Twelve years prior
A sudden rush of death.
That was the best way to describe the way he killed his targets. Although they might have struggled differently, or attempted valiantly to cling to their fading lives, all of their final moments were preceded with a quick, slicing of air as his katars hungrily dug into human flesh, spilling blood and bodily fluids on the ground. This woman was no different.
She had been a concubine of the king of Prontera; treated exquisitely, bathed in wine and silks before being kicked out of the palace with her unborn child. In the cruel, outside world, she was forced to resort to begging and prostitution to feed herself and her son. But his prior surveillance of the woman revealed to him that she never lost her pride and composure. He was fascinated, carefully and stealthily observing his first target that was or had been treated with royalty.
Apparently, those who had been treated with royalty died just like the rest of the filthy swine commoners. A sudden rush of death followed by a splash of red, painting the ground.
He squatted to the ground to get a closer look at the blood spilling out of woman's neck and between her fingers. The woman was still alive; she was trying valiantly to stem the flow of life gushing out of her. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water; gasping for air but only spewing out blood. Her eyes, fierce and wild, glared at his face until they grew glassy and unfocused. How pretentious.
The sound of rushing footsteps alerted him to someone's arrival. He looked at the doorway and noticed the half-breed brat of the woman's son running towards him with a dagger drawn. With nonchalant ease, the man plucked the dagger out of the boy's fist and tripped him; the boy fell face down onto the ground and slid in his mother's blood. He laid there unmoving.
The man shrugged. His client had requested that both the mother and the son be killed, but he saw no point in killing a little brat who was going to die in the harshness of the streets and poverty anyways. He had just wiped clean his katars after killing the whore; he had no desire to clean his weapons again. Nor did he want to get his gloves bloody from strangling a child who was soaking in blood. He turned to leave.
A small hand grabbed onto the heel of his boots; the man glanced down and noticed the boy grabbing onto his foot. Annoyance bubbled up inside of him; now his left boot was stained! With a growl, he shifted his hold on the dagger to a throwing grip when he noticed the boy's eyes glaring up at him.
Red irises. Full of rage and hatred, ready to kill and maul and destroy... to silence. In spite of himself, the man recoiled slightly and stepped backwards.
He chuckled. This boy would make an excellent assassin, without a doubt. Given the proper training, he could turn this child into an angel of death, a tireless machine engineered to assassinate. Yes... Richard King would make a marvelous addition to his assassins guild. But no longer would he go by that name.
Desert town Morroc, Prontera Embassy
Reinbach tightly gripped the wooden training sword by the handle, glaring at the deep brown finish. He could see some semblance of the bandages over the wound on his face. Wordlessly, he raised the sword over his head and swung; the wooden blade whooshed through the air as it sliced.
One. Two. Three. Four...
"You seem troubled." Grant was leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.
Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine...
Reinbach stopped swinging the training sword, brow furrowed in deep thought. Should I tell him that I found Daphne already? Would he tell me to leave Daphne in Morroc or order me to turn her in?
"By the way," the paladin said. "About what I wanted to talk to you about earlier,"
"What is it?" Reinbach asked. But he had a good idea of what Grant was going to bring up.
"Back then when we were engaging Volkov, after you stabbed his shoulder with your spear."
"...Ah."
"I told you to leave him to me; your job was to take out any rogues that you could handle. But you hesitated."
"I have no excuse for my actions, Sir," Reinbach said curtly. He had no desire to tell Grant about the uncontrollable rage he felt before attacking the fallen lord knight. If possible, he preferred to keep that a secret from anyone; to be buried deep within his memories and never to be brought up again.
"Why did you hesitate?" Grant asked. Reinbach froze, unable to turn around and look at the paladin in the face.
"I was angry," the knight said simply after a moment's pause.
"Because you were angry...?" the paladin repeated. "Reinbach, you were about to fight a former lord knight! If you lose sight of your focus, then you basically hand your head to him on a platter!"
"As I said, I have no excuse for my actions. I will take any punishment necessary."
"I told you before to make your own decisions as much as follow orders, but getting angry in the middle of battle will cost you your life!"
"Volkov went berserk and he's still alive," Reinbach muttered quietly.
"Volkov is a lord knight," Grant said, shaking his head. "Albeit a former one, but he has enough experience to channel it properly." The man suddenly gave a double-take after saying this. His eyes went wide as he came to a revelation. "Don't tell me... you–"
"I don't know," Reinbach admitted reluctantly. Since Grant had guessed this much, there wouldn't be much of a point in hiding it anymore. "All I know was I felt angry and wanted to kill him."
