they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
and told you to find peace.
I
n an alley on the edge of a sleeping city, a shadow breaks free from the depths of the dark. With practiced ease does Caine take turn after twisting turn through the labyrinth of sandstone alleys, his pace never faltering, his gaze never wandering. A dagger, as sharp as it is beautiful, sits cool along the curves of his knotted spine. He itches to feel the heft of it in his grasp.
Caine cannot remember the last time he has slept. Shadows line his eyes like kohl, and a dull throbbing has taken root just behind his temple — yet, he is not tired. Far from it. In the hazy light of blue dawn, Caine's silver eyes, normally pallid, gleam fever-bright.
Tonight, he is on the hunt for secrets.
The ones he has already amassed buzz like flies in his skull. Whispers of the silver Crow who'd murdered a brother. (Acton. The magician's name triggers a rush of... rage? Regret? If Caine could grieve, he would've for him.) Murmurs of the silver Queen who'd fought for a kingdom. (They say that she is dead. No body, but — no one could have survived that. There had been too much blood. And yet...)
The days and nights following Raum's bloody ascension have been nothing short of chaos. Fear runs rampant through the streets, breeding faster than maggots in a corpse. The people are restless. Angry. Thirsty for the blood of a newly crowned boy-king.
It is a caustic mix, and soon, something will give. Something has to give. Caine's mouth twists into a scowl. Madness. It is all madness.
Somewhere, a raven caws, its echo an omen of things to come.
Caine stops to lean heavily against a rough, crumbling wall. His breath comes short and sharp, his eyes glassing over as pain pulses through his skull to the beat of his racing heart. The silver scars on his forehead throb a livid, glowing orange, and they threaten to burn the last strands of his composure to smoke. The lack of sleep is starting to cost him.
Damn Agenor to hell. Gritting his teeth, he reaches into the folds of his wings and pulls out the dagger. The magnificently carved hilt gleams dully in the moonlight for just a moment, before he slices it neatly across smooth flesh. Blood rushes to the surface of the cut.
He exhales when the familiar pain comes, slow and steady.
Hurt for hurt. Blood for blood. The sorcerer's last cruel joke, to make it so that only the addition of pain could stem the agony of Caine's curse.
A streak of silver. He does not see the arrow until it strikes the sand at his feet. "What —" Seized by momentary shock, Caine drops to the ground, back pressed to the wall. His eyes shine with a predatory light. The shadows shift — or do they? He swallows his panic, slows his breath. Looks carefully at the arrow buried shaft-deep in the sand. It had missed him by strides — he has never known an archer with worse aim. Clearly, it had been shot for a different purpose.
When he sees the note affixed to its blood red fletching, he almost smiles. "Now that," he says, "was exciting."
The midnight moon hangs crescent and crooked, a grinning mouth in the starless sky. The roar of the waterfall drowns out all other sound. The location is well chosen, Caine thinks, marveling at the pool of sparkling water sheltered by the crags of a limestone canyon. To think, that such a place existed in the middle of a desert.
Something — someone — approaches. If he strains his ears, he can just make out the click of hooves on stone. The shadows shift, and this time he knows he is not mistaken.
"A Raven has come to call," says Caine carefully, with bated breath.
And just who, exactly, has summoned him?
@Seraphina | "speaks" | notes: let's get this show on the road
