Page 2 of Shadows of the Crown

I close my eyes and imagine it’s the king’s life sputtering away in front of me, instead of Samuel. As soon as the light left his eyes, I would weave my forbidden temporal strand, taking time back a few moments so that I could watch the second he dies over, and over, again. Weaving that type of essence would ensure my death, if murdering the king didn’t first. That’s fine with me; preferable, actually. There’s nothing left for me here once I get my revenge on him. Maybe Isaiah, but he would easily live without me. He doesn’t need my protection anymore.

The muffled voices from a nearby tavern get louder—it must be later than I thought. Looking toward the rapist, I frown when I see he’s already dead, and I missed the best part. I bend to feel for a pulse, or spot any slight breathing, though there is neither. I sigh, frustrated with my wandering thoughts. I wouldn’t chance weaving my temporal strand on him, though, so I will just have to endure the disappointment.

The clamoring outside the alley increases and I stand to take my leave, almost feeling sorry for whoever finds this grotesque mess. But I’m not being paid to clean things up…I snort under my breath. I wouldn't despite being paid—Samuel’s body deserves to rot in this cold, empty place for a while.

I slip out of the alley, pulling my hood up to hide my easily identifiable hair. I’m fond of the color…it’s the same color my mother’s was, and it feels like I hold a piece of her with me. Unfortunately, no matter how much I love the silver strands, they’re very recognizable. Being the only person in the Eldorian Kingdom, in the physical realm even, with this color makes it difficult to go unnoticed anywhere I am. So I hide it most of the time, allowing myself to travel without the constant stares and whispers.

I wish I could weave my shadows everywhere, but no one alive knows that I possess the ethereal affinity. I cannot use any of those strands when others are around, because if I’m found out, I will be executed. Not only is the ethereal affinity illegal, my father told me to never report my third affinity. It’s bad enough that the kingdom knows I possess the other two, making me a useful object to the royals. But to be a universal weaver? There’s only one weaver in history who was known to possess all three affinities, and she was sacrificed to the realms for her essence.

According to the official documents, I have the living and elemental affinities, and can only weave the flora, aero, and kinetic strands from them. They've no knowledge regarding my ability to weave all the strands from each affinity, as that would also make me a big target in the eyes of the Eldorian royals.

So I keep my secret from everyone, including Isaiah, and allow the king to use me as his personal killer. He’s never met me, asthat would look bad for his reputation; but whenever he sends an assignment to the guild, he always requests the Silver Wraith to complete the job. And I do. Gladly. One day, I will use his preference for me to my advantage; it may allow me to get close enough to sink my blade into his heart.

Killing him just like he did my father.

I push the consuming thoughts away and focus on the damp stone under my silent feet. The streets are nearly empty, as expected, which is a relief for me. Being around many others has never been a comfort of mine; I prefer the darkness and solitude. My thoughts keep me company enough, and these assignments allow me to move about the city without the expectation of conversation. I can just breathe in the empty space around me and bask in the city's quiet.

I stretch my neck, attempting to coax cool air into my cloak. It’s warmer than usual this season, though it’s my fault for deciding to wear my fleece-lined leathers instead of my regular ones. I always get hot in these, and yet just like to torture myself for some reason.

The sound of clanging hooves drifts from the corner of the next street, and I immediately duck into the shadows. I’m very familiar with the sound of the royal carriages. I watch as the large horses come into view, and my brow furrows. Why would one of the members of the royal family be out at this time of night, let alone in this part of the city? The crimson red and deep gold accents contrast the otherwise white carriage, the colors clear asday even under minimal moonlight. There’s a royal guard stationed on each side of the transport, wearing their signature black slacks, with a crimson jacket and gold padding at the shoulders. Interesting, though, that their uniforms are not the usual ones you see on the guards at the castle. These are form fitting, almost like the material gives them more freedom to fight.There’s no reason they should need them out here, I think, but then shrug as I remember that people like me exist. I’m the reason they need those hideous outfits.

It's surely just the king searching the lesser essence district for someone innocent to punish. Seems to be a favorite hobby of his. My fists clench, and I force my legs to move in the opposite direction, toward the guild. Otherwise I will do something foolish from my pent up rage and ruin all the work I’ve done these last two decades.

Soon.