Grant gave Reinbach a long, hard stare.
"If it can be helped, don't fall prey to that state of mind again," he said after a while. "You probably know this already, but if you enter the berserk state without the experience and the ability to channel it properly, you will never be the same again. It's happened before, and the end result is always the same."
This man, Reinbach thought. More than anything, he is looking after my well-being and placing the importance of human life above the mission. I might be able to confide in him.
He turned to face Grant, throwing all caution to the wind.
"I found Daphne Trenton," he said, without any prelude. The older man seemed taken aback.
"So, what did you think of her?" the paladin asked. Now it was the knight's turn to be surprised.
"You're not going to reprimand me for failing to bring her back?" he asked in turn. "... Sir?"
"Well I just wanted to know what kind of person you thought she was," Grant replied. "But I'm also particularly interested in why you chose not to bring her here."
The knight looked down to the ground. "I first met Daphne Trenton in school," he said. "That girl I told you about while we were traveling here; it was Daphne who I was referring to."
Grant stared at him, his expression neutral.
"So why did you agree to come on this mission, knowing that you would have to turn in a friend? You knew fully well the mission's true objectives by the time we left Prontera."
The knight shook his head.
"Of course I knew. That's why I had to go; I felt as though I was one of the only ones who could persuade her to return to Prontera willingly."
"So? What did she say?"
"She's not leaving Morroc," Reinbach said vaguely.
"Is that your decision or hers?" the paladin pressed.
The knight didn't answer.
"Let me tell you something," Grant said. "The reason why I brought you to this mission is because I hoped to teach you something more important than following orders faithfully."
"Are you telling me to disobey orders, sir?" Reinbach asked.
"I'm telling you to think things through," the paladin replied. "If the Pope told you to cut off someone's head, would you do it?" Reinbach snapped his attention to Grant.
"The Pope would never do such a thing!" he exclaimed.
"Yet here we are in Morroc," the paladin crossed his arms over his chest. "Bringing in Daphne Trenton to the capital on suspicions of high treason. That is tantamount to execution."
"That's different..." Reinbach said, unsure of himself. He shut his eyes tightly and shook his head, as if to shake away unnecessary thoughts. He sounded conflicted.
"The world can never really be viewed as black and white," said Grant. "If anything, it's mostly shades of gray, and rarely the case it is solid black or white."
"I'm just a knight... All I need to do is follow orders."
"Think about what's really important to you," he continued. "You can follow your orders to the point for the rest of your life and become an excellent knight. But at that point, you will have died. You will have lost control of your own will, and become a pawn on a chess board."
The knight dropped his sword-stance to the ground, the training sword hanging loosely from his grip.
"Why don't you take today off?" Grant suggested. "Think about what choice you want to make from here on out. But don't let my words influence your decisions; this is something you have to choose on your own."
"Yes sir," Reinbach said as he saluted the paladin. The image of Daphne's face glaring stubbornly at him rose in his mind's eye; it was definitely not a face he wanted to be directed towards him. There was in fact something he wanted to do; he hoped that it would be enough to make her smile.
Morroc Desert
He was furious.
Usually, Volkov was furious at almost everything. He was furious at the politics of the Prontera Chivalry. Those prissy fools sent men after him twice a week to capture him; why not send the whole damned Chivalry and be done with it, instead of dragging it out? That way, he could enjoy the blood of battle and the songs of men screaming as they died.
Yes... the crunching of bones and fountains of blood spurting into the air; that's what excited him the most, more than money, liquor, or women. He was death incarnate, the leader of the desert wolves of Morroc, the god of war. He took a swig of the red mushroom wine in the bottle on the nightstand next to him.
He was furious at Grant Graves, the paladin who managed to bring their fight to a standstill. Twice. More than ever, he wanted to grab his Atroce Blade and slice and dice that pompous swordsman-turned-altar-boy into bits. More for the sake of his own pride rather than for the purpose of doubling his own bounty.
He'll die in due time. He would make sure of it.
He was furious at the sudden disappearance of his loot that the rogues managed to steal earlier today. Volkov had successfully pulled off his third raid that week. Spirits were high and liquor had been flowing that night; somewhere during that time interval, someone had the audacity and the nerve to steal from him. HIM! The notorious desert wolf!
But this time, Volkov was exceptionally furious. A couple of times, he caught himself slipping into the berserk state, flickering between the thin line between consciousness and frenzy. Fortunately he had somewhat passable self-control; otherwise his band of rogues would have a couple of openings in it. Whether it was the quick reflexes of the rogues around him, or the lingering consciousness that stayed his sword-hand, Volkov wasn't sure, but he was glad that he did not have to look for replacements.
