Rise of the Faceless Demon

A group of black horses pierced the thick fog of the Oesterian Forest. Iron horseshoes crushed the frozen mud. The creak of shattered ice accompanied every step. The storm wind carried sharp ice particles mixed with the scent of carcass and rusted copper. The sky above them kept rotting. The giant Red Ring radiated a dim orange light, illuminating the dying world with a rusted dusk.

Luka led the vanguard. His thick black cloak fluttered wildly, enduring the wind. His hood was pulled tight, covering the dull bandages and the mask that hid his nose down to his lower neck. His mutated right arm was hidden behind a loose leather sleeve. The scaled red flesh inside radiated a constant heat.

Vance, Lysandra, and Merrik rode in neat formation behind him. Devoid of chatter. The pure discipline of assassins.

They passed settlement ruins. Bald thatched-roof shacks stood slanted. The stench of rotting corpses clogged the nasal cavity. At the edge of frozen ditches, gaunt corpses sprawled. Living skulls crawled out from the wooden debris. Starving villagers scavenged the ice dirt, eating black pine roots. They stared at the group with sunken eyes. Those gaunt bodies shrank backward on reflex, scraping the ice dirt with their filthy nails to crawl deeper behind the wooden ruins.

Luka's chest rumbled hard. His jaw hardened. The flesh inside his gut contracted. This horror was his homeland. His kingdom.

"This is the harvest of greed, My Lord." Rhea spurred her horse closer. The lily scent from the maid's body suppressed the corpse stench in the air. "Ulric squeezed their bone marrow. Letting them eat frozen dirt to fund his mad invasion at the border. That tyrant cares not for the shattered sun. He cares only for his own territorial expansion."

Luka's left hand gripped his horse's reins. His leather glove creaked. His uncle was a plague. A disease that must be excised. Every gaunt corpse on this roadside was Ulric's sin. That justification rooted firm in Luka's head. He would use this executioner force behind him to tear the tyrant's neck. Justice demanded bloodshed.

___

Far at the foot of the limestone mountain. A filthy tavern stood slanted clinging to the cliff wall.

Wet firewood smoke billowed from a cracked stone chimney. The smell of watered-down beer, sour sweat, and cheap smoked meat filled the suffocating room. This place was no noble stopover. This was a den for stolen goods fences, defectors, and information rats.

In the darkest corner, a round wooden table brimmed with wooden chalices and piles of copper coins.

Three men sat surrounding the table. One of them was a man in a dull leather hood. His coat thick. Hiding a tough body behind it. His eyes sharp watching every movement in the tavern. He was no mere street drunkard. He was a mercenary spy working for Varan. Sniffing any movement at the southern border.

"Two silver pieces. I bet on this skull." The hooded man threw the coins to the center of the table. His voice hoarse. He held bone dice in his palm.

His opponent, a pockmarked man with yellow teeth, spat to the filthy floor. "You are too confident, rat. I heard Ulric's tax forces were just slaughtered in the northern village. No one is safe carrying silver tonight."

"To hell with the tax forces." The hooded man shook the bone dice. "As long as Varan's wheat still flows, we will not starve to death. Open your bet."

Dice thrown. Rolling striking the copper coins.

The pockmarked eyes narrowed. A filthy laugh exploded from his alcohol-reeking mouth. "Failed. Your wealth is mine today." His rough hand scooped the pile of silver and copper coins from the table's center.

The hooded man clicked his tongue. He kicked the table leg faint. Lost.

He downed the watered-down beer in his wooden chalice. The acidic fluid burned his esophagus. His gut felt full. His bladder pressed demanding release.

"Bastard. I need to piss." The hooded man rose. He pulled his coat tight, covering the short dagger hilt at his waist.

He walked, pushing through the drunkard crowd and pushing the tavern's wooden door with rusted hinges.

___

Freezing wind slapped his face. The temperature outside plummeted sharply. The Dark Sapphire Moon began replacing The Red Ring's position. Gloomy blue light illuminated the filthy snow. The man walked away from the tavern, seeking a quiet spot behind a giant pine tree. The tree trunk was a living fossil. Rough. Blackened.

He unfastened his trousers, urinating onto the frozen pine needle pile. Yellow vapor billowed, smelling of piss.

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His trained ears caught a vibration.

Not the sound of wind.

Rhythmic knocks striking ice.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The hoofbeats of warhorses. Not one or two. An entire group.

