Sighing, the King of Thieves gazed around the room in which resided those of the Lower-class. Grinding his teeth he ignored the loud bustling of the cool night and instead focused on the spy before him. "You are quite sure?" he asked of one of his people. The spy, who was an informant in Tusaine, moistened his lips and nodded.

George dismissed him with a wave of his hand, telling the man to rest before beginning the journey back to the Tusaine underground. He had already arranged for the man to be paid, a lot, for his intelligence. Getting to his feet, the Rogue ran his fingers through his hair distractedly, before swiftly downing his mug of ale.

Nodding to Solom, who was handing out pitchers of ale, he took the reports off his table and ascended the stairs to his room. Once assuring his room was without intruders the Rogue opened his wardrobe and withdrew a black hooded cloak. Smiling wryly, a rare sight these days, he slid his arms into the sleeves and clasped it at the front. Checking his arsenal of knives and daggers were concealed, George strode silently over to his window and opened it to reveal the growing night.

Quickly and swiftly he navigated the alleys and rooftops of his domain before waiting in the shadows for the patrols to pass. Entering through an old and rusted gate, unknown to many and most of the Palace inhabitants, George made his way through the bushes of roses and exotic flowers to come before a balcony with creeping vines climbing beyond it. Rubbing his hands, he glanced around to assure he was alone and hadn't been seen, he stole out of the shadows and clutched for the roots. Hand over hand he climbed using his upper body strength until he could use the balcony to pull himself up.

Landing softly he listened for footfalls and when he heard none he flicked open his picklock kit. The window latch was an ease and within minutes of setting foot inside the palace grounds he was inside, undetected and unseen.

His satisfaction at being amazing was fleeting as he realised what room Gary and Raoul had arranged to meet him in. Alanna's. He felt a burning where his heart was and bought his fist over it, placing an uncomfortable amount of pressure on his chest, the pain nothing compared to what was within. Closing his eyes as he drowned in pain he, with all his alert and highly refined senses, never noticed when Gary trailed Raoul into the room.

Straightening George removed his hood, though kept his arm across his chest. Raoul nodded to him and Gary smiled thinly. Coming back to his senses George look around the room, it was barren of all personal affects and the furniture all had a thin coating of dust. Gary cleared his throat and hesitantly sat on a dust coated chair, Raoul following his lead. George opted to sit casually on a desk, brushing the dust off first.

Reaching into his cloak he bought out a week worth of reports from his contacts in Tusaine and began to speak.

"I asked my people to dis- "He was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door, followed by another two and then three. The secret knock was completed by a final sharp rap before the door opened to reveal Sir Myles of Olau. George relaxed and got to his feet, moving to shake the older Knights hand.

"George Cooper, "he introduced himself politely, remembering his mother's lessons as a child. Myles smiled wearily at him and clasped his arm.

"Myles of Olau, Gary tells me you have news of Alanna?' he asked hopefully in a hushed voice.

George glanced over to the connecting door and rage briefly crossed his features. "Jonathan has moved into another room. As of now, these two rooms are not in use." Gary spoke up, jerking his head towards the Princes ex room.

George nodded and cleared his throat, "As I was saying, Sir Myles, I asked my people to discreetly inquire to the whereabouts of a red haired and purple eyed adolescent."

Myles strode forward and took the offered reports and began to hurriedly scan them. "They found her?" he asked in delight. Gary and Raoul leaned in, in anticipation.

George frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, reports tell of a lad being dragged off a gold and white mare and taken by a band of slavers."

A look of disgust crawled across George's features, "Other reports state a red haired purpled eyed youth being dragging kicking and fighting into a wagon."

Gary's eyes narrowed, "So where is she now?"

Myles looked up, 'That is where the problem lies, there are no further reports, it's as though she has vanished."

George sighed, "I have asked around and as of yet I do not know where Alanna is, though I am still looking."

Myles handed George back his reports with a nod, "You'll send word as soon as you hear anything?"

George nodded as he tucked the parchment into his cloak, "As soon as I know, you know."

"Are you holding up okay?" It was Raoul, the first words he had spoken, "I know you were good friends."

George looked at Raoul, then Gary and finally at Myles, "As well as you all are holding up, maybe better because I knew the truth and because I am doing something to find my friend."