That knight.
That knight, who couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen summers old. The one who stabbed him with the Zephyrus spear that he HIMSELF stole personally. He was willing to bet that those riders met up with whoever stole their loot. HE was the reason why his shoulder was currently out of commission, the reason why he was suffering now!
Oh yes, that knight will die. Reinbach, was it? His head will roll to the ground, his carcass will bake in the Morroc sun, the ravens will feed on his flesh-
Volkov's hand snatched his Atroce Blade at his side, but the former lord knight caught himself just in time. For a minute, he was stuck in that position, wrestling for dominance over his rage, then the muscles in his arm slackened. He sighed.
That was close; he almost lost control again. He felt something burning on his shoulder. As he turned his attention from his sword to his shoulder, the bandages on his right shoulder turned red. His wound had reopened. Growling, he tossed back his head and took another swig of the wine.
He was going to kill that foolish knight as soon as his shoulder healed, he swore it. Anyone audacious enough to injure him; all of them eventually died by his hand. A malicious grin grew on his face and he rubbed the scar across the bridge of his nose. Just like that high wizard, who was skilled enough to even injure his face: he repaid that by killing him. He could still remember the man's blood running down the length of his blade... Volkov drank deeply from the wine bottle, draining the red liquid into his throat greedily.
The next morning, Morroc Orphanage
On the way to the orphanage, Daphne Trenton was in an apprehensive mood, not at all looking forward to the long day ahead of her. She sighed heavily. The more Daphne thought about it, the more she regretted slapping Kristoph in the face when he was already bleeding from that horrible cut across his nose. That unpleasant memory, coupled with Argos's harrowing offer was enough to dampen her most optimistic spirits. Rachel, oblivious to her adoptive mother's unhappy mood, skipped and hummed a tune behind her, holding a new children's book.
"Momma!" Rachel tugged on Daphne's cloak. "What's that sound?"
"Hmm? What noise, Rachel?" Daphne asked. As they approached the orphanage, she was quite surprised to hear the sharp thwacking sounds of a hammer striking wood ringing out from inside the building. Her curiosity piqued, she and Rachel hurriedly strode towards the orphanage to investigate the source of the noise. A few of the orphanage's children were standing outside, peering curiously into the windows and talking excitedly. Upon Daphne and Rachel's arrival, the children jumped up and ran to her.
"Miss Daphne! Miss Daphne!" they called.
"What's going on, children?" the witch asked. One of the children pointed into the open doorway.
She peeked inside and almost dropped the bag of groceries she was carrying.
Someone had replaced the decaying, splintered floorboards of the orphanage's main room with fresh, smooth planks of wood. The visual change was such a startling difference that for a second, Daphne wondered whether she had come to the right building. Some of the other orphans were rolling around on the new floor, or running from the main room to the hallway, playing, laughing. Mrs. Reeves herself, though still sitting at her usual spot at her desk, looked mildly bewildered at the change. Daphne stepped into the orphanage, gaping at the floorboards, Rachel following closely behind her.
"Momma!" Rachel piped up. "The floorboards!" She ran to the center of the main room and did a small twirl, loosing her balance. She fell to the ground, but she was laughing.
"I know!" Daphne breathed. She set the bag of groceries on the desk were Mrs. Reeves was sitting. The old woman pointed to the kitchen doorway, mumbling quietly. The young woman followed her finger and peered inside the kitchen. The kitchen doorway had been blocked with a makeshift barricade of chairs, but Daphne figured that looking inside wouldn't hurt. She gasped and her hand flew to her mouth.
The kitchen floor too, had been renovated, but with smooth, slate gray tiles across the ground. The grout between the tiles had not yet dried, hence the reason for the chairs in the doorway. Daphne guessed that whoever did the kitchen floor had only finished a few hours ago. Whoever was causing those continuous hammer strikes on wood was still inside the orphanage.
"Who could have done this?" Daphne asked to Mrs. Reeves. The older woman pointed the hallway next, where the source of the sound was coming from. The young witch swallowed, then slowly walked to the hallway into the first room.
The first room was only half-finished – the old floorboards had already been ripped out from the floor, but the new wooden planks covered about half of the ground inside the room. A blonde young man with his shirt off was kneeling down over the edge of the new floor, hammering nails into the wood with his back to the doorway.
" 'Scuse me!" a boy's voice called from behind her. Daphne stepped into the room to let the boy pass; Aloys, carrying a lumpy brown cloth bag, strode into the room. "Hey! I brought more nails!"
