Storm clouds littered the sky. A few rays of light cut through them but did nothing to illuminate the ominous atmosphere. The canyon was surrounded in deep darkness with the only light coming from deep below. Its fiendish yellow glow was said to come from the bowels of the earth itself.

But the more learned people knew better. It was the glare of thousands of beacons and lamps below set to illuminate the working grounds. All the kingdom’s criminals, traitors and prisoners were sent there.

A prolonged death sentence to all of them. There was no way of escape since the hole went down more than a couple miles with its walls made of smooth iron without any handholds. The only way out were hundreds of meters wide structures that served as the basis for the city at the top.

From the top they looked like fingers sticking from the ground with buildings on top of them. The upper levels of Acklam were mostly military bases. They had no windows and looked like patches of black mass separated by streaks of light. Each of those had a thin black line, a bridge, connecting them together.

On the left of the city, six black towers rose in a semi-circle - the Six Pillars of Hanyon. It was said that they ruled this region when the king wasn’t in residence. Though, their tops were alight now meaning there was a royal person in the city.

His resting place was the seventh tower, in the middle of the city, with its back against a mountainside. This was defence enough alone, but the flat-topped mountain was also surrounded by the city built within a deep hole. Many said there could be no safer place.

After all, the city was surrounded by a mountain range and was onnly reachable by a number of bridges connecting it to them. In an emergency, all of the bridges could be pulled back, turning Acklam impossible to enter.

Or so the stories told.

Ychar stood on a cliff overlooking the city and planned his course. The bridges were still open but there was a heavy control over them with the royal personage in the city. It would never do for him to try going through there.

Luckily, the storm had hit the city. It was gone now, having refreshed slightly the smoke heavy air of Acklam. But most importantly it kept the people inside. Where they wouldn’t see a shadow entering from above.

Without wasting another moment, Ychar checked his gear. Two baldrics on each shoulder filled with throwing knives, two more knives hidden in his arm sleeves, three on his ankles and another one in his boot. In his vest five small vials were tied securely along with pepper dust.

On his belt a length of rope was attached and two long knives for hand-to-hand combat. At the back there was an almost imperceptible leather pad with four silver needles.

He took out a case with ash and rubbed the blackness into his face, neck and hands. Satisfied, he returned the case to his backpack and removed the last thing from inside. A new invention that his old mentor devised after years of failures; his test subjects’, not his.

After securing the metallic contraption to his back, Ychar took a steadying breath and jumped off the cliff. Soft clinks of metal parts moving followed his jump and the next moment Ychar was forcefully pulled back in the air.

Black leathery wings sprouted from the back. They caught the wind, stopping his descent. “It actually works,” Ychar murmured to himself, almost disbelieving. Then again, his teacher did extensive research. The amount of people sacrificed would have staggered even the king himself. And the man was a ruthless tyrant.

Gliding, more than flying, Ychar went over the city. The flight might be an interesting experience but this was not the time for sightseeing. His target was waiting in the far tower. He couldn’t be late to the appointment, now could he?

Patrol groups passed underneath him, but none of them thought to look up. The soldiers held onto their weapons, marching in step and pretended to safeguard the peace.

Ychar glided towards the tallest tower and softly landed on the heels of his feet. It was surprisingly easy. He pulled a couple wires and the wings folded back into a small quadrangle on his back. It wasn’t heavy, nor did it impede his movement so Ychar decided to take it along. The thing might help him leave the tower too.

Opening a window, he ducked in and looked around. As planned, this was the dining hall. At this time of evening and right after a storm it was deserted.

He made his way to the side doors and after listening for a moment cracked the door open. Empty. Quick as a weasel, he went out and sneaked through the hallways.

Patrols went past often enough but they were easy to dodge. There was a room on every corner, and none of them locked. Only once did the situation waver on a knife’s edge.

Ychar hid in a room to evade the patrols when he heard a sound behind him. There was someone inside. A quick survey of the room revealed a terrified maid by the window. She was standing with her hand to the back of the wall, hands covering the scream that was building in her throat. Yet they were unable to cover the initial yelp of surprise.

Too late then. Ychar dashed towards her with a knife in hand. His strike was swift and true, silencing the maid in an instant. He let her down gently on the ground, but some sound must have escaped from her during his attack.

There was a commotion behind the door. The patrol had stopped, and one, probably the leader, stepped to the door. “Who is there? Make yourself known!” he shouted out.

Dammit, they were on high alert, after all. Ychar cursed and dropped behind a table. Five heartbeats later the doors burst open and soldiers charged into the room. They had left the brightly lit hallway and needed a second to get accustomed to the dimness of the room.

Ychar did not give them the time. He rose, wraith-like, and threw five knives in succession. All would’ve hit their targets but for the last man who hearing the humming sound turned to his colleague with a puzzled expression.

