The Razor and the Flower

Chapter 1. Razor and Flower

The sun shone brightly on the city, reflecting off the buildings that were low and uninteresting. Well, all of them were uninteresting when compared to the large Palace of the King, situated on a hill overlooking the city, but still within the city wall. It was embellished with gold carvings and silver trims, fancy in every way.

This was Fire City. The proud city capital of Firerim.

People clogged the streets below the palace in Fire City. Some were vendors shouting loudly from their market stalls. Others were the intended customers haggling prices of meat, fruits, vegetables, clothes, and other wares. Also, almost unnoticed, there were the street urchins. Ragged kids trying to take things that would not be missed. Those caught would face the wrath of the city guard, posted irregularly throughout the big city.

It was about this time, when the sound of horse hooves thudded loudly on the pavement, echoing on the buildings of the street, interrupting business. The midday traffic of men and women making their way to-and-from the market jumped aside to avoid the massive black stallion and its rider galloping through. The rider seemed small on his horse's broad back, a deadly dagger in the hands of a master.

The rider on the stallion was dressed all in black, head to toe. His face was concealed behind a black mask, its surface featureless. His dark cape billowed behind him, flowing like a dark cloud. He had an impressive sword dangling from his belt. His leather boots were unadorned, nor was his outfit, fancy in no way, but effective in a hundred others.

He was riding towards the Palace of the King, in haste. His king had called for him about a day ago, and he would not make his Majesty wait longer than necessary.

He loped up the road leading to the palace, his horse taking the gradually-sloping-upward path in easy strides. He guided the stallion to the top, where a group of guards stood nearby the large palace doors carved with scenes of battle, their gazes unreadable.

One of them walked forward and took the horse's reins.

The horse snorted and tossed his head disagreeably.

"It's fine, Night-Runner." Whispered the man to his mount, running a hand through the large horse's mane as he dismounted. With his other hand, he pulled down his mask to look the horse in the eye.

The horse bumped the man with his head indignantly, but he didn't flinch. "These men will take care of you until I'm done." He cast his gaze over the guards threateningly. "This horse should be in top condition by tomorrow!" He snapped.

"Yes, sir." Responded the guard unenthusiastically, but slightly fearfully. He knew that he was standing before the famous assassin of the king. Or, more officially, The Court Assassin. It was said that the assassin had never failed an assignment.

The guard tugged on the reins, leading the midnight-colored horse towards the stables nearby.

The assassin walked towards the massive doors, where the guards, also knowing him, allowed him entrance into the building. He entered a throne room, and strode confidently down the cavernous hall. He was a few yards from the throne when he stopped. The dark-clothed man fell to his knees and bowed his head. His scabbard scraped across the marble floor.

"My lord," he greeted calmly, his voice deep and quiet.

King Sarthan, dressed in finery, sat on a throne. As kings go, he wasn't the standard. He was neither handsome nor fat as seemed to be the typical king of his predecessors. Instead, he was muscular - due to sparring and riding practice - and rugged from long days in the sun. He was about thirty, having no heirs, for he had not married.