Raoul inclined his head in confirmation and rose to his feet. "Thanks George," he said as he slowly left the room, shoulders slumped. Gary looked around the room for a moment before he too left, "It seems so...empty... without her."

George pulled over his hood and looked at Myles who slumped into a chair with a sigh. "Go, King of Thieves, you have your people to get back to." He smiled wryly and his gaze followed George as he slunk out of the window and into the night.

Queen Lianne sat poised on her throne, watching as the girls from the convent were twirled around the ballroom floor by nobles' sons. Her attention was mostly focused on her becomingly infamous son. He was thoughtlessly dancing with the Eldorne girl, Delia or something. Something liken to a frown passed briefly across the Queens face before years of etiquette schooling erased it from her features.

Her son wore a jet black suit and a lavender tie, a minor rebellion to his father and his hair was carefully brushed and his beard neatly trimmed. All in all he was the perfect model of a Prince, until he spoke or looked you in the eyes. Lianne sighed quietly and King Roald glanced over at her worriedly, he was still unsure of her health. She took his hand and smiled reassuringly at him and was rewarded with a beaming grin, a sight she hadn't seen for a long time. The band started up a slower song and a playful look came into the Queens eyes, Roald couldn't stop looking at her and when she gestured to the dance floor his smile stretched even wider.

He rose to his feet and offered her his arm. Appraising him she placed her wine glass on the table and fluidly got to her feet, accepting his arm gracefully. The nobles watched in wonder as the King and Queen descended from the dais and joined the other couples on the dance floor. Smiling happily they joined their monarchs, pleased the Queen was finally looking better and the King was looking healthier and happier.

As Lianne was swirled around the floor in her loves arms she caught occasional glimpses of her son, Jonathan. He met her gaze one time and a small smile, though it never sparked in his eyes. Then he was gone, excusing himself and claiming to be unwell. Due to her recent and lasting illness Queen Lianne begged repast and retired. Her husband was finally happy, now, to make her son happy. After Braid had assured himself and Roald that Lianne was well, just tired, she left in pursuit of her son. Asking a servant she discovered Jonathan had taken a few bottles of the strongest wine and had once again, locked himself in a storage room.

Lianne's brows puckered and she felt an unfamiliar stirring of outrage, outrage that her son dare disrespect himself, his father and her. Arriving at the storage room the servant had said the Prince retreated to, too think, she opened the door softly, concealing her presence. Entering softly, her silk slippers making a soft thump on the wood, she saw her son sitting in the corner on an old wooden chair, big enough for two. His shoulders were slumped forward and he held an empty bottle in one hand and his head in another, sobs racked his body. He never even moved when she walked over and sat softly next to him, "Jon?" she whispered as he cried. Her breath caught when he turned and looked at her, his eyes were dead. Cold and lifeless, barren and without compassion.

The rumours were true, her son may be alive in body, if not for very long with the way he was treating himself, but that was as far as life spread. He had well and truly died.

Sighing Lianne slung an arm around her sons' broad shoulders and flinched when she felt how skinny he was. Jonathan turned quickly and buried his head into her body, his breath, and tears, slowly staining her dress. The Princes sobs grew louder as the night progressed and Lianne held her son as she had once before when he was young and was afraid of the dark. Eventually he fell into a restless and dream filled slumber.

The queen made sure Jonathan was sleeping before slipping silently out of the storage room in search of Duke Gareth. She found him talking to his son and waited patiently until Gary had left before walking slowly up to the Duke. He bowed when he saw her, a smile on his face. He kissed her offered hand and politely inquired as to why she was out and about at this hour.

Lianne smiled and then grew serious, "Jonathan, I need your help." She answered softly. The Duke straightened and nodded.

"Where is he?"

The Queen sighed, "The Storeroom off the west wing."

A frown crossed the Dukes face before he led the Queen past Gray's room and to the west wing. Knocking sharply on Gary's door, Duke Gareth waited until his son opened the door. "I need you to help with Jonathan." He said swiftly as Gary bowed to the Queen, who inclined her head in response. Gary nodded and bent inside the door to get his boots and feet shod, followed behind his father as Queen Lianne led to his cousin.

