The weary assassin longed for respite. His body, weary from the weight of deeds done in the name of shadows, yearned to surrender to the embrace of the feathered comforter. Into the cocoon of warmth. It was tempting, but he could not rest yet.
He reached for his knives' sheaths and slid the blades free, each crusted with thick blood. Each blade was a silent witness to the stories of bloodshed and betrayal that had stained its surface of whispered tales. Each blade was slightly curved, tapering to a point. They were Moorish shamshir knives, their silver gleaming dully in the dim light, bore witness to a thousand silent screams, their delicate tracery a macabre dance of elegance
He carried them to the bathroom and scrubbed the blades with water and a soft cloth. Water cascaded over the blades like tears shed for the lost souls they had claimed, carrying with it the sins of the past, blackened and heavy, like the heart of a traitor. With each stroke of the cloth, the black flakes began to show the purity of their silver-blue surface
black with flakes as they were wiped from the silvery blue of the metal. He dried the blades and anointed the blades with oil, a solemn ritual of preservation. For in the world of shadows, where life was but a fleeting illusion and death an ever-present spectre, the edge of a blade was the only truth that mattered. He inspected the glaive and axe, their edges dulled by the trials of combat — a spar with Elise, fellow assassins, or proving intruders in the grounds. He knew that their time would come again soon.
He replaced the knives to their leather sheaths, unbundled his scabbard belt, and reached for the packing case. Lifting out the ornate gown, he spread it out on the bed. The gown's bodice was inlaid with the tiniest pearls and crystals of diamonds. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a set of solid silver drop earrings. White diamonds surrounded the lumps of silver, tapering into a massive teardrop. Liberated from Dahlia's corpse.
He placed them next to the gown. to complete the look, he would need a mask, crystal slippers, and a diamond tiara. Perhaps a visit to the jewellers?
But for now, the night belonged to sleep, elusive and fleeting as a wisp of smoke. He'd been awakened from a blissful sleep at the bloody crack of dawn and now he required sleep.
"Ashe! Neesa!" he called.
The door opened and two girls entered, barely past womanhood. At thirteen Neesa and Ashe were twin sisters, destined for slavery to the brothels by their slave merchant. That trade was illegal by the King, but the thieves, murderers, and crooks of Estela had created an underground den for borough fights, gambling, and courtesans. Their mother had died in the cells, and the girls knew there was no way to escape — until Adonis had seen them. He'd offered the merchant triple the gold for each of them. Both girls had been cleaned properly, their rags burned, and dressed in deep blue dresses. the colour of the Assassins of Estela. On their backs Adonis had burned a small red heart to tell anyone whom they belonged to. They now served him as personal maids. Not even the King could lay a finger on them.
In repayment for saving their lives from death, Ashe and Neesa had sworn their lives to him. And they served him faithfully, without questioning what he wished. No one harmed them, even the King was displeased that his Executioner had wasted good gold for low lives to serve him.
"Milord?" They curtsied deeply.
He frowned at the cut ribbons from the corset. Oh well. It couldn't be helped. "Wash the bloodstains from this and find more cording for the back."
Ashe took the dress and she left the room. Neesa remained. Adonis strode to his glass desk and penned a missive to the jeweller of Saratha. He signed his title with a flourish at the end and handed it to Neesa.
"Go to the jeweller of Saratha and give him this message."
Saratha, named for the pointed Teeth of Saratha— rocks jutting out the Ice Sea off Tressden. Saratha traded with Tressden for gemstones, which were mined in Tressden, and as Saratha was world-renowned for their craftsmanship, it was a fair deal that benefitted both. Tressden stones were exported across the Empire of Glass as the most exquisite in the world.
Neesa curtsied. "As you wish, Milord." She closed the doors and went to find Elias to hail a carriage north.
And as the day faded into night, and the world outside fell silent beneath the cloak of twilight, Adonis surrendered to the embrace of sleep at four o'clock in the evening, his dreams haunted by the spectre of a future yet unwritten, where shadows danced with secrets and whispers lingered in the air like forgotten dreams.