The young man stopped hammering, then stood up to face Aloys.
"Oh good, I was running out – " He froze when he noticed Daphne.
"Kristoph..." Daphne said quietly. Reinbach opened his mouth but no words came out.
"Ah..." he managed. "Um..." The two of them stared at each other, not saying anything.
Just then, Ozworth strode into the hallway outside the doorway carrying a hefty load of more wooden planks.
"Oh!" Ozworth said. "I'll leave you two alone for a bit." He walked back outside the hallway out of sight.
"Did you do all this?" Daphne asked. Reinbach looked away.
"I – well... I was planning on finishing this room before you arrived," he said gruffly. Without notice, Daphne rushed forward and threw her arms around Reinbach.
"Oh Kristoph, Kristoph, you idiot!" she sobbed. Reinbach, who had not been expecting this, just stood still, unsure of what to do.
"H-hey," he said. "I'm all covered in sweat and sawdust." But Daphne didn't let go, only hugging Reinbach tighter.
"I don't care," she smiled up at him, after she managed to stop crying. She looked away, her red pupil eyes blinking away tears. "You went and did this after I treated you so horribly yesterday..."
"It's okay," he said, craning his head down to look at her. "Really." For a moment, they stood there looking at each other. Both of them blushed, suddenly realizing that they were hugging. Daphne let go of Reinbach's torso and stepped back.
"Ah... sorry," Reinbach said, as though he had been the one who initiated the hug.
"Idiot," Daphne laughed. "Why are you apologizing?"
"For what happened yesterday," he added quickly. Daphne shook her head, wiping her lingering tears with the hem of her cloak.
"It's okay," she said echoing what he said earlier. "Really."
"I've been thinking," Reinbach said. "And I've decided that I wouldn't take you back. Your calling seems to be here. If this place is so important to you, I'll accept that. Whoever that girl was, or that guy was, it doesn't matter to me."
"Kristoph..." Daphne breathed. Once again, they were back to looking at each other.
"GET A ROOM!" Aloys yelled. Daphne and Reinbach both jumped, startled.
"What are you saying!?" Reinbach said quickly. "A-anyways, the kitchen tile grout should be dry by now. Why don't we take a look?"
They walked out of the first room and into the main room of the orphanage. Two other young men were working on the floors as well.
"The kitchen tile didn't take too long," Reinbach admitted, walking across the main room to the kitchen. He picked up a towel and draped around his shoulders. "It wasn't that big in the first place. Ozworth and Weiss – they're two of the guys who came with me – they helped too." He gestured to the knight and crusader in the room with them; neither of them had their armor on, but they had an aura about them usually present in armored cavalry.
"Call me Olin," Ozworth said while painting varnish on one side of the floor, flashing an easy grin. His cedar brown hair was held in place with a cloth bandanna. He was wearing a simple brown tunic and trousers.
"Juniper Weiss, at your service," Weiss said formally. He was moving furniture. A white shirt adorned his frame. Some of his shoulder length black hair fell in curls around his face, but the rest was in a tie at the nape of his neck.
"I really appreciate what you are doing for this orphanage," Daphne smiled.
"Don't worry about it," said Weiss. "It was Reinbach's idea anyways. If there's anyone who deserves a thank-you, it's him," he added.
The blonde knight coughed loudly in an attempt to cover Weiss's words, but it was a vain effort.
"Stop it," he said, weakly.
"He's such a romantic, he is," Ozworth said. "Asked us to lend him a hand as soon as he got the idea. Went ahead and charged through without thinking, just like a true knight. Oh, if I were a fair maiden in distress, I would have swooned." The knight raised his hand to his forehead dramatically, placing an emphasis on the last word for extra effect. Weiss was trying valiantly not to laugh.
"That's enough, you two," Reinbach growled. "You've been around Aloys too long." Daphne couldn't help herself; she giggled at their antics.
"We can start moving furniture back into the kitchen," he called to Weiss and Ozworth. The blonde knight pulled the chair barricade out of the doorway and stepped into the kitchen.
Nightfall, Morroc Residence
"Argos," Spider whispered. He stood not to far behind him in the alleyway leading to the town square. The younger assassin stiffened and grabbed his katars on reflex. "Relax, it's me," Spider continued.
"What is it?" Argos demanded, letting go of his katar handles. "And don't sneak up on me like that."
"I got word of some men that the Pope hired. They're to bring Daphne Trenton to the capital." The two of them already knew that the Pope wanted Daphne brought to the capital, due to the public wanted ad for her capture. By silently sending in men after the wanted ad had been recalled, it would have been harder to protect her from potential captors. They would have to brace themselves now; it was uphill from here on out.