Jonathan had fallen off the chair and was thrashing onto the floor, crying and pleading for forgiveness as they hovered in the doorway. Duke Gareth clenched his jaw before motioning Gary in after him. Moving to each side of the distraught prince they gripped him under the arm, his dramatic loss of weight evident as they lifted him easily to his feet. His legs were limp and his feet dragged across the floor as Gary and his father, muscles straining, carried the drunken prince to his new rooms, Queen Lianne following behind them.

The few servants they encountered watched with wide unblinking owl's eyes as they small group ghosted past. Queen Lianne skirted around Duke Gareth and opened her sons' room, lighting the various lamps and moving to close the violet curtains.

Duke Gareth and his son dragged the heir over to his bed and none to gently threw him onto it. Gary sighed and began to remove his cousin's boots. "Alanna." That single word cut through the silence. The Duke looked over to the Princes sleeping face and Gary's head snapped up. Lianne turned slowly, she already knew. "Alanna", Jonathan whined again, "I'm sorry, please?" The rest of his speech was lost and movement commenced, with the Duke removing Jonathans' coat and tie, by now thoroughly stained with the fumes of alcohol. "Alanna, wait!" the Prince cried before moaning pitifully, "I love you," he confessed.

Lianne sighed, her eyes the heaviest they had been since her illness, and looked at her sons face as he began to weep, sad drunken tears. Gary looked at Jonathan blankly as understanding dawned on is features. He now understood why Jonathan showed little or no interest in the ladies of court and suddenly felt pity for his cousin; he believed he had sent his love to her death. Gary sighed, his heart laden, due to a promise made the King of Thieves, Gary was unable to tell Jonathan about the on- going search for Alanna, or that she was, as far as he knew, alive.

Duke Gareth looked at Lianne in shock before glancing at the thrashing and distressed Prince in astonishment. And like his son, pity etched itself across his features and shadows remained in the days that he saw Jonathan softly crying to himself in a secluded corner of the Royal Garden.

Gesturing to Lord Gareth, Lianne kissed her son lightly on the forehead and then elegantly exited his room, Gareth following closely behind.

"Something needs to be done", The Queen whispered softly, her voice caging her tears.

Gareth nodded, "But what? He asked, "We don't even know if the girl is still alive let alone where she is."

An anguished scream, slightly muffled, wove its way out of Jonathan's room and Lianne quickly re-entered and flowed over to her son. Gary was leaning over the Prince, talking hurriedly to him as he clasped his shoulders to keep him still. Jonathans face was buried into his pillows, the reason his scream was muffled. Lianne stroked Jonathan's hair and whispered to him comfortingly.

Eventually his screams subsided into moans of pain and then the Prince fell into a coma deep sleep, exhaustion overcoming him.

Duke Gareth looked at his sleeping nephew and nodded to Queen Lianne. Yes, something needed to be done, Jonathan was useless like this.

As soon as dawn arose, a messenger charged out of the gates, their cloak snapping in the wind, making for the Barony of Olau.

Looking around her, the cook slowly crept out of the shadows and over to the fountain. Taking a small piece of parchment from beneath her skirts she gazed it at for a moment before looking about her once again, trying to assure herself there was no one about at this hour of the early morning, even though she felt eyes on her. Returning her gaze back to the fountain she blinked, sure it had changed.

A fierce dragon reared up from the side of the fountain. Its wings were rampant, battering fierce winds towards its opponent, who mirrored its posture, locked in mortal combat. Their claws dug into each other and their mouths were open in an endless roar of defiance. From these mouths came water, as though fire, meeting with a splash before binding together and falling into the bottom of the fountain.

Gulping the cook followed her instructions and held the scroll directly beneath the clashing water spouts. Cool water ran over the paper and down her arm, causing goose bumps to grace her skin. The water sank into the parchment and slowly the ink began to run down with the water. The ink wasn't actually ink; it was blood, taken from a chicken shortly before it was cooked.

Slowly the water running from the dragons flame turned to red and the water pooling in the fountain mirrored it. The cook shuddered, and not because of the cold. Quickly she withdrew her hand, after the water had stopped running crimson, and began to hurriedly return home, the hair on the back of her neck standing stark as she felt eyes drilling into her.

The messenger stayed still in the shadows as she brushed past him, never even noticing he was there. Straightening he slunk over to the fountain and lowered a finger into the water, removing his glove beforehand. Ripples rolled away from his skin along the sides of the concrete fountain, meeting at equal opposite ends before small waves rolled into the middle. As the waves met where the water from the dragons mouths fell, movement ceased. The dragons slowly retracted their claws from each other and sank back to their haunches their wings spread to maintain their balance.

