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Chapter 3: THE RAVEN'S COURT
🕑 Added 2025-08-24 15:22:18 +0000 UTCRisens slowed to a cautious pace but only once he’d dissolved into the alley’s obscuring shadows. The commotion at the Duke’s estate faded into unintelligible clamors as whistles and alarm bells alerted the soldiers charged with Windwake’s protection.
Search as they might, he would be a ghost to them. He was keenly aware of the drills now being enacted as he’d witnessed them on numerous occasions. So too did he—better even than those issuing the commands—understand the orders barked at the blurry-eyed guards rudely roused from their slumber. There were a multitude of means at his disposal with which to return and give report to his master. Whether on the city’s streets, rooftops, or subterranean passages, the choices opened with every unintentionally arranged windowsill, every sewer grate, every alley or avenue that opened before him. He’d even—when the occasion merited it—used the city aqueducts to conceal his return to the castle.
Presently, he shifted to the opposite side of the road, skirting the halo of illumination that spread around a solitary lamppost. Approaching from the opposite side of the cobbled alley, a pair of men hastened in his direction. Their inebriation was evident, though they wisely rushed as the curfew announced by the alarms would be upheld with brutal force. Pausing in the shadows, he listened to their boisterous conversations as they stumbled onward.
“Bastard guards, ruinin’ a fine night,” one bellowed a bit too loudly for his own good.
“And I was this close!” said the other.
“Piss and vinegar is all you are,” groaned the first. “She wasn’t workin’ for free, and you ain’t had the coin even for one of the ugly ones.”
For the short distance Risens eyed them, their dialogue was far reaching. From animosity at the ever-rising price of ale to the buxom barmaid that they—and likely a majority share of Windwake’s drunkards—lusted over, the drunkards rambled on without consideration to the ears that might be listening. At the unflattering mention of the king, Risens’ hand shifted silently to his dagger. He reversed the blade, holding it flat against the underside of his arm, hiding against any potential reflections off the naked steel. As they stumbled past where he stood, Risens reached out, readying the strike that would end the closest man’s life.
“Either you fool yourself or you’re the damned fool,” the closer man’s words slurred as he spoke, his voice growing louder and more irate. “The king cares nothin’ for you. Nothin’ for me. Rumors say rebellion’s comin’, yet he talks about peace. Every blacksmith in the city is in his employ, makin’ weapons and armor. Mark my words, we’ll be dragged into this in the end. Even if he bore the Brand of the Veracious on his palm, I wouldn’t bloody believe him.”
At the last moment, Risens paused his blade, slowly retracting the weapon before pushing it silently into its sheath. Their lives would be spared, though they would never know how close they had truly come to Pylkev, and eternal torment tonight. Their discontent was personal and fierce, though it was neither new information nor specific. Granted, he had killed for less, but no lines had been crossed that bordered treason.
That, would have justified their deaths.
They would be wise to censor their mouths before one or the other landed them in trouble. Not all those under the King’s command were as lenient as he.
It was true, though. Discontent boiled throughout the city and surrounding provinces. However, tonight, a flame that heated the cauldron had been extinguished. The fire had been weakened but the pot still simmered away. All that was needed was tinder for it to explode into an inferno that would raze the kingdom to the ground.
Risens followed no prescribed path as he wound like a snake through Windwake’s dark streets. The warning bells had long since faded, though the streets were still teeming with guards. Owing to his rooftop escape from Duke Karieas’s estate, he chose the terrestrial pathways as he stalked onward.
In his mind, he replayed every action, analysed every footstep and motion of his blades throughout his mission. Preparation was key, yet control was imperfect at best. The courtesan had brought on an unexpected twist. His mercy had nearly been his undoing.
His mind drifted to her naked form, though not for the reason one might believe. He contemplated, instead, the brand on her torso. Had the inherent attributes granted by marking swayed his decision? The more he pondered the possibility, the less credence he gave to the consideration. She was a beautiful woman—that was a point unquestionable—yet the lustful allure of her body was lost on him. It was a distraction he could ill afford. Carnal pleasures were of no consequence to him at the present.