The hooded man held his breath. He immediately adjusted his clothes. His spy instinct thrashed. Devoid of routine capital patrols on a night this filthy. He ducked. His body pressed flat against the black pine trunk, merging his silhouette with the darkness of the dead trees.

From behind the thick fog, five horses emerged, moving without torches.

The riders wore pitch-black cloaks. Their formation tight. High discipline. A pure killer aura pressed the surrounding air. The spy recognized the giant silhouette with a horrific jaw in the back row. Vance. He also saw the pale woman in the gray dress. The most lethal executioner force. The Hollow Syndicate.

The spy's attention locked onto the leader figure in front.

The riding man sat firm. His cloak fluttered slashed by the blizzard. A thick mask covered his lower half face.

The wind roared feral. A fierce gust struck the group from the opposite direction.

Rustle.

The leader's black cloak hood pushed backward. Exposed.

Pale blonde hair fluttered beneath The Dark Sapphire Moon's light. The man turned his head brief toward the forest. The remaining upper half of his face exposed naked. A pair of sharp-staring eyes. Precise temple lines. And a horrific thick stitch snaking from behind the bandages on the neck up to the crown.

The spy's breath caught by force at the base of his throat. His lungs refused to work. The ice beneath his boots abruptly felt gone, leaving a void paralyzing his knee joints.

He recognized that face. That blonde hair. Those noble facial lines. Everyone in the capital had seen the grand painting of the throne heir before the bloody coup night occurred.

Prince Luka.

The spy's brain spun wild. Was the prince not dead decapitated? Was that a living corpse? Or did Prince Luka survive and now lead the most brutal mercenary assassin group on the continent?

The horse group passed by. Vanished swallowed by the snow fog toward Varan's territory border.

The spy's breath returned by force. He trembled severe. Not from the air temperature. The value of the information he had just seen could buy a small city. Or decapitate his head if he acted wrong.

He refused to return to the tavern. He ran cleaving the forest. Toward a secret watchpost atop a limestone hill.

His tough hand pulled a bone whistle from behind his neck. He blew it lacking sound. A special frequency only birds of prey could hear.

From the dark air, a brown falcon glided down. Landing on his leather arm guard. The bird's sharp talons gripped firm.

The man pulled a small piece of parchment and charcoal from his pocket. His fingers trembled as he scratched a brief cipher onto the paper.

The Hollow Syndicate moves. Led by a shadow of the past. Prince Luka lives.

He rolled the parchment fast. Inserting it into a small tube on the falcon's leg. He threw the bird into the air. The falcon flapped its wings. Shooting cleaving the blizzard. Delivering a fate-determining message toward the heart of his master's power.

___

Varan's Castle.

The private study bore a searing hot temperature. The stone fireplace blazed ferally, swallowing a dozen dried pine logs. A white bear fur carpet stretched, covering the stone floor.

Varan sat leaning in his expensive red velvet chair.

The stocky man wore layered silk clothes. Sweat dripped, soaking his collar. On his thick fingers, large jewel rings clashed against each other, producing a chiming sound. He poured red wine from a crystal decanter into his silver glass.

The sound of flapping wings landed on the balcony.

The brown falcon perched on the teakwood windowsill ledge.

Varan placed the wine glass down. He rose with a heavy motion. His stocky gut protruded, burdening his steps toward the window. His rough hand pulled the small tube from the falcon's leg.

His index fingernail twirled the ruby ring over and over as he tore the tube's seal. His filthy gesture appeared without his awareness.

Varan pulled the parchment scroll. He brought it near the fireplace. His eyes swept the charcoal scratches from his spy.

The Hollow Syndicate moves. Led by a shadow of the past. Prince Luka lives.

Time inside the room seemingly stopped.

Varan stood petrified. His breath cut off. The silver glass on the desk clinked faintly due to the subtle tremor from his hand. The fireplace's heat abruptly felt like an ice block pressed by force, piercing the base of his spine.

Prince Luka lived. That noble boy did not die when Ulric burned the palace. And now, that prince led mercenary wolves toward his territory.

Varan's breath grew heavy. His large chest heaved roughly.

His thumb twirled the ruby stone ring again. Fast. Obsessive. His mind smelled a lethal danger while simultaneously smelling an infinite field of gold. If that prince came, he came bringing fangs.

Varan walked slowly, approaching the fireplace. He reached out his ring-filled hand.

His eyes radiated a greedy, cunning calculation. He dropped the parchment onto the blazing fire.

Orange flames devoured the paper in an instant, turning the kingdom's greatest secret into black ash flying into the air. A bloody chess piece had just been moved.

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