*************
Ashe moved through the bustling corridors of the palace, the weight of the gown draped delicately over her arms. Servants flitted about, carrying pressed linens, maids dusting the gold and crystal objects of the King's, and rubbing down the banisters with oil, their hushed murmurs and soft footsteps adding to the symphony of the palace's daily routine. Golden rays of sunlight danced through the windows, casting intricate patterns on the polished marble floors. Ashe made her way to the laundry chamber tucked away in the shadowed depths of the Assassins' Quarters. Here, amidst the quiet hum of activity, she set about her task, filling a wooden tub with jugs of cold water. Never warm water as it would set the blood. The fabric of the gown unfurled like a river of silk, its pristine surface marred by crimson stains.
Ashe's hands moved with gentle determination, dipping into a container of salt crystals, each grain a whisper of remedy for the fabric's blemishes. A lock of her alabaster hair fell over her eye, framing her solemn gaze as she worked. Her features, a striking juxtaposition of white hair, dark eyes, and bronzed skin, held a rare beauty that belied the hardships she had endured.
Recollections of their past echoed in Ashe's mind, memories of captivity and the looming shadow of an uncertain future. Her features had captured many a buyer, all those men had not been able to pay Neesa and the price that the merchant wanted. Until the brothel owner could. He had offered them a home, food clothing, and safety from the streets. they would be well looked after. Ashe and Neesa's insides had turned cold at this man. He was more a devil than a man. They knew once they were sold, they would be taken away and they would work for a newly acquired debt: Clothes, lodging, jewellery, and training.
Ashe had wished that the merchant would be eaten alive by toads. And to whoever brought them, killed by their shrewish wives or lovers.
But before the price was hammered out, a younger man had stepped in and offered a different price. At least one and a half times six hundred crowns. He and the buyer had briefly spoken before he turned to the merchant and offered three times the original price. The Merchant had immediately sold them and he had unshackled their wrists and wrapped their shivering bodies in warm cloaks. Once in a carriage trimmed with gold and glass, traveling to the empire's capital, he'd told them what he wanted. they would not work as servants in a house. No one would hurt them or touch them again.
Adonis had made good on his promise. They were not chained, forced to hunch over brooms and wash for hours each day. They were personal servants to him, attending to his needs. Washing and folding of leathers and belts and scabbards. Dressing, preparing, and serving food. That was all.
With each stroke of her thumb, the gown was intended toward restoration. With meticulous care, she poured the water over the fabric, watching as the stains dissolved into oblivion, leaving behind a canvas of pristine beauty. The dress would have to be washed with washing soda and pressed. Yet, her thoughts lingered on the severed ties of corsetry, a reminder of the tailor's expertise awaiting them on the Island of White.
Meanwhile, outside the palace gates, Neesa emerged cloaked in the hues of twilight. A carriage awaited her, its steeds eager to embark on a journey in the form of precious gemstones and clandestine rendezvous.
Hail, driver!" she called.
The driver of a carriage hauled back on his reins. "Where to m'lady?" he asked.
"The Island of Saratha." She climbed in, settling her dress around her ankles. the driver crackled his whip and the speckled horses started forward. Neesa unfolded the note clasped within her grasp, its contents in an elegant script.
Sir,
I request your attendance to look into some precious gemstones for me. I desire to see these before I commission you to create a mask, a pair of slippers, and a low tiara. My servant will deliver my order and tell you my tastes which she understands precisely. I will visit you tomorrow at one 'o'clock.
The Executioner of Estela.
As the carriage set forth into the night, Neesa's thoughts drifted to her sister, Ashe, their destinies intertwined yet divergent in their pursuits. Together, they navigated the labyrinthine corridors of fate, their paths illuminated by a glass pin. To the public eye, she belonged to the Assassins, and the pin with its crossed axes told them to keep well away from her.
No other assassin under the King had servants to pick up after them. their affairs were in their own hands. Some snarled at the girls, but they never laid a finger on them, just in case the Executioner cut it off. The last time an assassin had kept Ashe and Neesa waiting, the punishment had been legendary.
******************
Ashe glided out of the dimly lit Assassins' Quarters, her steps silent against the worn stone pathway. No grand carriage awaited her; she preferred the solitude of her own company as she ventured towards the distant seventh island of Tella. There, amidst the whispers of the wind and the rustle of skirts, lay the coveted secret of fat silkworms and their precious threads, coveted by all for the creation of the most exquisite gowns.
