It was a cool night, one of those peaceful ones, when the moon forgot to rise. It was precisely these nights when she felt most like herself. As though she could just be her old self again, almost like she could be alive again. An utterly foolish notion, Akiri was certain. She could never tell what exactly changed when the dark night skies decided they would keep the moon from coming out that night – but something most certainly did; she was sure of it. She paused briefly to listen to her surroundings but heard nothing of relevance. The only things she could hear were the wet sound of her soles stepping cautiously through the mud and the cries of an owl that tore through the night. The crimson grime that clung to her boots slowly mixed with the muddy soil, washing away any evidence of blood. Akiri looked in the direction of her destination. The palace loomed with its tall towers into the dark heavens; the blackened spires, imposing in their vastness, reached deep into the cloudless skies.

Fucking finally. It takes forever trekking through this godsdamned mud.

She had been trudging through the swampy grounds for what felt like an eternity, determined to get back to the castle as fast as possible, given that it was probably the closest thing she had to what the living would call home, even if it didn't feel like that sometimes. Even though the shadows could walk freely here, some people would freeze in the palace's long corridors when she passed, fearing what she might do to them for committing the crime of looking directly at her. She knew it shouldn't bother her, but it did nonetheless – on moonless nights like these, especially so, though she wasn't sure why. The others did not have such problems. Most of the still-breathing guards and inhabitants of the fortress did not dare to look at, much less speak with, her. No. They did not talk to Akiri; they only ever talked about her. With the others of her kind, like Drekarion or Vora, either on the battlefield or on other missions, she had almost no one to talk to. While her lesser brethren were, of course, always understanding and good to her, they didn't fully comprehend the differences between her existence and theirs, much to her frustration. Akiri's thoughts drifted away from the moment while she ventured on over the treacherous surface. They faded into blurred memories of her last mission, from which she was just returning. To all the chaos she had wrought in the gory mess she had left behind, all the names that would soon be rendered forgotten because of her actions. She had been sent to what they had believed to be the headquarters of an elven operation at the shores of New Vyrethia. Their informant had either lied to them or been terribly wrong in their assumption. They had been under the impression that her target location was teeming with foreign insurgents and criminals. Yet, soon after she had infiltrated the building, it had turned out to be a safe house for elven refugees.

Damned foolish elves.

Foolish indeed. Akiri had been commanded to destroy this insurgent cell and root out the stem of their operations before their vile filth could take hold and corrupt the local population. When she had realised that there were no threats, but merely those who sought asylum present, she had given them a chance to surrender. The elves, most likely disliking their chances of survival were they to submit to the Inquisition, decided they had probably better odds trying to fight her. They, young and old alike, had come at her, brandishing whatever makeshift weapon they could find. They had fallen to her like flies. She had lacerated and torn through all of them. How she had stood in the midst of the fallen, artfully arranged in an ingenious display of bodies and gore, as if they had all partaken in a theatrical play, with her bloodied blades in the leading role. Her blades. They had not spared a single one of the elves. Every cut Eidra had made sang a melody that was ended abruptly by the eerie silence that followed each puncture of Leth. Every fight was an orchestral masterpiece, though almost none could hear it. No, this was the kind of composition intended for her ears and those of the master only. Only they could hear the faint song of the blades when Akiri moved like smoke against the throats of his enemies. Together they finished every argument Ástilliar began. He had made them himself with his dark magic and the fragments of the "Song of Quiet"—her old blade, which had shattered when the elves had buried her beneath the smouldering ruins of her home. The distant sound of a horn announcing her return brought her back to the present.

Not much later she had at last arrived at the black gates of Vaeldruvcar, the palace of the prince she had served faithfully ever since her resurrection. Akiri looked at the inscription above the ingress before stepping through, just like she always did. Each time she let her gaze sweep over the engraved words, she felt some comfort, for she knew they spoke truth.

Mae corvyr tha tu druvyn.