“Wha-” he started to ask when the man fell, and the knife that should have embedded itself into his neck whizzed a millimetre past it. The soldier jumped back in fright, eyes wide and reached for his gun. Fought with its leather strap.

But Ychar was already on him. He caught the man’s jaw to cover his mouth and sliced his neck open. Death came soon for the man and Ychar let him drop, cleaning his blade at the soldier’s tunic. Then he collected his throwing knives and was back on his way.

Faster now. Soon the missing patrol will be noticed and alerts will be sounded. He needed to reach the royal chambers before then.

Up another flight of stairs, turn right. And there was another patrol coming. He glanced to the right, there was a room there, but what if there was more people inside? A huge waste of time.

What else? He took in the large paintings on the walls, hanging carpets and torches lined a couple paces from each other. That large painting… Not wasting time to think more about it, Ychar scaled the wall and held onto the painting’s thick top.

It wavered, the right side sliding far down but held. Good. Now if only the patrol was as blind as the previous ones. Carefully, he crouched towards the middle of the painting while holding himself against the ceiling and the wall.

A dangerous and foolish perch, Ychar knew himself to be better than that, yet he was pressed for time. He had today to accomplish his task. If he failed, there would be no rectifying the situation. Even if he escaped, the civil war would have started and he wasn’t having that. Not when he had the power to prevent it.

Five heartbeats more and the patrols were in his vision. He was pathetically exposed. They had to see him. But he knew people tended not to see what they didn’t expect to see.

So, he stayed frozen with eyes closed and his breath so slow, it was almost unidentifiable. The soldiers chatted among themselves about how boring this was, and useless.

“Who would be stupid enough to try and assassinate the eldest prince in this fortress? It must have been some stupid joke and we’re the ones suffering for it,” one of them complained.

The other laughed bitterly. “Ha, as if. Have you seen the prince? Dead people look better than him!”

“Oh yeah! I heard he acts like a man sentenced to execution. One of the maids was whispering that he’s been refusing food for the last couple days, and no one saw him sleep either!” The soldier stated that straight-faced but then looked around as if fearing being overheard. He eyes the walls suspiciously before adding in a whisper. “Servants are talking he’s gone mad from fear.”

His colleagues stared at him, horrified. They shushed him instantly, looking around in fear of having been heard, and hurried away. It was often said that in castles even the walls had ears. An apt description when Ychar knew just how many secret tunnels, rooms and hallways there were in them.

The moment the patrol turned a corner, Ychar jumped down, landing without a sound, and ran off. So, the prince was mad? Interesting. Could it be it was an act to draw him out? Make him careless, thinking it was an easy target?

They must be discounting his abilities way too much.

By the prince’s door a guard of four soldiers stood. They were well armed but inattentive. Ychar could have sworn one was sleeping while standing. Not the official royal guard then.

Yet, should that surprise him? Lyan was a rebel prince. He believed the lies and ran away from the capital, allowing his mother, Queen consort, to rally an army behind his name. A foolish move. If not for this, Lyan could have been spared.

But it was too late now. Ychar found a room not far. It was locked but he picked it quickly and moved in. Then through and outside. Impersonating a large spider, he found a handhold and then another. His feet followed after and he made his way towards the window of the royal chambers.

All of its windows were barred but Ychar took out one of the vials and poured half of the liquid on them. Thick fumes rose from the place, choking Ychar. He lowered himself, trying to breathe in without falling into a coughing fit. A task much harder than one might think.

Somehow he managed to catch his breath without alerting the resident of the room, and soundlessly removed the bars. Now the easiest part. He covered his hand with a cloth while half-sitting on the sill and punched with all his might.

The glass shattered in an ear-splitting noise and Ychar dove in. He rolled to his feet, scanning the room with the throwing knife ready in his arm.

There! The prince stood near the bed, frozen mid-step. From the first glance Ychar knew why the soldiers might think him mad. Who would ever expect to see the eldest prince in such a disarray? His clothes were frayed and wrinkled, belt loose.

The man’s face was even worse. His long blonde hair were in a fine mess, oily without wash. His skin was pale and thin, see-trough and black under the eyes. Those shadows were very dark and deep, eyes bloodshot.

A sound behind the door broke the stare down.

“My prince! Is everything all right?” someone bellowed without the slightest hint of worry in his tone.

Ychar raised his knife, ready to throw when the prince surprised him.

“Yes! I’ll flay anyone alive who thinks of entering once more to check!” He then whispered so only Ychar could hear. “The doors are locked so they can’t enter, anyway.”

So, they stood appraising the other once again.

Sadness welled within Ychar as he stared at the fallen man before him. And how far had he fallen. From childhood Lyan was the brightest start of the capital. He was open, straightforward and kind. A master swordsman and poet with a heart of gold. His teacher’s couldn’t sing enough prizes for him while the public expressed their love and adoration any time they could.

