Excitement and anticipation filled the crackling air like a powder keg about to blow, and the frenzied murmur of many voices hung over the sprawling banquet like a canopy of whispered speculations. All of them had gathered at Malvorn's request, wearing their finest robes and hollowest smiles, putting on masks of pleasure and amusement, while secretly wondering why they'd been summoned. Senya could see it in their eyes, hear it in their exalted voices. She would've taken great pleasure in telling them that their sole purpose was to act as witnesses, and as the gossip spreaders they always were and would be.

A cynical smile tugged at her lips as she watched the crowd from one of the staircases that wrapped around the massive hall like the arms of a marble giant, connecting into a wide balcony with a commanding view over the spectacle. A table with the whitest of cloths was huddling against the pompous balustrade, with Malvorn and only a handful of confidants sitting behind it, leading intense conversation behind their jewelry-covered hands. While the people below craned their necks to get a better view of their acclaimed leader, maybe even get noticed among the many eager faces, Malvorn and his entourage didn't even look down.

A servant scurried past her, carrying a silver-domed plate on a large tray, along a set of cups filled with crimson wine. He bobbed his head as he hurried down the stairs, where he joined the roaring mass of feasting bodies. They were stuffing their silk-covered bellies with the pleasure the palace's pantry had to offer, all while feigning manners and decorum. Senya could smell their musky perfumes, heavy like a thick old blanket, fighting against the many scents of the dished-up food on the long tables.

Piles of meat and poultry, vegetables, and fruit sat under the massive chandeliers, like ridges of a scenic mountain range, with sugar-coated stacks of pastry as snow-covered peaks. Senya had never seen such an abundance of food, not even on the busiest days at Orm's Inn. The gluttony of it all seemed revolting and intriguing at the same time, and she probably would've joined the lavish piggery had it not been for her knowledge of what was to come.

She looked up at the large portal at the top of the staircase next to Malvorn's table of honor. Unknown to the guests, a company of roughly thirty guards was stationed just behind the door, weapons and shields in hand, and ready to charge into the room within the blink of an eye to eliminate any threat to their ruler. They were hand-picked by Malvorn himself, and five or so Fateweavers would not stand a chance against them, no matter their skill. They would find their ends in these halls, buried in the depths of Morathen and far away from home — and Senya would watch as they drew their last breaths, setting in motion the end of their entire order.

The mood in the room had gotten even more exuberant when Malvorn welcomed his guest with the news of King Montis's demise. Cheers and jubilation had swept through the crowd like the gust of a cave-in. Apparently, he had been murdered in his sleep, and Malvorn made no secret of his involvement in the matter, his face radiating with unwavering determination and grim satisfaction. The man knew how to inspire, and how to instill fear in his enemies and subjects alike — both were useful skills to have, Senya thought.

Another waiter hurried past her, carrying a plate of dainty appetizers with wooden skewers. He stopped mid-stride and courteously extended the tray to Senya, but she declined with a wave of her hand. The servant nodded politely and moved along, Senya's pensive gaze on his back.

That could've been her, she thought. Not long ago, it actually would've been — Senya the servant, Senya the waitress. One to be sent away without batting an eye, one to be hollered at for more drinks, or whistled at when there had been too many of them. Now, she was on the other side, and she still wondered how she got there. And yet, it came naturally to her, and she soaked up the feeling of power like sweet nectar.

"On second thought," Senya said firmly, and the servant came to an abrupt halt.

He turned around and looked at her, his expression carrying uncertainty and devotion.

"I changed my mind," she said with a smirk, and waved at the servant to come back.

He did as she asked, his head lowered respectfully, the tablet extended in front of him.

"What's your name?" Senya asked as she picked up one of the canapés and gracefully deposited it in her mouth.

"Mattias, My Lady."

What a pleasant ring that title had, Senya thought. She nodded absently at the waiter's response, fully aware that she would forget about his name the moment she dismissed him.

"How long have you been in Malvorn's service?"

