Young Writers Society

Chapter One

The courthouse double-doors swung open silently.

Though the sun shined merrily in the cloudless blue sky, a pall of deathly silence hung above Court Square. The stalls and open-air shops that dotted the plaza, usually crowded and merry, bustling with activity, were closed, the windows of the wood-and-stone houses overlooking the square barred, gaping holes into nothingness.

The few people that were still left bent their heads down and shuffled further away from the mahogany doors as if they were the maw of hell, feet scuffing the red bricks.

They murmured amongst themselves, anticipation crackling from person to person like static.

Then, a black clad figure strode through the entrance, pale hand resting on the pommel of his sword, hanging from the belt at his hip.

He stopped at the first of the wide, shallow steps that led up to the house and surveyed the scene in front of him, coal eyes calculating and analytical behind his cowl.

After a few seconds, a lone old woman, dressed in a shabby grey dress, stumbled forward from the shadow of the marble fountain in the center of the square, watery green eyes hesitant and afraid.

"My granddaughter," she rasped, half kneeling before the youth. "What happened to her? Where's my Emma?"

"Your granddaughter was judged and found guilty." The youth's voice was cold and stripped of all emotion - it was a voice that could issue death sentences impassively, that would carry out any orders given.

"No! Not my Emma!" The woman inched closer, eyes downcast. She tentatively reached out a trembling hand, a plaintive beg.

"Enough - out of my way." The youth tightened his grip on his sword.

"Please, you must do something," pleaded the old woman.

"This is your last warning, old crone," admonished the youth. He was getting tired of this - he had a job to do, and this wretch of a person was in his way.

The old woman looked up, and faltered when he saw those eyes, pitiless black holes above an aquiline nose. Eyes that didn't forgive, cruel eyes. Eyes that intended every threat they issued and issued them often.

"Please," she repeated, hoarsely. "There must be a mistake, my Emma would never -"

The youth's pale lips curled in a rare display of displeasure.

His sword flashed, blade black against the sun…

… And the woman's head flew back, blood spilling everywhere, staining the youth's cape and face.

Silence.

Then, a single scream rent the air.

A second woman, in her late thirties but much like the corpse that lay haphazardly on the stairs, charged forwards, eyes furious with hatred and sorrow.

"You bastard!" she screamed. "You heartless monster!"

Raising a fist, she moved as if to strike - and froze.

Eyes bulging, she painfully bent her hands to her heart, breath coming out in ragged gasps.

"Woman," the youth spat. "Don't you dare even think of attacking me. I am Zane, His Majesty's Assassin"

"So…so young," the woman coughed. "So young… to be in thrall of His Majesty's words. Empty words, traitorous words. They'll twist your mind around." She managed to sneer despite the blood being drained from her face. "But I see you're already too deeply lost in lies" Then she cried out in pain.

Zane's hand had closed to a fist, the other still clutched the pommel of his sword, which was glowing.

You will not speak out against His Majesty," Zane said, voice deadly quiet. "You will not insult His Majesty. I shall say this once."

The woman managed another hacking laugh.

"So deluded."

The laugh became a gurgle, and Zane dashed the woman against the stone steps, headfirst.

Without looking back, Zane strode forward, people flinching in terror as he passed, and bent by the fountain.

He flipped his hood back, revealing a mass of untidy white hair framing handsome -albeit in an angular way- features, and washed his face clean. After all, if he had to kill Alice, he'd have the decency to look presentable.