Wilds winds battered the onyx walls of Vaclav’s mansion-spire. Deep below, the outskirts formed a dark mass, above the endless firmament glared down on the garden top. And around the outer walls, the spire flittered slowly around.

  Dreary clouds gathered in the far distance, in the north. Vipsaeril shivered within the refined folds of her golden dress, the silk breathed warm temperatures within its liquid-threads, the indigo velvet veil and cape shielded the order of her black strands gathered into a low bun, from the howling winds. On either of her sides, statues of vague and bizarre humanoid shapes stood erect, in myriad different poses, some focusing their stony gazes at her, others with arms stretched wide stared at the dreary skies, the gloomy clouds passing by. The former filled her with unease as she approached the frivolous virdrian in whose employ she spent months planning.

  From her seniors, she heard many tales regarding artists, sculptors with a penchant for maghia. Whilst they utilized chaos maghia to gain inspiration, to stoke the sparks of creation, their works of art acted as gargoyles looming over the dark temples of the Aydvroeghus.

  Silent guardians, sculpted until they resembled the living. These were not such silent guardians though, she knew, her superiors spent months scouting the place, employed the greatest within their order to sense the faintest traces of maghia, but beyond the mysteries of the manor’s center, they sensed nothing else. Yet she had her doubts, as Vaclav came from an old nobilos family, one whom originated from beyond the hallowed peeks of Dhaugruz.

  He still wore the lofty woolen coat of a rich, earthly tone, the white rims soft as snow, the waist fitted, the bottom flared around his ankles. His figure appeared healthy, his blondish-brown hair lush and silken, his beard accentuated his warrior features, yet the dark circles were the signs of an ailing artist.

  Beneath the coat, he wore a flowing robe of bright purple, silvered trims, accented in golden at the stilted collar looping about his neck like a shawl, whilst a short, lightweight cloak of bright red formed a second, outer layer. Along its velvety surface, seamed runes whirled in a chaotic storm, emanated an ethereal glow of shifting manifold shades. His eyes remained shut, his short, brownish-blonde hair fluttered in the wind as he slightly upright tilted his head, whilst he stood in the shadow of the white marble block.

  “Thank you Aelerin.” Contrary to the other servants, Vaclav maintained a calm, genial manner. On his handsome face, a smile curled, though mirthless, hints of sorrow glinted in his icy blue, doe eyes. He fidgeted around with the sharp ends of his broad, curling whiskers, looking back at the marble.

  “Need anything else, master?” Vipsaeril said in her meek, soft voice. Her eyes half-lidded, her body half-bent towards the white floor.

  “Nothing that is palpable my dear.” As she straightened back, watched Vaclav stare at the marble, noticed the twitching of his finger, veins popped, then a sigh escaped the man. “Tell me Aelerin, have you ever glared at death itself?”

  Vipsaeril lifted her left brow. The strange question nearly led her to plunge her blade into his neck, then rush, ditch the persone constructed by the Order. But as he turned, looked at her like a domesticated hound, feeling awkward both at the abruptness and weirdness of the question. “Pardon the question. Let me rephrase it. How would you envision the Solemn Shepherd without her veil. I’ve seen thousand works of my fellow kin, yet not one of them courted with the idea. Not even the great masters of the Old Realms.”

  Still, she remained on alert, kept her right hand within her golden dress, close to the hidden dagger as she humored the target. “My parents often told me, she had no flesh beneath, that what she reveals to the dying is a glamour to ease their passing, and those who misbehave gain a dreadful glimpse.” For the first time since she enlisted here, Vaclav let out a soft, honest chuckle. It surprised her a little, but continued on. “Personally, I think she has the magnificence of elderly ladies, like my old neighbors who listened patiently as we regaled our afternoon adventures in the woods.”

  “Thank you Aelerin.” Vaclav said, scribing down the words onto a piece of paper. “You can go now; I shall bring the jug back myself once I am finished here.” She bowed and left; her ears tingled under the headdress’s translucent white veil. “I wonder if that what she saw.” Vaclav’s murmured words strode along the chilling autumnal winds.

  *****

  Bright golden rays shone through the mosaiced windows, Vipsaeril strode along the carpet laden floor without making a sound beyond the hushed whispers of silk and velvet. With eyes and ears sharpened, she listened onto the pervading whispers of the servants lingering betwixt the walls. Through them she learned of the gradual decay of Vaclav’s manners towards others, and joviality began nearly a year before the contract had been put on his head. Before, his gaiety proved quite infectious amongst those close to him, cared not about the mistakes of the servants and silence was seldom within the lofty walls. Until the disappearance of his beloved muse and wife.