The question caught him off guard, and he raised his head with a confused expression on his face. When their gazes met, he blushed and quickly looked away, as if mere eye contact could cause offense. He was about Senya's age, with a pretty face and brown hair that fell in lofty curls around his ears. The clothes he wore looked borrowed, too loose around his skinny shoulders, like they were handed to him so we wouldn't embarrass the host of today's festive banquet. Senya could see the seam of his stained and hole-covered undershirt, the bruises on his wrists and neck, speaking of a different life, far away from the palace and its grand halls. She'd seen plenty of boys like him growing up — maybe this one even lived in the same part of town as she had.

"Seven years," the waiter finally said quietly, then hastily added: "My Lady."

Senya raised her eyebrows.

"That's a long time. You must've been a child when you started."

He shrugged, but the gown he was wearing barely moved.

"You don't get to be a child for long where I come from."

A cynical smile tugged at her lips. "Don't I know it?" she thought.

The servant glanced up the stairs, restlessness growing within him. Surely, he was expected somewhere and would receive punishment if suspected of dallying.

"Where would that be?"

Senya didn't actually care, but she still found the exchange entertaining.

The young man looked uncomfortable, like he usually wouldn't share that kind of information willingly. But in the presence of someone he thought superior, he couldn't refuse.

"The southern part of town. Near the edge of the main cave, where the entrances to the mines are."

Senya nodded, and a murky stream of memories flashed past her. For a brief time, she'd worked the mines — it was a grim affair, with slim odds of survival. Due to a lack of natural strength, she'd never been good at the actual mining itself. More than once did she have to stop working after only an hour or two because she couldn't lift her pickaxe anymore. But she was nimble and agile, much unlike the bulky miners, and so they'd found other uses for her, like climbing down abandoned shafts to see if they were still stable. Though she was light as a feather and moved with precision, there were many times when she only barely escaped a gaping void or sharp cliff below her. Eventually, the oppressive darkness and the constant fear of missing a hold or being buried alive by a collapsing beam were not worth the meager pay anymore, and so she moved on. The money was still bad, but at least in Orm's tavern, she didn't constantly have to fear for her life.

"You're lucky you deal in silver trays and not silver ore," Senya said into the tense silence that had formed between them.

The servant flashed a weak smile and inclined his head. Senya knew he thought her naive, but she didn't mind.

"You may go now," she finally declared with a flick of her wrist.

The servant nodded again, then said: "Thank you, My Lady."

And with that, he scurried past her, down the stairs and into the masses, where he disappeared like a drop in the sea.

When Senya looked up again, she noticed Malvorn staring at her, his dark eyes framed by silver-black hair, with an amused smile on his lips. Had he been watching her this entire time? Or had he just glanced over by chance? She held his gaze for a few seconds, then pushed herself away from the balustrade.

Just when she wanted to move up the staircase, she noticed a group of hood-covered heads at the edge of her vision. They were standing off to the side of the room, not partaking in the feast that filled the hall with laughter and clattering, but watching the spectacle from the depths of their vibrant robes, one of them purple, the other four orange. They stood perfectly still, their bodies close together like a formation of colorful stalactites. Senya couldn't see their faces, but she knew they carried malicious intent.

Then, with the precision of a crack tearing through solid rock, they started weaving through the crowd towards the staircase, moving as one, their heads low.

A cold shower ran down Senya's spine, and she stood frozen in place as she watched the pack of orange and purple approach, cutting through the field of shiny faces like a sharpened sickle. No one seemed to notice them — no one but her.

Then, she heard the sound of cracking wood at the top of the staircase, loud and violent at first, but then awfully quiet. She yanked her head around, but the movement felt ponderous, like invisible strings were restraining her every muscle. She saw Malvorn, caught up in a discussion with the man next to him, gesturing with his unoccupied hand for a servant to bring more wine — only the servant had dropped the cask of wine, and its remains lay shattered on the cold stone not too far from where Senya was standing.

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In her mind, time started to slow down, moving sluggishly like molten iron. She saw the woman on the other side of Malvorn lift a fork up to her mouth, inch by inch. Someone laughed, their voice bent and distorted, and a sprinting waiter behind the table seemed to glide through the air. They all moved so slowly — except for the hooded figures, who had managed to cross the distance to the foot of the staircase with cruel efficiency.

