"Ok, I think I got it right this time."

He stood to his feet, dripping the remainder of the viper's blood into the summoning circle, careful not to splash any onto the runes adorning the border. After two failed attempts in as many days, the young mage was nearly ready to use his own blood if it meant a successful summoning. His long black robe was drenched in sweat and small spots of blood, both dried and wet. He dropped the viper's limp corpse into a small pail with the others and grabbed a cloth from behind him, first attempting to wipe the exhaustion from his face before cleaning the blood from his palms. His gaze lingered on the red sigil the back of his left hand. Two thorny vines entwined themselves around a small heart, a reminder of the inevitable battles to come.

"You won't elude me this time, Servant," he snarled.

Over the past week, Beryl Rota's home had been thrown into quite a bit of disarray. Candles gave off the only light in the small building since he had drawn the curtains closed. The rotted stench of animal carcasses seemed to emanate from the floorboards, most of all in the basement where he had attempted his previous summonings. Half-read tomes and magic scrolls were strewn about the floors and sparse furnishings. The most striking feature of the humble shack was the rows and rows of small lines of arcane scrawlings that covered the walls from ceiling to floor, repeating in a multitude of languages. The text pulsed with a soft etheric energy that seemed to pull the heat from the air, pushing in waves from top to bottom and culminating at the small metal shard at the center of the bloody circle.

The clock hanging from the wall approached 2 a.m., and Beryl stepped back to brace his body for the ritual. The prospect of finally successfully summoning a Servant gave him a small sense of relief, heavily outweighed by the stress of actually participating in a war for the Holy Grail. He did his best to bury these emotions and focus on the circle in front of him. He planted his feet, raised his left hand, and began the incantation.

Let the circle fill, fill, fill, fill, and fill.

Let it fill five times, and overflow.

Let silver and steel be the essence.

Let stone and the archduke of contracts be the foundation.

Let red be the color I pay tribute to.

Let rise a wall against the wind that shall fall.

Let the four cardinal gates close.

Let the three-forked road from the crown reaching unto the Kingdom rotate.

A chilling tempest swirled around the around, blowing loose pages of his books out of their spines. Burning red light beamed out of the seal on his hand as the mana drained out of his body, a sure sign that he had finally gotten it right. No time to celebrate, the ritual must continue.

Let shadow and blood be the foundation.

Let fall a cold blade upon this world.

Let your form be as wind and your heart as ice.

My will shall create your body,

And your sword shall form my fate.

Submit to the call of the Holy Grail.

If you would accept this will and reason, answer!

In the center of the circle, the vortex of magical energy began to form into a sphere of blinding light that rhythmically pushed waves force throughout the small room, ricocheting off the walls. Beryl grit his teeth, forcing the incantation on.

I hereby swear

I will become all that is good in Heaven,

I will destroy all that is evil in Hell.

Clad in the Holy Trinity,

Come forth with the three rings of power,

Guardian of the Holy Balance!

The mana ripped out of his body like hooks tearing the muscle from his bones. As he pushed the last pulse of magical power into the summoning circle, the sphere of light compressed into a pinpoint as its maelstrom of energy ceased. A brief moment of stillness in the room gave way to a final explosion that blasted Beryl, nearly knocking him to his feet and blinding him. All of the energy he had expended rushed over his body, trying to push through. He managed to close his eyes in time, and dropped to one knee to avoid being blown over entirely. The blast dissipated quickly, and the gusts of wind settled back into the chill draft that fell over the room.

Before him kneeled a man of middling height, a long dark coat draped over his broad shoulders. A hood covered his head, with thin strands of silver hair falling over his features. In his hand was a wide sword, its crossguard ornately decorated with carvings of angels. He lifted his bowed head, revealing his weathered face punctuated by grey-blue eyes, betraying his age.

"Servant class Assassin, High Executioner, Monsieur de Paris, Chevalier Charles-Henri Sanson de Longval. Answering your summon, has arrived."