panting and barely veiled animal tread reached his ears, vague forms slipping through the trees, waist-high shapes at their sides. His heart started racing again, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he dropped to the ground and began crawling towards the bridge. The one that got away must have made it and sent reinforcements. If he could make it to the bridge, he could escape.

He shuffled forward, quiet as possible, painfully aware of the figures still surrounding him, trying to catch him unawares. His knees groaned in complaint as he crawled through the dirt, attempting to keep his breathing as quiet as possible. Soon, he reached the bridge and broke into a sprint, the thunk thunk thunk of arrows hitting the railings driving him onwards, powering through the trees. Bittersweet slapped his face as he ran, chest heaving for air as he made for the wall, keeping the moon at his back. The glow of the bittersweet lessened, the night becoming blacker as he still sprinted as fast as he could, his muscles screaming at him as the sounds of pursuit pushed him faster. His body was at breaking point when he skidded to a stop at the base of the wall, nearly crashing into it as his feet dug into the mud. His rope hung over the side of the wall as he scrambled for it, bracing his boots against the side, muddying the carvings, the sounds of his pursuers propelling him upwards, faster, faster, until he tumbled over the side and the world spun, the sunlight blinding, hot, too hot, his eyes hurting.
His head span as he slumped by the base of the wall, panting, as the sun shone overhead and the grappling hook fell off the wall to land in a pile next to him.

(You may have noticed that Em uploaded this chapter on her account about two days ago...sorry about that. We were supposed to upload it at the same time but uh...there were complications. It was a bit of a struggle. Anyways, go follow Em! She wrote this first chapter. We'll be taking turns writing the chapters so next chapter will be written by me! I hope you like it! Please tell us what you think!)