The water swirled and slowly turned the same deep crimson as it had previously then the blood began to thicken into symbols.

ᶙ₰ᶘᶘ ᶖӜ Ӝ ᶖӜϗᶗ ӁζӜϗᶗ . ₰ᶘᶘ ӜζᶙᶘҨᵹ ϗζ ₰ϗϗҨӜɮ.

Smiling the messenger took note before another tap to the blood water and then he strode away. Under the moonlight, the blood withdrew up the fountain and into the dragon's mouths, leaving the water crystal clear. If anyone noticed, in the days to come, how the dragon's eyes turned into rubies, then so be it, they could not trace him, he was leaving this town.

Waiting until he was well hidden from any prying eyes, the messenger made his way to the rooftops, carrying a small bag with his belongings over his shoulder. Standing on the beam on top of the Temple to Mithros he spat in contempt, he bowed to no god. Securing his belongings he raised his arms and called his magic to his fingers. Green magic slowly uncoiled from within and stretched out over every inch of his skin. Smiling like a maniac the Messenger took a step forward, off the edge of the Temple and fell.

Power flooded through his veins as wind lashed at his falling form. Bringing an image to mind, the Messenger bade his body to take that form. Soft sooty black feathers began to spring from his flesh and his face began to morph into a sharp coal beak and cold un blinking eyes, like shark eyes framed by smooth shinny feathers. He remained the same size as he was as a human, arrogant enough to not care if he was seen. The Messenger flapped his wings effortlessly, magically manipulating the air with his mind to cause an updraft.

Banking he made for the sea, gliding swiftly over the houses and eventually over the sandy shore. A strong gale blew behind him and shot him across the ocean. Meeting the boundary where all the seas and oceans met he climbed into the stars before hovering above the angry waves. The portal to another realm was in the middle of every single sea, a barren area, a place where even those who worshiped the darkness feared to venture. Leagues and leagues separated the Portal from land, ships avoided this spot as it was known for its sharp rocks and the tidal pull that caused ships to be sucked into a whirlpool and disappear.

Green magic glowed on his feathers before shooting down into the clashing water. The green waves slowly spread and began to push the water back, and then he plummeted, wings clasped to his side, into the forming whirlpool. Releasing his magic he created a bubble of air around his head and waited. It didn't take long, with a roar the waters collided and the messenger/bird was sucked down deeper into the ocean.

Flapping his wings he momentarily changed into dolphin form before shooting up and leaping out of the water. As soon as he broke the water he changed back into bird form and rose into the dawn. Very few people, outside of Tahakén, knew of the portal and even fewer knew how to open and cross if safely.

Tahakén itself was even more forbidding than the waters that surrounded it. The fortress was made of the blackest marble perched upon sharp precipices with jagged rocks at its base. The walls were smooth and glassy, and black cloaked warriors marched tirelessly across ramparts. Towers stretched deep into a sinister clouds and lightening outlined great winged beasts as they glided in and out of the storm without rain.

Cawing indigently as lightning flashed right next to him, singeing his feathers, the messenger glided into decent. Landing softly his black feathers morphed back into skin and his wings and legs back to his limbs. Black tendrils of fabric climbed over his skin and his clothes formed back to how they were. His boots rang over the marble as he strode into the keep, his bag slung over his shoulder.

Slaves, bald and beaten in their shame bowed low as he passed accept on who looked about him curiously before quickly dropping to his knees. It wasn't fast enough, with a snarl the messenger kicked the slave in the face, reeling in his own power as the slave fell back with a cry. The messenger leaned down and spoke in an icy whisper, 'Your obviously new, let me offer you some advice." The slave cowered away and held his hands to his bleeding face, the messengers boots were designed to break and to cut.

"You are nothing, you are nobody, you are worthless," the messenger hissed, "You bow to me always, I am your God, I am your Master, I am your owner. "

The slave gulped and quickly nodded, looking at the floor in submission. "You obey me without question" the messenger emphasised before kicking the slave in the face once more and continuing on his path, slaves cringed even more deeply than before.