However, there was no argument to be made, Risens had allowed her to leave, and that was a mistake he would not make again. Had she seen his face? Could she identify him amongst a crowd? Would she be the reason for his downfall? He would have to rectify his error, and the correction would come with blood.
He shook away his thoughts, pausing in the deepest shadows at the corner of the building. He’d reached one of the many small market squares that dotted the city. The vendors had long ago closed their shops, the criers ceased their perpetual keening for attention, yet the area was alive with activity. Unwanted and problematic.
A large contingent of soldiers—nearly forty, all dressed in thick leathers bearing the raven crest—clogged the area. Their focus was relatively singular, targeting a specific building at the opposite edge of the square. A line of nearly a dozen bodies lay bloodied on the ground at the middle of their grouping, each bound around wrists and ankles. Half that number—likewise bruised and injured—were pressed defensively against the wall. The interrogation of one turned violent at the man’s answer—spitting in the face of a soldier was a poor reply. The guard cracked him across the jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground with a spray of blood and teeth. Others rose up but were quickly put down by the butts of spears.
Beyond the gloom of the torchlight, Pale Pink’s Pub stood with its front door ajar. It was an establishment well known for its boisterous and generally hot-tempered patrons, staff and proprietor. Brawls such as these were not uncommon. Risens doubted any piece of furniture in the building had not been smashed or used as a weapon at some point. The small pile of wood scraps near the open door—nay, not open. There was a large jagged hole where the door had previously been. That alone replayed the story of the night’s tussle.
He could have easily skirted the square, avoiding detection even among the considerable activity, but there was no point in risking exposure. He bore a message, information that the king would need to hear. While there was a sense of urgency to his report, it was not immediate. Surely the news of the eradication of the traitorous Duke Karieas and his estate would have reached the ears of the King long before Risens could deliver the update. Truly, the King likely already knew. Thus, the temporary detour was no bother to him. He reversed course, backtracking to the previous intersection in the shadowed avenue.
Predictability was a trait that proved fatal to many, both foe and ally over the years. Destinations of repeated use demanded an intentionally different track be followed with each journey. It was a habit drilled into the very fiber of his being. As he melted in the darkness of the thin void between buildings, the route he now took was one infinitely familiar to him.
There would be no harm in making the visit. The waypoint had fallen into disuse over the years and would pose no threat to his discovery, though he, seemingly alone, still frequented it. He knew it would be a quick stop. A pointless stop, yet for some reason, he felt the pull of it upon his very soul through the darkness.
Risens paused again at the intersection of a wide, neatly maintained cobblestone road. He had zigzagged across the city, dodging patrols, illumination of lamplights, and citizens as he moved. He now found himself back in the central ward where the Duke’s manor, now a morgue, stood as a testament to his talents. Though now he stood on the North end, closer to the looming castle of the king. Thankfully, the main avenue was devoid of movement, though he could hear the distant rattle of commotion, likely as the investigation of the massacre commenced. He knew the protocol. Streets would be locked down to passersby or those desiring to gawk. The guard contingent would be significant.
Scanning the windows along the stretch of road, he paid extra attention to the scattered few that leaked diffused lights through the gaps of their closed shutters. There were no signs of motion anywhere, which was unsurprising even with the evening’s alarm. Night had fallen deeply—late for all but the most ambitious revelers, though too early for even the baker to rise. He darted across the street, following the curving shadows between the rings of lantern light.
He slipped into the alley and stopped, ducking behind a pile of musty wooden crates and listening intently to the sounds of the night. The quiet chirping of insects, the buzz of flies around the spoiled products in the storage beside him were natural. Overhead, the rapid, quiet beating of wings told tale of a bird of some sort taking to flight. Confident in his secrecy, he removed his hand from the hilt of his blade, uncoiling his legs as continued down the alley.
He was close to his destination now, only an avenue away. Here in Broad Quarter, aptly named for its wide streets, only those without homes would be found. And truly, even they had retreated to more promising locations. It was whispered that there was a time when the road upon which he followed would have been well lit by lanterns and torchlight, even at this late hour. But that was all it was: whispers of a distant past.
