Spoiler
Maliel is a country that has been taken over by the growing Durtianian Empire. The Masquerader is a masked vigilante that attacks the Durtanian army. A rebel group plans action but has yet to acutally do anything. Camden Bartolv was arrested at on of the secret meetings because there was a spy in their midst. Camden was sentenced to death and was supposed to be hanged at dawn, but the Masquerader and another ally saved the day. Now, he's hurt.
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The soldier that had been ridiculed by his fellows and given ten extra lashes for being the one to shoot the gun that had freed Camden Bartolv slunk out of the castle ground into the frigid evening, dressed in civilian clothing. Only his prominent, Duritanian nose, tan skin, and black hair made him different from the fair, Maliean peasants who were all given light pigmentation. They wore pale skin and light hair and eyes that were either blue or green. The Terribles hated them. Just like they hated the people of the east, the Condrairians were clothed in their ebony skin and golden eyes.
He walked with a slouch and kept his hands in his trouser pockets, brushing against the handle of a knife. The city was dangerous for Duritanians. Any city was dangerous to the cruel soldiers, but these white people hid a passion, a rage that was uncontested by any other race the young man had met. He darted into an alley and scanned the gloom for any attackers, before continuing into the dark.
He would be suspected as a traitor now, but she knew how to play the Terribles. She wouldn't recruit him for another month or two and then she would appear in the little room he paid an elderly inn keeper for. Tonight, he would find a bag of gold resting on his dresser with the next list of possible locations of his wife, a local of one of the countries the Empire had taken.
A fluttering in a black corner caught his eye. He revealed the shining blade of his weapon and came closer.
A cloak covered the body and shadowed the head. The soldier overcame his distaste and crouched beside the figure. He moved the torso so the poor man's back was resting, flat against the damp, cold stone of the alleyway. The hood fell back, and he gasped.
A mask leered up at him with cheeks that could have been pink with the winter and laughing, green eyes that still held a touch of cold calculation, Maliean eyes.
The soldier looked back to the entrance of the alley and picked the Masquerader up, carefully. She moaned quietly and shivered. He felt the warm, thick liquid that had soaked through her tunic and cloak and felt chilling fear. The Masquerader could not die. Maliel wouldn't have a chance... and neither would his wife.
The sun gave up the last bit of sky it had managed to hold onto and let it darken into a deep purple. The pink clouds that still reflected the light not seen were the only things that could remember its warmth. As the clouds forgot as well, the soldier put the hood back in place and moved farther into the shadows of the alley.
Ranael sighed and moved slightly in the soldier's arms.
He quickened his pace, glancing around to see if anyone was in the shadows to witness him, a Duritanian, aid the Masquerader, and whispered reassuring nothings.
...
Rostoloff smiled largely at Camden and couldn't stop. “I thought ya were dead, Camden. I thought ya would perish, and all of Maliel would be doomed. The Masquerader, 'e's nothing. All 'e does is kill a few soldiers 'ere and there. You're the true hero, Camden.”
Camden laughed and replied, “Dear God, man, get a grip on yourself. You sound like some maid with her first lover.” His dark eyes clouded, and he murmured, “I owe that man my life.”
Rostoloff sighed and went along with the forlorn mood. “Soon, 'e'll owe you his country.” He grinned again. “We've got a plan, Camden.” He chuckled loudly, as he did most everything else, and rose quickly. He opened a drawer on his desk and took out the documents he and Camden had worked on for the past month. “We have battle strategy. We have weapons. We have men. We have passion. The Duritanians don't have that. Their soldiers don't care. It's a job, a way to get their gold. They want to go home. We want our home back.”
The volume of his voice intensified with his excitement. His light blue, almost gray eyes burned with zeal for the revolution. “We don't need a masked man. 'e's little more than a coward. The peasants will forget him when we're wiping out platoons of men a day.” He scoffed at Camden's frown and slammed his palm against the rough table. “Oh, Camden. I know you've dreamt about it. Damn it, you've been seeing it through the eyes of an awake man! The Masquerader is nothing. 'e'll disappear into myth when the Terribles and the peacekeepers get too close. Ya, ya'll be in the history books. Towns'll be named after ya. Royalty from everywhere'll come to ya for advice, and ya'll be ruler here. Maliel'll flourish under yer watchful eye. That horrid royal family, the Lalreors, will be gone. The queen that gave ya such a hard time, that pushed fer yer execution'll be placed in exile. We'll be more than the power we once were. Can ya see it, Camden? Or am I talking o' nothin'? Don't ya recognize yer own vision?”
Camden was beginning to smirk at his friend's speech, paling when a sturdy knock sounded on the door. Fear, cursed fear, icy cold, raced through his veins, and he whispered, “My friend, I am a danger to you. Let me leave.”
“Nonsense! Where'd ya go? Ya'll stay here. Let me chase off the bugger.” He left his kitchen and peered out his front window.
The soldier banged on the door again and sighed in relief when the door opened. Thank God.
Rostoloff peered out of the door and blocked it with his considerable girth. “What ya want, Duritanian? I've paid m' taxes.” He studied the mass in the man's arms and frowned.
“You're a doctor, aren't you?” He held her tighter when she murmured and cried out. “I don't care about Bartolv. Keep him. Good luck to you, but take her. She's one of your kind.”
“And how d' I know this ain't some sneaky Duritanian trick.”
The soldier sighed in exasperation and shouted, despite his fears of being caught by one of his fellows in the doorway of one of the most infamous Malieans, “My God! Just take 'er! I can't take care o' 'er, and she needs a doc. She ain't no Duritanian. I promise ya, on m' wife's soul.” He roughened his own tongue with the Maliean accent to make himself a bit more familiar.
Rostoloff glanced out at the street and ran a hand over his face. “Fine. But I swear, on m' own wife's grave, that if this is a trick, ya won't live past the sunset of tomorrow. Let me see 'is face.” He sighed and shook his head. He had to take in every skinny mutt. He stared when the hood was lifted for a moment. “Bloody 'ell.”
The soldier stiffened. “I can't care for 'er, doc. I need you to take 'her.”
“Bloody 'ell,” he repeated and looked up at the soldier. “Why ain't 'e in the dungeons right now?”
He shrugged. “Call me a supporter.”
Rostoloff snorted in disbelief but held out his arms. “I suppose I can take 'im.” He took the Masquerader, shutting the door without a goodbye or a hostile comment and carried her into the kitchen.
Camden stood and barely kept his mouth closed. “What is this, Rostoloff?”
“This, old boy, is the Masquerader.”
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