Her upper arm began to tingle faintly. He had called Akiri to his side once more, and she would always answer when he did. And so she made her way to the tallest spire of the citadel. On her way there she walked past a few guards that tried to remain calm while saluting her, though she saw the fear in how they held themselves. They didn’t truly understand what she was and were prohibited by Ástilliar from asking any questions that could make her uncomfortable. What they did understand, however, was the concept of loyalty. They understood it because they served under it, but they had never comprehended just how much it shaped her. She believed that loyalty was the ultimate form of purpose one could possess. If you had something or someone you dedicated your whole being to, you could go to unimaginable lengths. Push body, mind and soul to unthinkable feats – all in the name of complete and all-encompassing devotion. For Akiri, that someone was currently standing at the highest parapet the palace had to offer. Prince Ástilliar of Obscurir overlooked Vaeldruvcar with an almost haunting amount of precision. He still looked at his home like he did on the first day he started to oversee its construction. None ever escaped his piercing one-eyed gaze – not even her kind. After looking at him standing at his elevated position, she entered the keep and ventured to the flight of stairs that would lead her to his chambers. Akiri took hasty steps to not let him wait any longer than strictly necessary, her leather boots creaking on the marble surface. After she had climbed the stairs with practiced ease, she strode down the long corridor, where she could already see the heavy wooden door that separated her from the prince. She greeted the two familiar shadows guarding his doorstep before she entered into the vast room.

“Akiri,” she heard his smooth voice say.

His accent had something old and familiar about it, something that felt distinctly like home. Since the collapse of the Great Vyrethian Empire, there weren’t many people left in the world that spoke like he did, like she and her family had, back when they were still alive. As always, it reminded her of simpler times. His pronunciation soothed her battered mind already. For Akiri it proved the significance of his lineage and confirmed that not everything was lost in the Dawn.

"My prince," she answered and fell to her knees.

The sudden movement shook the last remnants of deep red crust from her enchanted weaponry. Ástilliar stepped closer to her, his elaborately decorated coat swaying with the controlled motion. He came to a halt barely a metre in front of her. The blackened monocle he wore seemed to be even darker than usual—if such a thing were even possible.

“I am glad to see you return to me in one piece. You made short work
of them, I take it?”

Akiri was certain there was no need to trouble his occupied mind with something unimportant, like the possible betrayal of their informant – she could handle that herself later.

“They couldn’t stop me, my prince.”

Ástilliar raised his hand and placed it gently against the side of her head. She felt the fine texture of a silken glove softly stroking her jaw, and she leaned thankfully into the tender touch, into the man, whom she had gladly sworn her entire existence to. Ever since, she continued to drown in an ocean of loyalty. Akiri looked into the prince’s face and saw him grin a crooked smile.

"None can," he told her and meant it.

His voice was gentle; he had learnt to comfort her kind from the many nights he had stayed at a bedside such as hers, assuring her that neither she nor her kin were the monsters some of them believed themselves to be and that all of them would have a place at his side when everything was finally over. The monocle staring back at her was black as night itself, seemingly distorting the light when anyone tried to glimpse through its darkness. Though no human in his citadel of power had ever seen it, Akiri knew what lay hidden behind it and mourned him deeply for it. She felt the others, the lesser shadows, watching them from all corners of the room, though she didn't feel any shame in seeking comfort when it was so freely given. He was softer to her than most of her brethren, and all shadows in Vaeldruvcar knew it and did not begrudge it. While some needed his care more than others, she alone would come to him after every mission he sent her on. Else she feared she would tear apart, ripped to pieces by the seams Ástilliar had so carefully sewn together with his dark magic.

"You may rest for now, Akiri. I’ll have need of your counsel at first light."

"As you wish. Good night, my prince."

She had gone to her personal chambers soon after. Not in search of rest, not really, as her kind had no need for sleep. And so it came that she lay motionless on her bed, eyes pinned firmly to the ceiling. Akiri let her thoughts take her back to the simpler times she missed so dearly. Her old home, a land vast with riches and prosperity for all who lived in it. She was reminded of all the things she had felt before she had died. She remembered the taste of ash in her mouth, her blood and living fire blending together inside what had once been her lungs. The last thing she saw was the bell of the great cathedral plunging toward the remains of her and the body of the child she had tried to push out of the blast of the explosion. Still now, 372 years of mere existence later – most of which she wasn’t even conscious for, it was too vivid to think about. She had to calm herself, and so she whispered the mantra that kept her going.

"Mae corvyr tha tu druvyn."

Even though she knew precisely which heart it was referring to, she took solace in believing hers was included in its meaning as well. At least Ástilliar had told her as much and would do so every time she wasn't certain anymore. He had once promised her all the vengeance she sought, and she would gladly give him everything for it. Somewhere in the distance, the moon tried again to come out and failed bitterly. The night skies did not mind, and neither did she.