He felt a sense of satisfaction, here he was King. His "brother" had been demoted and now only he and one other was of the rank Battle Prince, the highest rank of Tahakén slaves. A personal pet of The Master.

Stopping briefly at his rooms, the Prince refreshed himself and changed his clothes, using magic of course. The Master despised it when his slaves were unclean, unless he made them unclean, naturally.

Reappraising himself in the mirror he made his way to the Masters personal quarters. Two of The Masters personal guards, not needed of course, just an accessory to his position, tensed as he approached but bared the door.

Death Walkers were difficult to describe, coming in many different forms but the main form, the form of this pair was a horrible mix of black magic and deadly creatures of various worlds, only someone with a cruel and evil mind could create such a being.

Dark shadows wound together with coal feathers for their front legs and big sharp spikes gleaming with deadly intent scattered across back legs. Clawed feet, similar to human hands stomped the marble with a ring and a puff of black smoke rippled in waves across the floor. A long scaled tail, similar to the tail of a dragon curled casually over a long horse like back and curved pincer blade smouldered in black magic at the end of the tail.

The lean powerful body stretched up and the mists wavered randomly switching between innards and flaky, almost burnt skin. Two long spines erupted violently out of elbows before contracting as the Walkers regained their control, the flesh slowly moulding back over the hole, but leaving room for the barbs to burst through again. Silky black fur covered the arms and ran up to the head where small horns jutted out of crown to neck. A sooty black beak protrudes above a cartilage beard and two long dripping fangs stick out from the beak itself. In each opposite hand they held a vicious looking mace and in the other a gleaming execution axe, held like toys in their powerful hands, these were what bared entry to The Masters chambers.

Hate radiates out of ember eyes that slowly set alight as he strode loser, and grotesque faces turned into a gruesome snarls as he stopped before them. The one on the right growled at him, a fearsome sound that sent goose bumps across his skin and he feared none but the Master, and stepped forward. A sharp bark came from the one on the left and the other slunk back, but still retained its growling.

"Vhatssssss dooo yousss vantssssss?" The dominant one hissed, its voice sounded like the whispers of death and the woeful wails of those condemned in death itself.

Gritting his teeth the Prince snapped, "I wish to talk with The Master," he had more to add though stayed his tongue, though he was confident in his own power few except The Master were aware of the power of the Death Walkers and he didn't want to risk The Master hearing his information any later then he now was.

A strange rumbling came from the throat of the weaker Death Walker before it paused, black magic misting around it like a fog as it and its companion stepped to the side and raised the axe. Feeling slightly apprehensive as he walked under the gleaming blades the Prince walked into his Masters private quarters, the ancient doors swinging open softly on well oiled hinges.

Swallowing he strode quickly into the shadows, flinching when the doors closed with a rattle. Black flames flickering hungrily in a hearth of obsidian were the only source of light in the room, apart from the various life source gems in a giant vase of crystal and gold. Jewels of icy blue, the like seen in the south of Tahakén, deep within the glaciers. Life Source gems are unique stones, created from Life itself, the Life of the creator moulded into small jewels that glowed whenever the creator was in the room.

Each lifetime was in a single stone and if someone were to obtain every stone of a person's lifetime, they could be controlled without effort, through the jewels. The Master displayed his arrogance and his power by leaving them in plain sight; anyone could just dip their hand in and take some... ultimate power. It was a seductive thought, to control The Master would mean you were The Master; the worlds would be yours...

Arrogant though he may be, The Master was no fool. The gems on show were only a few centuries of life each, never enough to guaranty control of one such as he and he was sure to have impenetrable defences guarding the vase. Also he would have hidden the more powerful gems somewhere guarded by a terrible beast and surrounded by black magic.

The Master himself lounged in a great scaled chair, the hide of one of the many dragons he had slain. Swallowing the Prince knelt on one knee in submission, his head bent. A snarl from The Master sent him to his knees and he placed his forehead on the cool floor in fear.

"It seems, Slave," The Master remarked casually, "that you no longer respect me as you used to." Gulping the Prince pressed himself even further into the floor.

"Attacking my slaves and considering controlling me!" He paused for a moment and his voice became cold, "I thought that you would have learnt that lesson before, your former brother, "he spat with disgust, "has learnt that lesson."

The Battle Prince remained silent throughout, keeping his thoughts carefully neutral and in submission. Hearing the mention of his comrade, he snarled though made no comment.