The fresh, fragrant scents of the flowering bushes that grew in all other areas of Windwake was now replaced by foul odor of decay. Nary a leaf or petal remained intact, most reduced to piles of detritus. Only one still held on: a small tree of some variety, though the gnarled branches and stunted form illustrated its roots desperate battle to cling to life. Those stories told of the steady stream of citizens that would have made visiting in secret a task that required skill. But never in his lifetime.
A final twist in the avenue ahead and it would be in sight. He lengthened his cautious strides as the unexpected anticipation lured him forward. Less than one hundred meters later, he had reached the Raven’s Court.
A tall archway rose before him. Ever since he was a child, when he’d first learned of this hallowed place, he had been fascinated by it. Even after he’d learned of the King’s decree that it be cast into obscurity and made off-limits to all those who did not wish to spend the remainder of their lifetimes in the dungeon, he couldn’t help himself. There were no guards present, as no one dared defy the King’s orders. No one but Risens.
Its overall footprint in the city was minute, merely a square opening less than ten meters across at its widest point, yet its importance to him could not be properly measured.
In the pale light of the moon, the shrine that loomed in the center of its courtyard was macabre and imposing. It was the focal point of the Raven’s Court, a peculiar hybrid of species, twisted together into a confusing mix of man and bird. Though not much was written of the place, Risens had discovered that in ages past, Windwake’s citizens would petition the heavens before this shrine. Sure, there were other shrines aplenty throughout Windwake, where people would be Branded in countless ways, offering mostly useless abilities, but here, it was said, was where the true power of the Brand would be found.
Most likely, it was a fabrication. A tale written in scarcely read tomes in the library, but never once had it left Risens mind. It often seemed that he alone was Brandless. He’d even once rubbed the foot of the Farmers Shrine in hopes that he’d gain that mark of wheat upon his forearm. Never in a million years would he wish to plant and grow crops, but anything was better than nothing. Wasn’t it?
He stepped forward to where the floor had been worn thin by the knees of his ancestors. Where something less familiar than the Brand of the Courtesan might be found. The shrine that granted the Brands that adorned the flesh of those who had proven exceptionally worthy.
Though he knew in his heart, that was not him.
For Risens, it served as a permanent, lingering frustration. He would never feel the sting of the marks on his skin. Would never benefit from the varying attributes that each imbued.
He was a bastard.
His worth had been judged and decided before his first gasp. All of Windwake’s shrines were off limits for him. He would find no answers here.
Yet, time and time again, for a reason he could neither explain nor justify, he persisted.
He scanned the silent confines of the Raven’s Court as he stepped cautiously into the opening. His footsteps made barely a sound against the cracked and moss-laden tiles. Beyond the shrine itself, the whole of the place was utterly benign.
Tall walls, easily twice his height penned in the court. For one such as him, the confined nature of the area was a logistical nightmare. With only one clear channel with which to enter and exit, it threatened devastation had he been pursued. It was an ideal venue for a trap.
He grinned. Risens had planned for such a contingency. The walls were formed of tightly fitting marble blocks. However, they were marked by inch-deep ledges upon which he believed the citizens used to light wax candles. These provided ample hand and footholds, easily utilized by someone with his skill set. The pathways, the avenues of escape were clear, though at the present, there were no concerns. Only on one occasion over the years had he encountered another willing to disobey the King while visiting the shrine and thankfully, he had slipped way undetected.
Throughout the city, ravens often circled overhead or alighted the walls’ parapets. It was commonly believed that they sat in quiet judgment of the citizens, commoners and nobles alike as they prayed for a Brand. But here, there were no majestic birds overhead. The gardens were brown with death and only a few scattered weeds graced the beds guarding the rotted remains of a dilapidated iron fence encircling the center shroud. The once-flowing moat within was now nothing more than a stagnant puddle.
He could imagine a time long ago when each of the corners of the square were alive with gardens, abuzz with the flitting of insects. Built into the walls alongside the candle shelves, were multi-tiered fountains that had filled the space. He could almost hear the calming gurgle of water tumbling between the pools. Those gentle babbles echoed no more.