  For weeks she mingled amongst the others whose gazes bathed in contemptuous shadows, knowing Vaclav still possessed these qualities, shown only to the newcomer. But eventually, the ice broke and excused their silence believing she would spread the tale beyond the confines of the spire, into the cavernous streets of Pyrghos where it could reach the ears of Quarrianis, the austere ruler, once believed to be the successor to the throne of the Empire, even though he lacked the prismatic scales. A good friend of their master, but a greater friend of the missing wife who served as handmaiden to his own.

  They did not fault Vaclav, knew the man they once knew and loved still lingered within the rotting shell lingering like a shadow. Any chance a word would get beyond the walls of what happened, and their master would be dead.

  At last, Vipsaeril pieced together how Vaclav began working on an alchemical concoction. One which would have hastened the flow of his work, though it remained a close-kept secret, but most within the mansion suspected from the nebulous deliveries, it would turn flesh into marble, akin to the secret bestial arts of basilisks and gorgons, though refined so to keep the colors of the subject, and of course less deadly. At least they prayed so, but one never knew with the ilk of Daemeiorvoth.

  In the worst case, they believed he would use it on corpses, as Vaclav was one of the few artists graced to work on the statues erected in the Radiant Keep’s Garden of the Lost.

  In regards of his shift in mood, behavior towards the servants, Vaclav began working not just to hasten his workflow, but wanted to use it for his magnum opus, a work which would have been a monument of his love towards the missing wife of his. A piece to eternalize her beauty, her maidenly innocence. A piece which she stared at after learning it had been finished the day after her vanishment. Though in what way he wished to achieve it, Vipsaeril had a single idea, barring one, a transmutation spell of greater magnitude.

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  Hearing the pieces of the tale, Vipsaeril grew curious, sought out the piece which finished just the day when the muse vanished.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Vipsaeril could not help, but let out a soft yelp as Vaclav spoke, his voice raspy, tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as he looked at the statue.

  She nodded, following Vaclav as he stood beside her, arms folded. Her gaze then inspected each feature, from the finely hewn thin brows arching above the sunken, lifted and elongated eyes, azure pearls in their center, a serene gaze focused above them. Bodacious bottom-heavy lips, in half a smile, a short, button nose above, prominent cheeks and a tapering jawline highlighting the leanness of her soft, youthful face.

  “Yes, my lord.” Vipsaeril watched his gauzed hands slip out from beneath the voluminous cuffs of his coat, gently cup the marbled chin.

  “It was her idea.” Vaclav chuckled. The words issued from his mouth like a confession, as a lone tear gleamed, trailed across his cheek, only to disappear in the thick, silky jungle of brown and blonde strands. “I shouldn’t have let her in.” The present state appeared perfect. Here the two of them stood alone in the chamber, gazed emptily by the statues, Vaclav lost in the painful past as he murmured the words. A swift strike into his chest, lower him down onto his knees, furl his fingers around the grip, then shriek and weep or just scurry away so another finds the corpse, imitating the suicide of a miserable noble.

  Yet she could not carry out the deed yet. She felt a gaze focused on her, and for a moment thought those painted eyes stared right through her fa?ade.

  Instead, she spotted the dangling key on his belt, stood in silence as she pondered how to get her hands on it.

  *****

  Weeks of hard work, patience finally paid off. Decided upon carrying out the deed in the workshop located in the heart of the mansion, Vipsaeril spent her nights skulking from her cabin to the bedroom of Vaclav on the top floor. Though at times he seemed to work in that shut off section, four nights he left the key in his drawer near the bed, right beside the strange tome bearing the ten-spoked star symbol of Chaos.

  Contrary to her expectation, it took a bit while to draw the schematics, thanks to the peculiar design of the key itself. Carven onto its headless, flat end were a series of intricate, arkhaine natured etchings she believed served as an identification spell.

  In a way she was close to the truth, as her contract explained the need for a drop of blood and or strand of hair from Vaclav, as upon activation a head would grow out upon insertion. A task which at first seemed daunting, but as the days passed, Vipsaeril noticed the waning of the artistic nobilos. When she entered his services, appeared in excellent health, physical condition. His fair skin possessed a hydrous sheen, a smoothness comparable to the preternatural evenness of top-grade arcane fabrics, his hair and frivolous beard were both lush, possessed a silky quality. Yet as the months passed, his wiry figure lost its stalwartness, his eyes and cheeks sunken as he ate less and less. And his hair entered the much-dreaded phase of receding. Fortune smiled at her, and she smiled back at it.

