The Dagger's Wrath (BOOK 1)

Chapter Ten

A/N: Unknown is growing with power, politics and games of war are certainly closing in on the balance of life and death. The realm grows with magic. It's time to prepare for war.

Unknown

I am calm when I hunt, when I kill, when I take on my dark side. The reflection beneath me is of an assassin, a graceful assassin—and I know I am one. I kill who is planned, and I plan who is to be killed. My darkness is building, and rising, and just looking at the water's surface beneath me, my eyes turn a dark green and swirl there for a few seconds and then fade...

And I fade into nothing.

Oblivion surrounds me as I walk to the palace of my master, King Ganison. I am like him. I am him, in some ways, but not all. I am an assassin, and I am free. I am free of his rules, but I like to do things the harder way and whatever he plans is not made by me.

It's made by the future me.

The one who knows what to do.

I am a killer.

A murderer.

The breaker of bones.

The snapper of the dead, and I kill. I claim the buried, and kill their ghosts. I am messed up, as some people call me.

I am dead, and I am alive, and walking. I feel free.

I am an assassin. I am a murderer.

I will—

Where? Where to go? Where to fight, where to know where to go where to where to where to—

—I will surrender for no one, and fight for myself.

There, there, there. There in the distance. It's something. It's bright, it's darkening now, there's a light. It's one of me, one of me, one of me! I am free. I am still here. I am not alone. I am not afraid. I am not anything but me, and I am free.

Where?

How do I move?

I feel like I'm floating now, but the only thing I can float on is clouds. The feeling of their softness brightening up my day, my week, my everything. To be free is to be free is to be—

I am insane, I know that now. My master, King Ganison, has told me of my madness.

Madder than mad.

Mad.

It's a breezy word that you take into consideration, and form a sentence.

"I am mad."

"We are mad."

"Mad."

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Just a dream.

Just a dream, a memory, a thought.

Breathe, breathe, I'm not dead, I'm not dead. I'm not dead.

I can feel fingers, toes, hands, and they're mine.

I'm free.

And then there it is. I'm still sane.

There is something that I would like to do, right now, while I'm still alive. And, for the most part, it's a story. One of those that you get lost in and can't seem to figure out where the time has gone. But, for the simplicity of it, that isn't true. You're going to sit here and wonder if this story is true or not, so listen, for it may just kill you or win you some.

The story starts: A power is rising, and a man is dying. This man, believe it or not, is dying because the power is rising. But where? Where could it possibly be rising, and living? From the heart, soul and whatever comes within? It was actually within this dying man, and it was beating loudly, now, trying to escape yet trying to hold it in.

He, the man of death walked on air. He had no magic, but was able to walk on air by just lifting his hands in the circling wind, and hold, hold, hold until he burst up into the sky. It was true, now, it seemed, that the man—at least I hear from tales and stories and rhymes and poems that go as such: A dying man is no more than a fake cloud / The rhythm he takes is his heart beating loud—seemed even more confident than some. He seemed... diabolically engineered as a machine.

A power is dying, and a man is rising. This man, believe it or not, is rising because the power is dying. But how? How is it possibly dying? From the cause of old age, like the dying man?

One could not know, one could not suggest—but a power is rising bigger and higher than ever before.

It's coming.

Power, power, power.

Hide, hide, hide.

Dying, dying, dying.

Run, run, run.

Snowing, snowing, snowing.

Red, red, red.

Glowing, glowing, glowing.

Dying, rising, dying, rising, dying—

Living. Something was there, and now it is.

No more was, for the present is here.

And it will be mine.