The sea winds were brewing as the sun dipped low into the ocean. The Town's Clock, guardian of time's passage, inched its hands towards the stroke of six as Ashe navigated through the labyrinthine streets. Bakers, weary from the day's toil, balanced trays of unsold bread upon their heads to distribute it to the poor and starving of the Devil's Arch. Tiny flower girls, like delicate sprites, lingered near the ancient Devil's Arche, their hopeful eyes seeking golden coins in the sale of blossoms, a meagre offering in exchange for a morsel of sustenance. Ashe dropped a few coins into a basket and accepted a bouquet of vibrant tulips in return. Squealing children squeezed between filthy men and their cartloads heading toward the glass bridge. She made her way over the glass bridge, a marvel of craftsmanship borne from the hands of skilled artisans. The bridge was dotted with a few men, lugging yokes over their shoulders. Glass smiths, their forms silhouetted against the dying light, laboured tirelessly at the Salt Sea, harvesting sand to be transformed into the delicate substance that adorned the grand structures of the realm. These artisans, masters of their craft, possessed not only the skill to shape glass but also the vision to craft palaces, estates, gardens, houses, and bridges that danced with elegance and grace.
Navigating past the swaying loads of glass and sand, Ashe reached the end of the bridge, crossing over to the Island of White where dreams were spun from threads of silk. Here, amidst a sea of tailors vying for attention, her master had judged them and it was quick and swift. the tailors had not even noted him, nor did they recognize the cloaked figure. Many lacked the master talents for intricate design and a high chain of clients. He'd practically entered and exited within five minutes in disgust. One name stood out like a beacon of light: Tico. Once a humble apprentice, now a master in his own right, Tico's talents were whispered of in hushed tones, his creations coveted by the elite of society. He'd been apprenticed under a diamond worker, a goldsmith, and a silk embroiderer. These talents had caught Adonis' eye. In a demonstration in the shop that had been tucked away two tall townhouses, he'd woven gold threads that were as thin as a spider's web, into a bolt of silk. He then swiftly sewed in jade beads and soft white blossoms. the result had been a work worthy of the highest pay and spectacle.
She found the shop and pushed open the door, greeted by a riot of colour and texture, bolts of silk cascading from stands and shelves, each more exquisite than the last. Pinned to the walls were different patterns and styles for the eye. Not many people knew where the most-wanted tailor lived. If they did, the shop would packed and not even the highest bidder could get the most envied gown for the ball.
"We're closed." A mousy brown-haired man pushed his head through a heavy brocade curtain. He was bespectacled, aged around thirty. Handsome. But there was something about him that repulsed the woman.
"You won't refuse my order," Ashe countered, her gaze steady as she revealed her request.
Tico, ever the enigma, shot back. "Indeed, so?"
Ashe told him what she required. Cording, he had. He spun to the floor-to-ceiling rack behind him and slid the ropes onto the bench with a folded corset. "If worn previously by the deceased. Is that all so I may return?"
"I haven't finished." She took a note from her dress pocket. He read it quickly, removing a row of pins that had been stuffed in his mouth.
He sighed, somewhat annoyed. "I've spent five months burrowed away like a mouse for a Madame who wishes her dress to sparkle like silver stars and the blue of the night on the surface of a white moon."
"And have you succeeded?"
"I solved my problems by dipping my blue silk into molten silver. It will dry clear and I will have to brush it down to lighten the weight of the gown once completed. Three objects. What colour does she desire?"
"White. I will visit tomorrow. What time suits you?"
"I don't give a fig in the world. I tarry away." He pushed his golden-rimmed glasses up his nose. "I work day and night."
"I suggest white diamond—"
"No. Yellow diamond will suit."
He had an air of an apathetic. He did not take on an order no matter the worth if he could not satisfy himself. He dwelt in his work and feverishly battled to please his glass heart to create something that pleased himself. If he knew he could not create it or gather the impossible materials, he refused the order. No matter how much he was paid, his fame, or bullied into it. He did not respond to praise or taunt.
"Very well." Ashe was used to Tico's moods. Adonis had used him many a time for his lover's gifts. Tico kept her commissions secret, without a bribe. He just was pleased to create for himself. A challenge.
"Do you have a time?"
"It will be ready when it is. And do not be a moment late."
It was often known that jealous women paid thieves to break into dress shops and steal their rivals' beautiful gowns.