He’d read that people had traveled from all corners of the kingdom and beyond to pay their respects. To have their worth judged in the Raven’s Court, yet the pilgrims no longer traveled. As far as he understood, no other statues of its like existed. The reason for the King’s decree was puzzling, though he pushed the thought from his mind.
His attention returned as it always did to the shrine that dominated the center of the space. With cautious steps, he approached the figure, studying the features as he had hundreds of time in the past. There was no confusing either the human or avian features of the stone statue. From the chest down, the stone depicted a man, hunched over with a single knee and opposite hand on the ground. Its feathered wings, intricately detailed to the feather, crossed over its chest as if hiding some deep secret, while the head, that of a raven, was angled upward and to the side, showing off its mighty profile. Its beak was opened wide as if mid-caw, a demand for attention it no longer received.
The mixture and pose had always struck him as peculiar. The creature it portrayed was terrifying. The majestic raven, the symbol of Halthome had been twisted into the man who’s kingdom it represented. In the process, neither looked comfortable. To him, the shrine had always given off an air of meekness that he couldn’t place.
Seemingly carved from a single, massive stone, the shrine showed none of the flaws and signs of time that had ravaged the surrounding court. The sculpture was polished smooth, the natural striations in the stone showing through. The color of the hand that connected with the ground and the immediately surround area was dramatically lighter than the rest of the shrine. It must have been here where countless visitors had placed their hands as they begged for a Brand.
The Brands themselves were an intimate though identifiable thing. Though the author was unknown, he had studied the great ancient tome, the Raven’s Guide at length. In its dusty pages were the images, description and attributes of every known Brand. Most who had the marking chose to hide them from others, while to some, it was a proud sign of their calling. Risens knew them all by heart, yet none of them were reserved for the bastard child-turned-assassin.
He shook his head, mentally chiding himself for the time wasted stopping here. His presence in the Raven’s Court was tantamount to heresy. Leveling a groan of frustration at himself, he slapped his hand down on the pedestal of the statue, covering the fingers of the kneeling creature as he had countless time in the past.
A loud gust of wind caused Risens to whip around. Dozens of dark birds poured in through the courtyard’s single archway. They fluttered all around him, circling his kneeling form. He dared not remove his hand from the statue, but with his other, he guarded his face against their sharp beaks and talons. Once he gathered himself, he reached for his blade, drawing the steel in a flash as he pivoted. No sooner had he drawn his weapon than the conspiracy of birds took to the sky, leaving him alone once more before the statue.
Nothing moved anywhere among the tumbledown gardens or pathway. The sky, lit by the moon and stars no longer showed even a blemish of a shadow crossing their faces.
A sudden excruciating pain stabbed into his chest, directly over his sternum. Sucking in a desperate gasp of air, the muscles in his hands fired uncontrollably. The blade rattled to the ground as he fell to a knee clutching his chest. The initial lance of pain shifted to a scalding burn before fading altogether. Had he been cut? Had the unexpected attack of birds left him with more wounds than he had believed?
He panted, gasping in deep breaths as he refilled his lungs in the wake of the debilitating pain. With the agony subsided, he padded quickly at his chest, his heart racing as he felt the heat radiating through his tunic. He was bleeding, of that he could be sure. And though he was no stranger to injuries, this was unlike any stab of knife or sword he’d ever experienced.
The skin beneath his dark clothing felt foreign to the touch.
In a panic, he clawed at the shirt. Frantically, he pulled at the laces, tugging them open to reveal the skin below. In the pale moonlight, the deep red design was clear against his skin.
In the wake of the pain, a feeling he could only describe as sound rumbled through his body. Though it boomed at a volume near deafening, nothing penetrated his ears. Its tone and timbre were deep and foreboding. A voice.
You have been Branded in my image. It is my will that the Brand of the Veil is now yours to command. Do not forsake the privilege of my mark. In time, you will prove your worth.
As quickly as it began, the booming voice ceased. His ears rang as his head spun with an overwhelming sense of disorientation. The cracked and mildewed tiles of the Raven’s Court approached at a dizzying pace as his consciousness faltered.