  Sitting on her bed one night, she handed the pouch of fallen hair to her Dusk Elemental, then as it left, a peculiar notion, a outlandish idea popped into her head. What if the contractor wasn’t the family of his absent wife, nor someone else close to her, but Vaclav himself. From what she heard about his creation, she recalled how at least the gorgon’s dreaded petrification can be reversed through the demise of the creature. What if Vaclav commissioned his own death.

  But even all things considered, it seemed lunacy. “It matters not.” She sighed, throwing the blanket over herself, pondering what will be her next contract after Vaclav.

  Three nights later, the headless second key to the heart of the mansion came prepared, holding it in her palm, Vipsaeril felt the faint mana residue lingering within the heavy piece. It was perfectly identical to the one Vaclav carried around himself, from the eight-sided bow with a ten-spoked pattern within, down to the angular shaft with soft waves of golden and brown writhing towards the headless end. She pocketed it into her dress along with her dagger, then her pet crawled up the hem, quickly enveloped her whole form.

  Stealing across the winding corridors, a foreboding feeling assailed her, as if someone followed her. Vipsaeril could not resist the urge, stopped and turned around a few times, ready to face another servant, or one of the few guards Vaclav employed. No one stood there, her eyes swept from one corner to the other, only a sweet and faint fragrance hit her nose as she turned back, continued her way towards the stairs.

  The key easily fit in as per her expectations, silently she thanked her friend and contact. With a soft click it opened, and spotted Vaclav standing in his robes only, near the precipice of a deep pool. A strange glow emanated from it, bathing his face and torso, whilst the rest enjoyed the grace of the Lunarius shining down.

  “You know, I left it open each night. But I guess, I am the fool still.” Vaclav turned, faced his killer with a mocking smile. Even in the shadows cast over her crimson eyes, he saw her perched brow, chuckled weakly.

  She remained silent, alert. Yet no shapes lingered in the bushes, growing near the windowless walls. “Only the two of us is here. The others are asleep, deep in the realm of Oneiron.”

  “So, you ordered your own death. One last great piece of art?” She asked, jesting a little.

  “You could say so. But its not the whole picture.” He relapsed into silence whilst turning wholly towards Vipsaeril. “You saw the grimoire in my office, didn’t you? I left it near the key. That damnable book.” He murmured weakly, looking down at the thick liquid billowing in the pool. Its radiance mesmerizing, wicked.

  A sharp, cold feeling seeped from the back, he tasted blood for a moment. “Not the curious one.” He chuckled as life slowly slipped from him. Vipsaeril shook her cowled head. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Thank you, whoever you are dear assassin.” He pushed the blade out, poking his heart, then tumbled into the paint, sunk deep into the thick liquid of many-colors. She watched, offered a prayer.

  On her way out she stopped, leapt into the thickness of shadows, hearing naked footsteps rushing near her, then as they grew distant, a curious feeling led her into the hall. There she stared at the empty dais the statue stood. A faint draught swept past it, through the window, as a weeping echoed from the heart of the mansion, where Vaclav’s marble form smiled at the dawning sky.

  *****

  Rumors spread as quickly as evening shadows, Vipsaeril concluded whilst watched the upward flowing, cleansed water in the upper sewers of Pyrghos. Only a day passed since she plunged her dagger into Vaclav’s back, watched as he threw himself into his concoction, and word already spread from the top palace level down to the outskirts surrounding the four stones serving as the spire city’s foundation.

  All knew the tragedy of Vaclav, how he reached into the outer realms, called upon the primordial chaos, the torn-out madness of the Almodo. All for the sake of becoming the greatest artist, to create the substance which would equate flesh and marble. Yet it doomed him in the end, such is the price of tempering with Chaos. The pay was good, and in the end, that is all that mattered to Vipsaeril whose thoughts quickly shifted to the intricacies of the sewer system as she waited to meet with her new client.

  One who like her, belonged to the House of Dusk. One from the old realms as she listened to her Vermicillian’s briefing. One whom she barely spotted stepping out from the shadows, draped in even finer garments than what Vaclav wore. Silk which possessed no blemish upon its flowing surface, its color red as the blood which flown in all life, red as their meeting eyes cloaked in shadows. A pale woman who walked with the grace of night, her lips still wet from blood as she smiled and greeted the assassin, who felt anxious for the first time in her life, not at the creature masked as languid woman of noble blood, but at the prospect of assassinating the one destined to be Elhyrissiar. It was quite the leap from an artistic noble after all.