Fireheart: 1

The grand city of Corvinas, capital of Brythalon was aglow tonight. The vast fabricated landscape burned like a thousand fireflies in the night sky, as a brilliant ship floated above the skyline. This was the night of the maiden voyage of the Leviathan.

Down in cityscape, on the Grand Pavilion was a group of people loitering around, idle but excited chatter emanating from them. They were waiting, some patiently, others… not so much, but they were all waiting on the same thing: Transportation to the Leviathan.

A small airship, as elegantly decorated as the behemoth above, landed onto the pavilion, and all chatter ceased. A wooden ramp fell down and a man in the same royal crimson robes that adorned the airship stepped down. He lifted an apparatus to his throat, which amplified his voice to echo across the courtyard.

“Greetings, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the grand voyage of The Leviathan, Brythalon’s newest flagship. Now, this ship is going to be the centerpiece for crucial negotiations that will affect every country present today. However, today is not about negotiations. Today is about celebration! Celebration of you, celebration of everyone here, and celebration of historic moments, the first of those being The Leviathan’s historic maiden voyage. Most of all, however, shall I say, is… welcome aboard!” The crowd cheered as he stepped aside. A set of guards in jet black and shining armor stepped forward with scrolls in their hands. The crowd dispersed into a few general lines, as the people closest to the airship started boarding with the approval of the guards. All was going smoothly for now, and the plan was to keep that going.

Within the crowd was a man, oblivious to most, and he was trying to keep it that way. He kept his head low and his brim pointed down. He edged his way through the thicket of people, shouldering and excusing himself silently and politely. His plan clothes allowed him to blend in with the people and his surroundings, but if any of the extravagantly clothes people he passed were to pay just a fraction of a mind to him, they would immediately realize he looked absurdly out of place by his mere want to blend in on normal terms. However, they were far too fixated on the spectacle above to pay attention to some nobody wanting to have a closer look at the airship. No doubt the guards would turn him away the moment he walked up the ramp. He wanted it that way. He hoped it would stay that way. He slipped a robed hand into a hidden pocket on his pants and fished out a weathered note. In hurried and scribbled and handwriting, it held only two words: Kiv Myar. While he was a Brythalon native, he knew more Myaran than most around him. It was a simple phrase that could mean a myriad of things. One of the most common meanings for it was: For Myar.

The night sky let in the cool, fresh air through the open window to the equally dark and dank room. The smoldering remains of a blazing fire emitted a soft glow that outlined the stone fireplace around it. A single lit candle on the nightstand was the only other source of light in the room around it. It was beyond twilight when the bricks on the far corner of the room hissed, a secret corridor opening. It was always this time of night.

He crumpled the paper and shoved it back in his pocket.

The gentle flow of the crowd shifted, then slowed to a halt. He froze, keeping his head low and remaining as inconspicuous as possible. The cause for the interruption became immediately apparent as the vessel closed its ramp and lifted off, upwards to its mother ship, The Leviathan. General commotion rose as people became impatient, more and more. The tension in the air felt thick around them, and he couldn’t blame the crowd. In fact, his own nervousness on getting caught melded with the general unpleasantness in the air. There was no mention of needing to wait to board like this. The man bristled. It should be no matter, he could hear his mentor saying, expect the unexpected. And so he moved, slithering and weaving through the crowd, muttering small apologies and excuses in the Highlands accent. Once he reached the outer fold of the crowd, he found his distraction in the form of cases of fireworks set to the side of the pavilion, no doubt intended for later use. He balled his concealed hand into a fist. A nearby lamppost was his target. The ground beneath it swelled, tipping it over and it fell, right next to the fireworks. The oil splashed all over the crates as it hit the bricked road. He turned around and blended back into the crowd, his work finished. He heard the whistle before he saw anything. He took this opportunity to advance through the crowd of people. At their most complex humans were still very simple, and his profession took full advantage of that.

When the candle extinguished, his eyes shot open. He was accustomed to that by now. He wasted no time putting on clothes, his mentor had seen him in his undergarments enough times it stopped bothering either of them, although he didn’t know if his mentor was ever bothered by his clothing, at least. What his mentor was bothered about was time. Time was crucial.

And so he re-lit the candle and entered the hidden chamber, the door sealing shut behind him as if nothing had happened.

With the distraction of the light show above, he soon found himself near the front of the makeshift lines. He was close enough to ensure his entry but not enough to draw the attention or suspicion of those who had been waiting.

The airship landed, with the applause of the crowd.

He finally reached the chamber of his mentor. It was dimly lit by a half-spent fire in the fireplace.

“Come here, boy,” said a raspy voice from a chair facing the fireplace.

He did as he was told, like he had been for so many years. He stood at the back of the chair. Without looking, his mentor lifted a bony hand and he accepted it with his own. There was a note in there, with only two words written on it.

As he approached the ramp, he noticed people starting to give him stares. He ignored them, but his nervousness rose. His training didn’t prepare him for what came next.

“Listen closely, boy. For this mission, you will not act as an assassin.”

The guard motioned at him. “Remove your hood, sir.”

He stopped. “Don’t you need my name?”

“Remove your hood, please.”

He held up a disarming hand. “I will remove my hood, yes, but why not ask for my name like those before me?”

The guard hesitated. “All right, what is your name, sir?”

“Not as an assassin?”

“First, you will act as the bastard prince you were born as.”

He removed his entire cloak, revealing the hunter green colors of Brythalon royalty. “I am Prince Corrick Malair.”