Wicked Ascendant

Prologue

Seventeen years ago

The air was filled with the screams of the dying. The pungent, metallic scent of blood filled the man's nostrils. Gagging, he pulled the front of his shirt up to cover his nose as he continued wading through the seemingly endless sea of corpes littering the throne room of the castle.

The man had a deep gash on his left leg, courtesy of an Aedonian soldier, before he had shoved a sword into the soldier's throat. With luck, infection would kill him before someone came back here to finish him off.

He remembered the soft whine of the sword as he drew it out of its scabbard, how it barely took any effort to thrust the blade clean through the throat of that soldier, the way blood had bubbled crimson out of the wound, a stark contrast against the pale marble of the floor, the look of pure agony on the man's face before he had had fallen to the ground, his body violently convulsing before becoming still. Another life taken, another stain on his soul. He had stripped the dead soldier of his uniform and put it on. A passable disguise for now.

The man had no one left. His house had been ransacked and burned, his wife and infant son murdered in their beds. It had driven him to near madness. He'd killed and killed, until the faces of the dead blurred together, until he no longer felt anything but emptiness, He had no reason to continue living, save for one more deed he needed to accomplish.

He finally reached the hallway where he knew the royal chambers were located. He staggered past framed portraits of the royal family to a large, iron-wrought door in the middle of the corridor, his leg sending fresh stabs of pain to his body with every step. He had patrolled this area many times before in his time as a guard.

Bracing his shoulder against the heavy door, he pushed. After some effort, the door gave in, revealing the room inside.

The sight sent the man sinking to his knees. He vomited. The once-white sheets of the large, four-poster bed were now stained a dark red. The bodies of the king and queen were mutilated, their throats slashed from ear to ear. Fresh blood still flowed from the wounds. Surrounding the the bed were more bodies, the corpses of guards who had tried to protect them.

A horror unlike anything he'd felt before filled him, vast and unending. It consumed him, devoured him, and he collapsed, sobbing quietly.

No, get up. Do what you came here for.

The man bolted up, feverishly scanning the room for the voices.
Who we are does not matter. What matters is the princess.

He was going mad, the ghosts of the people he'd killed coming back to haunt him. He did not care. He deserved this darkness, but the phantom voices spoke the truth. The most important thing right now was saving the princess.

When the seige on the castle had begun, he had overheard the king and queen agreeing to put their daughter in the wardrobe, giving her what minimal protection they could. When the attacks had started, there was no time to get the royal family to safety.

Bracing his hand against the wall, the man made his way over to the large, wooden wardrobe, his stomach still churning from the scene around him.

He pulled the handles of the wardrobe and it swung open. Nestled in the corner and covered by blankets, was the princess. Shaking with relief, he scooped her up into his arms and ran. Away from the castle, away from the corpses, away from the memories.

The man brought the princess into the woods behind the castle grounds. Evelyn, that's what her name was. She was asleep, her tiny, innocent soul so pure, so unaware of the bleak, cruel world around her.

Settling her into his side, he made quick work of some tree branches, fashioning them into a makeshift basket. He then tucked the princess into the basket and climbed up a tree, his injured leg dragging behind him and screaming in agony with each movement.

He hung the basket from a tree branch, making sure that it was well hidden by leaves, before dropping to the ground. His leg gave out underneath him, and his head spun, his vision blackening around the edges.

"No," the man gasped out. He had to finish this. Panting, he reached for the sword at his side. Unsheathing it, he dragged his finger along its edge, drawing blood. He picked up a fallen stick and brushed the top of it with his injured finger, staining it scarlet. With great effort, he plunged the stick into the ground under the tree, marking the spot. He had sent a message to his friends two days ago. They would find the princess. They had to.

"Hey, you!"

The voice jolted him from his thoughts. It belonged to an Aedonian soldier, standing before him. The sight filled him with a fresh hatred. He was too weak to move

"I saw you leaving the castle with the princess." He jabbed the his sword into the man's throat.

The man started laughing, a sharp, hysterical sound, the horrors of the week's events finally resonating within him.

"Where is the princess?" The sword pressed against his neck, but he felt nothing.

He was laughing, and laughing. Tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting trails in the grime on his face.

"Where the hell is the princess?"

The man was still laughing when the soldier screamed in rage and frustration. He was still laughing when the soldier ran him through with the sword, silencing him forever.