Spoiler! :
A force of soldiers marched through the Maliean capital, Ahunuan, and kept a stony silence, broken only by the metallic clang of their armor hitting the cobblestones on their way to the verify yet another report on the whereabouts of the elusive rebel leader. They ignored the waifs that begged for gold coins and, rather than leave, saw the soldiers as another source of income. Many kicked at the young ones who knew no better than to grab at their shining armor as they would any passerby in an attempt to gain sympathy and always met flesh with a satisfying cry from the victim.
Each soldier, no matter how gruff and sturdy, glanced up and studied the shadows for movement. The youngest recruits jumped at every unexplained sound and tapped the hilts of their swords. One man leaned over to his comrade and whispered in the Duritanian language with optimism that was not matched by the majority, “Maybe he won't show up this time.”
The other hissed angrily, “Shut up! Do you want to jinx it?” He fell quiet again as his comrades shushed him, as if solemn silence could save them.
Black and gold flew, making the air thrum. Complete chaos broke out as the peasants searched the roofs for a glimpse of the well known vigilante, breaking into an excited buzz of wonder, and the soldiers drew their swords with a thunderous ring.
...And then silence. Clanging echoed around the narrow street as the optimistic man fell to his knees, the wooden shaft that seemed to terrify the soldiers more than any musket buried in his throat. His eyes were bulging with terror, and blood trickled down his chin, dribbling onto his bright armor. He fell face down onto the ground.
He was here.
The archers pulled out their bows immediately and scanned the shadow covered roofs for a black figure. Some soldiers frowned at the peasants who burst into cheers but most didn't divert their attention from the measly shadows of noon, shadows that could barely veil a child, much less a full grown man.
Suddenly, four men fell with arrows buried in their back, and the soldiers moved into a protective formation, each with their back against another. Shields were drawn and placed to protect the neck and chest, his favorite target. “Come out of the shadows, coward! Face us like a true man,” the commander shouted to the shadows and waited for a reply.
A slight figure dressed in a black tunic and trousers dropped in front of the commander after moments of silence and pulled him close before he could draw his sword. The way he was held kept the soldiers from firing for fear of shooting their commander. The figure shook the commander almost playfully in a way bait is waved on a fishing line and revealed a sparkling blade of a dagger.
The commander was looking into serious, blue eyes, peering out of holes framed with whimsical lashes, belaying the laughable appearance of the mask. He went cold at the porcelain lips that smiled in a clownish, almost gruesome way. It depicted the face of a woman with pink cheeks and black hair painted in such a way to suggest it had been powdered blue. The hood of a cloak hid the criminal's hair but did nothing to shadow the horrible mask that had become a sign of terror for all Duritanians.
The offender said nothing and plunged his blade into the man's stomach. He twisted it and watched the pallor come underneath the tan of Duritanian's. “Call me a coward.” His eyes gleamed at the shock that appeared on the dying's face, pulling the blade out quickly, and let him fall to the ground in a crumpled pile. He backed away as the soldiers fumbled with their muskets.
“Shoot! Shoot, you idiots!” the commander gasped though the blood trickling from his mouth gurgled the message too much for anyone to interpret.
No man was waiting for an order though and shot at the murderer. They all waited a moment, and there was only silence.
Peasants prayed for the survival of their idol while the soldiers told themselves that he couldn't have possibly survived the volley.
An arrow flew yet again and lodged itself into yet another soldier.
The smoke cleared to relieve the suspense and revealed emptiness. He had escaped.
“That is another seven men this lawless man has done away with!” one of the soldiers finally yelled to his fellows.
The beggars quickly disappeared to spare themselves the wrath of the outraged militia and spread the news to others.
The soldier glanced at the six who had been shot down with the primitive arrows and cursed as the last arrow faded and was no more, leaving only the bloody gash and death to tell of its presence. He took command as highest ranked officer and waved toward the corpses as a signal for the men with lesser rank to carry them back to the castle to show the royal advisers.
The one who had been elected to carry the commander hesitated at the sight of so much blood and nudged him with his boot to see if any life could be awakened. He bit back a startled scream when his boot was grasped and bent down when the commander tried to speak. “What did you say, sir?”
“G-g-g,” he attempted, his eyes, filled with pain, searching the private's face desperately for realization.
“Of course, sir” he murmured and smiled gently, lying to give the poor man peace.
Darkness began to come over the commander and would not be fought. “Find...” he whispered, and his grip eased on the soldier's boot.
“Rest in peace, sir,” the man murmured and closed the corpse's eyelids. He picked him up with a slightly disgusted grunt and followed his troop to the castle.
The masked man watched from the alley shadows undetected but didn't draw an arrow. He was too young. He had promised herself she would only kill the ones responsible for Maliel's fall and was careful not to take anyone who had just reached the mandatory joining age of eighteen. He looked out on the street when the young boy had left with his victim in his arms and let a second pass for the mourning of the casualties of a revolution that had yet to truly start. He took his quiver off and counted the arrows that were clothed in black feathers with golden stripes, racing downward. Smiling, he swung it back onto his shoulder. Fifteen, as many as he had started with. He glanced around the street again to see if the soldiers had injured anyone in their rage, or if one of his arrows had missed his target and found it empty. He jogged deeper into the alley and melted into the shadows.
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