The Master caught this, as he did with everything, and look at him cruelly, "Perhaps the wrong Prince was demoted?"

His heart lurched and he yelled into the floor, "No! No Master, I am more worthy of your hand, not he!"

His fellow former Prince had been demoted in spectacular fashion, his rank striped from him, his assets broken or split among those who wanted to further themselves and he had been tortured, personally, by The Master for days without respite. As a Prince he was capable of sustaining immense amounts of pain but his screams had rung through the castle as his blood stained the cell walls.

The Master rose fluidly to his feet and drifted over to his slave, "You fear his fate?" he asked almost kindly. The Slave nodded into the marble, "Yes Master."

A look of fury crossed The Masters face, "What did you do?" he bellowed hauling the petrified slave to his feet.

"N-n- nothing Master!" He squealed, "I obeyed your every wish precisely how you ordered." The fire left The Masters eyes and with a grunt he dropped the shaken Prince.

Returning to his chair he snapped his fingers and pointed to a diamond jug. The Slave quickly leapt to his feet and ran to the table holding the drink and poured the liquid into a small frosted glass. The drink was like liquefied diamond and dipped smoothly out of the pitcher.

He swiftly gave the glass to his Master and bowed deeply as he backed away. "You have news?"

The Slave Prince bowed again, "Yes Master. A ball is to be held on the new moon of the ninth moon cycle, all nobles are "invited" and all feel "obliged" to attend."

A small smile crossed The Masters face, "That is good. All is going to plan."

Taking a small delicate sip The Masters voice lowered to a hiss, "I am displeased with you, Slave."

The Slave Prince blinked and began to perspire in fear, gulping he quickly fell to the floor in submission. "Master?" he dared to ask.

"Yes, you see I gave you strict instructions," the Slave hurriedly scanned the vault in his mind, swiftly finding his memorised instructions.

Travel to the city of...

Talk to scribe...

Find informants...

Relay all information on...

Above all remain anonymous!

Remain anonymous, the Slave swore silently.

"Yes," The Master snarled, "That particular order remains un- obeyed, why is that?"

The Slave said nothing but cowered into the floor.

"You deliberately disobeyed me!" The Master roared launching himself to his feet in fury. "I will not tolerate disobedience! You will be punished!" The walls shook with the force of his anger and the earth began to rumble. In the towers ruling arrogant in the sky slaves glanced to the windows in terror as minute missiles of water began to pummel the windows and forks of lightening lashed through the black clouds accompanied by great crashes of thunder. On the ramparts guards cried in terror as waves as black as death reared up against the stones and dragged people onto the rocks. The Master was in a rage that much was clear.

"No Master!" the Slave pleaded, "Please forgive me."

The Master waited while the Slave implored, begged and beseeched him, revelled in this feeling of ultimate power. Eventually the Slaves cries fell on deaf ears as The Masters attention began to wonder, he wondered briefly how his demoted Prince was doing before thinking on how best to negotiate the upcoming deal with the King of...

Suddenly he returned his attention to the blubbering Prince, irked that his incessant crying had interrupted his thoughts. "Go now;" he ordered absently, "you are to position yourself in the Palace to await the arrival of the assassin. And once he has completed his task you are to kill him."

The Slave halted in mid apology and a cruel gleam came into his bloodshot eyes. Finally, his brother was to die! And he would be the one to do it!

Bowing deeply, the Slave Prince scurried out of the room, hoping The Master had forgotten about his punishment.

He stopped by his rooms to replace his soiled clothes from his bag and to quickly consume a meal laid on his table. Exiting the building he stood in the courtyard, rain pouring down around him, skirting over the shield he placed over himself. Using magic he propelled himself o the tallest tower, a tower standing dangerously close to the edge of the cliff.

Smiling harshly he slung his bag over his shoulders and launched himself into the sky, inky feathers shimmering across his skin as he once again took raven form. Angling for the portal he flew towards a battle that could be his last.

Authors Note: Sorry its been so long. With end of term I just avent had the time and dont get me started about this weekend. Hopefully in the holidays Ill be able to write more :D

As always, read and review. It heartening to see that people are actually reading this :D

P.S. This hasnt been Beta Read so it will have mistakes. My badness :D

Regards, Con Dar Lioness