He was the perfect prince. Every father’s dream. But not Ulrich The Third’s. He was a man that inherited a kingdom with power only to order around his bedroom. From there to establishing in the castle, the capital and the seventeen baronies was what one would call the distance between earth and the sky.

Yet Ulrich The Third achieved it. He schemed and plotted, lied and betrayed until he got himself an armed force to reckon with. Then he spent decades rejuvenating his kingdom’s armies, renovating obsolete tactics, removing corrupted officials and useless commanders before moving to take over the last few, strongest baronies by force. All while keeping everyone from making alliances against him.

Now the kingdom was united, the peaceful age could begin. But Ulrich The Third wasn’t satisfied. He was furious at fate for dealing him such a shitty hand. A mere kingdom wasn’t enough for him. He wanted the whole continent. The whole world.

But he was old. Old and tired now. There were no more wars left in him. He could no longer sit on his giant battle horse Thunder and ride first into the thick of battle.

Instead he needed his successor to do it. He was going to have his kingdom expand even if he had to break all the established traditions to have it. Like for example not crowning his eldest son to be king because he was too nice. Ulrich The Third had sneered when he said that even if Lyan did as told and went to war, he’d be soon tricked, betrayed and quickly lose all his father had wasted his lifetime creating.

Ulrich would never have that. You didn’t achieve what he did by being that kind of person.

The prince moved. He pushed the dirty hair from his face, relaxing somewhat, and asked with a sigh, “Brother, what are-”

Ychar threw. His knife lodged right in the middle of the skull and Lyan fell backwards on the bed with a stunned expression. He was still alive a second more when Ychar moved to sit by his side.

“I told you before, didn’t I?” he whispered in a tired voice. “If I was ever to become a general, I’d never waste my armies when I could just assassinate the leaders.”

Lyan was dead and Ychar closed the lifeless eyes. He searched his heart, thinking about the older brother that often took care of him, but found no regret there. They both made their choices when the king decided to crown his fifth son, born of a beautiful young midwife, instead of his oldest, born of his Queen consort.

Their paths were presented to them that very moment and Lyan chose to believe his mother’s words. Oh, the things she told about the king, his advisers and the royal children were mostly all true but it had always been so. Prior to the announcement ignorance of it hadn’t gotten in the way of Lyan supporting the common people.

But he allowed his mother surround him with boot-lickers and social climbers, all of which on Queen consort’s word showered him with unwanted truths. And embellishments where necessary. So much that soon the righteous and good prince could no longer take it and cursed his father, his siblings and swore vengeance upon them.

Yet, he would have done nothing if not for his mother. She collected his supporters and those unhappy with Ulrich The Third’s rule under his banner. They all brought armies and had them fed by supporters abroad. All other kingdoms were eager to see Ulrich’s just united land fall into into internal strife once more.

The king, furious at the development then sent Yhar to clean up the mess with the best of the kingdom’s armies. If he was going to triumph over the other kingdoms, he should have the capabilities to take care of this mess.

“What else did you expect would happen, brother?” Ychar asked the corpse, but it did not answer. “When we played games, you were always the better warrior, but not once have you won against me. You kept on laughing that the devil himself would get tricked by me. So why did you decide to stand in my way?”

He shook his head. Fate was a cruel mistress. She threw bad choices at you one after another, and watched with glee what you made of them.

“You were born at the wrong time, Lyan. Wrong time, wrong place and the wrong father. The cards were stacked against you from the moment of your birth. People like you can only get destroyed in the struggle for the throne. Even when you never cared for it, your mother sacrificed you for it.”

Maybe there should be tears. Ychar was almost certain he should be crying now. Lyan had always been his favourite brother. The only one that didn’t mind that his mother was (for the whole two months before the Queen consort decided on a good way to kill her) the castle’s midwife.

Yet all he felt was a sense of desolation. Another person he actually liked was gone. One more left before all were gone. And that last one, he wasn’t certain he liked that much. His teacher was a great man, smart and with inexhaustible ideas for new inventions, but the amount of sacrifices he needed Ychar to hide was just too much. He could have formed two battalions of them already.

“Well, I need to get going,” Ychar told his brother. “Sleep well. And don’t worry about not meeting me again. You deserve to reach the heaven while I have paved my path to hell with my own two hands. The only thing left now is to stroll to the deepest level where the devils are sharpening their tools, awaiting my arrival.”

He smiled ruefully and kissed his brother’s brow goodbye. Their roads went astray for the last time now. Ychar stood up and searing the sight of Lyan into his mind ducked through the window. He jumped off.

Black leathery wings snapped open behind him and he flew into the deepening night. There were still queens and generals to kill, armies to order and kingdoms to take over.