- Prologue
He licked the blood from his fingers — if there wasn't a lot of it, this was the best option. If you wiped it off with a cloth, you'd have to throw it away somewhere.
There was nobody in the back alleys — walking between the brick walls where only the moonlight shined through. He looked down at the man, now just a corpse, and mumbled to himself.
"You seemed to have recognized me, I guess I'm too famous."
One might wonder why he was talking to a corpse, but his backlit face wasn't visible from the point of view of the dead man. Of course, that didn't matter to a corpse — the face of the person who'd killed him would only prolong his nightmare.
He continued. Black clothing, black cloak — hair that was also black. All black... though his silhouette drew a clear outline even in the darkness. He was full of power and vitality... an overwhelming power that no one could stop.
Overwhelming power—
"That's right."
He nodded and affirmed as if he'd heard it from the dead man himself.
"Nobody can stop me, not while she commands it. If it is her wish, then I'll never stop—"
Those words were no longer a soliloquy but more like an incantation. An incantation that he cast on himself.
The corpse lying on the floor was an old man. An old gray-haired man in a jet black robe. He was remarkably unstained by blood, but he was definitely deceased. Even a random passerby might look at him and assume he was just some old man sleeping on the streets — even if they'd wonder why someone of such a high rank would be sleeping in some alley. A silver pendant hung from the old man's chest. The crest of a one-legged dragon entwined with a sword.
Looking down at it, the assassin continued.
"The grim reaper won't stop until the twilight of this world. Not ever..."
Then he broke off and fumbled around his chest. A chain caught in his slender hands. Again, it was a silver pendant, his own. The pendant of a dragon, which was the mark of the sorcerers of the Tower of Fang. You could see the same emblem on the metal fittings that pinned his cloak to his shoulders.
What a fool, he muttered under his breath. He let go of the pendant and lightly held his belly. Ugh... He groaned, as if he'd awoken from a dream.
"It might be because I licked up that blood, but suddenly I feel nauseous."
So, he walked away. The dead body lay at rest on the back alley and ... as he departed, he left behind one more comment.
"You're right. I am Krylancelo."
... She suddenly recalled that he'd been like a little brother to her. Or rather, students of the same class were all like family in that enemy-filled Tower.
It was nothing out of the ordinary — That's how everybody thought at the Tower of Fang. In the Tower of Fang, the pinnacle of black magic on the continent, there were thousands of black-magic sorcerers, and that was if you only included the apprentices — however, even in the same classroom 'family', they may not necessarily be allies, even if they were friends.
She closed her drowsy eyes and rested her chin on her hand, letting out a weary — or disgusted — sigh.
With that sigh, her fingers fell from her cheeks and stroked the hem of her black robe. In this Tower the jet-black robe meant a position second only to teacher. The only color that didn't permit any mistakes or hesitation, the color of perfect darkness, with no inconsistencies — but one boy she'd known had called it something else — the color of rusted steel.
In a way, it was the perfect color. For her current position.
She thought with a hint of sarcasm. She also sighed again. This time, she looked genuinely tired.
She glanced sideways as her long back hair fell over her back, and straightened her spine to encourage it. The old wooden chair that she was sitting on creaked. Oh hush, she cursed under her breath. She just wanted something to complain about.
She was getting more and more frustrated— she didn't like it. The walls without windows, the tables and their unpleasant feel, and the rough chairs that always made noise. The worst thing of all was the wall-mounted clock that was hanging in the back of the not-so-large room, with its rusted pendulum making a faint squeaking noise. Normally she wouldn't be so bothered by it, but when her surroundings were quiet, it was offensive to the senses. I wish I had someone to talk to — she thought, but unfortunately she was the only one in the room.
Frustrated, she started talking to herself.
"How long is he going to keep me waiting?"
And suddenly she was answered by someone behind her.
"... I'm sorry."
She turned her head in that direction, her eyes looking half-asleep. She spoke up even before she could confirm who was speaking.
"You know that I hate this room, so why did you let me sit here for half an hour?"
"I've actually been watching you from the doorway for a while, Tish."
"Watching me... You do such stupid things sometimes."
She — the woman called Tish, spun around, holding the back of the chair. From there, she looked up and met the gaze of a tall, stout man. His stern face made him look somewhat older, but he was really only in his mid-twenties — though she wasn't sure of his actual age. His black hair was a little longer, and tied at the nape of his neck, which was just like that man's, as was his brazen skin that didn't flinch no matter what you said. Though he'd say it was a coincidence, she had deduced that it was actually a tasteless impersonation.
What he was wearing was more or less the same color as what she wore, but with a double silver line around the edges. It was the same design as the teacher uniforms, but he was supposed to be a substitute teacher, not an actual teacher.
(Apparently, that's easy to forget... for him, especially.)
She thought. She took her eyes off of him and smiled uncomfortably. Then she waited for him to sit in front of her, then opened her mouth.
"So, did you find anything abnormal about me from your observations?"
"Nothing."
That was his whole reply. She let out a sigh of relief, and shrugged her shoulders.
"So, what do you want with me, Forte? If you think you can just say 'Nothing' after calling me here—"
"'You'll have to deal with my complaints for how long you've made me wait,' isn't that right?"
The man, Forte Packingum, answered with almost instant timing. She frowned briefly.
"How many times have I told you not to read people's minds so casually?"
"You should make use of the talent that you've acquired."
"And if I can't do that?"
"What you just thought is indeed my answer ... Yes ... you'll be like him."
For a moment she felt an unfathomable sense of frustration at the fact that Forte's expression hadn't even twitched as he said it. However, she quickly restrained herself. Instead of yelling at him, she quietly mumbled.
"Have you ever considered that too much power could destroy you?"
She saw Forte's mouth twist into a mocking smile.
"Are you talking about us? Wouldn't that be to deny the very existence of sorcery?"
"No, it wouldn't. I don't understand the point of training. I mean, I know the purpose of it. We trained in the Tower to learn how to control powerful sorcery, even at the risk of dying. To control it. Not to augment it."
"But as a result, your sorcery became so powerful that you became known as Tish — The Scream of Death, 'Keening'."
"Could you stop with these two names — Don't you think it's disrespectful, like showing off your tricks in the dressing room?"
"If this is going to work, you'll need bravado, Tish—"
"Don't call me Tish."
"Then, Leticia. I'd like to get down to business."
"Yes, please do."
She, Leticia, agreed with a dismissive wave of her hand. She'd rather the conversation end as quickly as possible, rather than waiting to hear about it.
But, to tell the truth, Leticia didn't think that it'd be a very cheerful conversation. The pendulum of the wall-mounted clock chimed. Like a dying cry being called out.
Forte Packingum, now the young head of the Childman Class of the Tower of Fang, muttered briefly in a cold voice
"He reappeared."
Table of Contents
|
| (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) |
The Usual Victim The Sudden Assassin The Melancholy Homecomer The Persistent Visitor The Night Walker The Seeker Confronted The Successor of Steel |
- Notes
- Tish's nickname, Keening, means 'to cry' or 'to weep' and refers to the traditional laments for the dead from Gaelic Celtic traditions. They were once an essential part of funeral rights, consisting of improvised songs about the deceased.
- Forte and Tish's conversation may seem hard to parse, and rather random for now. The conversation is calling out to a lot of stuff that happens later in the books, and without getting too spoilery, Forte wants Tish to be prepared for something. Tish is understandably reluctant, perhaps due to her past losses within the Tower. I believe the 'he' that he's referring to is Orphen, and not the other, who you'll be introduced to soon. As if he wants Tish to be prepared to follow their plan through to the end.