Chapter Two

Ariella

Warmth hits my face as I step through the front doors of the guild. It’s a large building, one of the nicest in Valoria. It’s also the largest guild in the Eldorian kingdom, next to Meridian. The guilds aren’t just for training killers; we all have different jobs here, but it’s mostly a home for those who don’t have one. They help children learn how to weave and control their essence, and teach them how to defend themselves. But the guild in each of Eldoria’s cities possesses their own group of assassins…some people call us the Weavers of Justice, as the royal guards are good for nothing more than being practice targets.

I do not think of us that way. Murdering people, even if they deserve it, shouldn’t be celebrated. The Angel would say I have no right to take lives in the first place.

But the Angel isn’t here. I am. And I’m good at what I do…I just don’t toast to completed assignments.

“Back so late, Ariella?” A familiar, nagging voice scrapes the inside of my ears, and I have to fight the nausea that rises. “What, did your target give you a hard time?”

“Shut the fuck up, Isolde.” I march in her direction, towering a few inches above her five-foot-four height. She always has a twinge of fear flicker through her upturned eyes when my full attention is on her, though she’s gotten better at hiding it. “If you mess with one of my assignments again, we’ll have a problem.” My voice is low and threatening.

She tries to smirk. “Oh yeah? And what are you going to do, Ari, kill me? Velora will have your head if you do.” A slow smile spreads across my face, and hers falters at the sight; her skin pales further, nearly matching the color of her bright hair.

“Last time I checked, Velora doesn’t run the guild. Marek does.” I tilt my head and narrow my gaze at her. “And he would reward me for being the one tofinallyrid us of the house parasite.”

She snarls in my direction, and I have the urge to remind her that this is why she isn’t the best. Why she doesn’t get chosen for things: because of her inability to control her emotions. But I internally scold myself, because that would probably be taking it too far and cause her to snap. I mean, I wasn’t lying. Marek wouldn’t be particularly upset if my blade slipped, but he would scold me for causing any more drama amongst the students. So instead of provoking her further, I turn and leave the common room.

The hallway to my dorm is dark and full of serene shadows. Thankfully, everyone besides Isolde seemsto be sleeping, so I do not run into anyone as I step into my room and tug on my umbral strand to ward the door. No one in the guild would be brainless enough to enter my room without expressed permission—which I’ve never given to a single soul—but the wards still afford me a sense of ease. Locks can be picked easily, but to recognize and undo a ward? That person would need access to the ethereal affinity, and I’m the only person I know who has it. It’s not impossible for others to possess that affinity, just very rare.

My shoulders drop, muscles relaxing as I sit on my single bed. The room itself is simple; I have a wooden dresser with large shirts for sleeping, several pairs of leathers, and a few other undergarments and active wear items. The bed is small, covered in white sheets and a gray quilt. Each dorm has a standard wooden desk and chair that matches the other furniture, in which I have a few papers on top. There is a small pile of boots and running shoes next to my door, along with a thick leather jacket for when the weather cools.

But that’s it.

I’ve never wished for anything more. My focus in life has been on essence control, physical training, and ever-changing plans that all have the same goal: kill the king. I have no need for material items, and no time to care about them. Some might say the lack of personality in my own room is depressing, but I say it’s smart. If I ever need to leave, or if I get killed, there’s nothing here that I would care to come back for. Nothing to miss.

I lie back and decide to weave excess essence, knowing I will not be able to sleep if I don’t—my body feels too jittery to even remain still for a moment. I usually choose strands that wouldn’t have any lasting effects on my surroundings, as I do not desire the questions that would be inevitable if someone spotted the damage. I tug on my kinetic strand, lifting papers from my desk and a pair of boots from the floor before spinning them around the room in opposing patterns.

Whenever I release essence, I always work on control. Most are strands I cannot practice outside of this room, so it’s important that I force years worth of training into these brief sessions.

I think of each strand as its own muscle—if I fail to work a muscle for any length of time, I lose some of its strength and my control over it. But, the spectral and temporal strands are two that I never practice with, though I'd argue those are unfortunately the most important to have control over. I shudder. Communicating with spirits of the Aether feels…wrong. Or so I tell myself as an excuse to not do it. Also, fucking with time has consequences—ones I’m not yet willing to pay. So I leave those strands alone and work on the others.

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