"Do you have any info on them?" asked Argos.
"Sixteen knights and crusaders, led by a paladin. I happen to know the leader, but as of right now, I don't know if we can trust him or not."
Argos vividly recalled the other teenager he encountered in the kitchen last night. If he remembered correctly, he was a blonde young male appearing to be his own age, wearing knight's armor. At the time, Argos didn't think much of him.
"...Damn it!" Argos cursed.
"Hmm?"
"I saw a knight in the orphanage yesterday talking to Daphne!"
"...Well, I just came back from checking up on Daphne myself. She's still there. Some guys were replacing the orphanage floors. They didn't look like knights or crusaders."
"I'll go check out the orphanage," Argos said. He ran straight into the alley wall opposite of him and wall jumped from wall to wall to the rooftops.
"I wouldn't worry too much if I were you," Spider called. "Those men didn't seem like they were there bring our target to Prontera."
"You can say that after we trick the Pope's men into thinking she's already dead," hissed Argos, breaking into a run.
The assassin cross watched his junior partner disappear over the rooftops, in search of the knight he encountered yesterday.
I suppose I should start looking for Grant, Spider thought. Knowing him, he's a fair man; he'll come talk to me before taking any action.
Morroc Orphanage
It was not until some hours later after Daphne first arrived at the orphanage that day did Reinbach, Ozworth and Weiss finished replacing the hallway floorboards. Many of the orphans thanked them after they finished; some didn't even wait and showed their gratitude as the three worked.
"Feels good to have contributed to the community," Ozworth said between bites of bread, as he walked out of the building.
"In the end, you took back from it," Weiss scolded, walking next to him. He eyed the bread that Ozworth had in his hand. The knight looked down at the loaf, then at Weiss.
"Want some, Juniper?" he offered.
"I decline," Weiss deadpanned. Just then, the crusader's stomach gave a rather audible growl. Ozworth snickered.
"Here's an idea," the knight said. "Why don't you and I go ahead and grab some dinner. We can leave our fellow knight in shining amor–" he coughed "–armor here to woo away at his heart's content."
"When are you going to give that up?" Reinbach sighed, burying his face into his palm.
"When are you going to tie the knot?" Ozworth shot, grinning maliciously. "Juni-poo and I going on a date; can you say that the two of you have gone on a date yet?"
"Juni-poo!?" Weiss asked, recoiling from Ozworth. The knight playfully slapped Weiss on the shoulder.
"Relax," Ozworth said. "I'm joking."
Reinbach suddenly stopped in his tracks, looking at his sides. "Oh I forgot my equipment," he said. "You two go on without me, I'll catch up."
"How convenient!" Ozworth said. "Break a leg, Romeo!" Weiss and Ozworth walked back towards the town center.
Reinbach hurriedly snuck back into the orphanage, not wanting to disturb Daphne as she served the orphans' dinner. He found his Zephyrus, along with the rest of his equipment carefully tucked in the corner of the main room. Quickly and quietly, he suited up and picked up his possessions, then made his way back outside.
Although the sun had long set, and the moon reigned high in the sky, the desert town was still warm from the lingering heat. Reinbach strode briskly along the street, his Zephyrus in hand. He didn't want to keep Ozworth and Weiss waiting long at the agreed meeting point. The nights in Morroc were known to be relatively dangerous as well; nothing like the safe and well-patrolled cobblestone streets of Prontera. Plenty of shady folk and suspicious character sulked about the Morroc slums. He was glad he was armored and holding his weapon; that alone was probably enough to chase off any prospective gangsters and thieves.
As he turned past a corner, the shadow of a figure on the rooftops was thrown into sharp relief in the moonlight, over the ground in front of Reinbach. The knight froze then whirled around. His eyes narrowed as he recognized the person looking down at him.
"Going to report to your commanding officer, dog of the Pope?" Argos asked, in an unfriendly tone. His cloak was open, revealing his assassin's uniform and both hands gripping onto icicle katars.
"I knew it," Reinbach scowled. "You weren't just a plain civilian." His fingers tightened around the Zephyrus spear shaft. "What were you doing talking to Daphne yesterday?" he demanded.
Argos didn't dignify him with an answer.
"Answer me!" Reinbach growled.
The assassin only lifted his katars.
"Fine," Reinbach said. "We'll do this your way." He hefted his spear up in response to Argos's battle stance. "I'm Kristoph Reinbach of the Prontera Chivalry!"