Senya wanted to shout a warning, wanted to scream, but the words got caught in her throat like soot in a chimney. She wanted to breathe, but the thick air burned in her lungs.

Poison.

With watery eyes, she noticed the violet shimmer around her, condensing around her feet and wafting over the smooth marble steps in intricate swirls. Her lazy eyes traced the soft cloud up the stairs, where it originated in pulsating waves from the broken cask that lay on the floor.

Panic split her head like an axe, and a raging pain started to rush through her veins from head to toe, leaving behind a trail of destruction. Convulsing, her harrowed gaze darted through the room, only to find the same violet dust emerge from the tables across the room, glittering majestically in the sparkling light of the chandeliers. Everywhere, people started coughing and choking, and their perky faces turned to masks of pain and horror. There were screams, she thought, but her numb ears could only hear dull echoes, like she was buried under a layer of rubble.

The robed figures quickly took the few steps leading up to where Senya was standing, spreading their arms and exposing weapons of all shapes and sizes. They flew past Senya like a squadron of death, pushing her aside like tall grass. She fell backwards, her head and back hitting the wall with a thud that sent waves of pain through her entire body. Dark shades formed around her vision, drawing inwards with the beating drum that was her pulse. Struggling to move her body, Senya rolled her head to the side to see the large silhouette of Malvorn through her hazy eyes. He had drawn himself up to his full height, arms spread wide in a greeting of imminent fighting, a belligerent smile on his lips.

The first of the orange-robed figures charged at him, whirling a staff above their head almost too fast to see. Malvorn stepped forward and grabbed the assailant by the neck, lifting them up into the air like a child, then tossed them over the balustrade like a discarded toy. Senya couldn't see the impact, but she could feel it resonate through the stone she was lying on.

Taken aback by the demise of their comrade, the other assassins approached more carefully now, following the lead of the figure in purple.

Malvorn only laughed as they surrounded him like a pack of wolves, gracefully shifting their weight and weapons from one side to the other. Through their hesitation, Senya could see the portal doors behind Malvorn swing open and a host of soldiers sprawl onto the balcony, charging at the enemy without warning.

The Fateweavers formed a line of defense against the onslaught, slamming their wooden weapons against shields and swords. While the figure in purple cut through the ranks of the guards like a force of nature, breaking bones and fracturing skulls, the other three remaining attackers were struggling to hold their ground. They would take down their fair share of enemies, but their movements started to slow, their defense getting weaker with every deflected sword thrust. In the midst of it all stood Malvorn, like the eye of a raging storm, and his face was radiating with bloodlust. He slowly started to walk forward, casually pushing his men to the side, while his eyes were locked onto the men and women who came here to kill him. One of them was in the middle of dancing around a group of four soldiers, dodging their attacks while lashing out with short poles like a pair of stinging hornets. The soldiers wept in pain when their knee caps shattered, reached for their throats when all air was pressed out of their lungs — until Malvorn calmly grabbed the Fateweaver from behind and snapped their neck like a stick. The lifeless body fell to the floor, surrounded by incapacitated soldiers. Malvorn stepped over them like they were just rubble, moving with grim determination.

The remaining three Fateweavers started to fall back, leaving a trail of broken bodies in their wake. The figure in purple moved in front of the other two, deflecting thrusts and slashes with incredible speed — but it was no use. Archers had moved in behind Malvorn, and with the snap of his fingers, they let go of swirling arrows that burrowed their rusty tips deep into the orange-robed attackers.

For a moment, the purple-robed Fateweaver stood frozen in the middle of their fallen comrades, watching as their sullied robes soaked up pooling blood coming from deep cuts in their chests. The soldiers knew they had won, so in an effort not to get any more bones broken, they kept a respectful distance. No one moved, except for Malvorn, until he stood only a few feet away from the last remaining assailant.

He said something that Senya couldn't hear — but the sly expression on his face was telling enough, and so was the burst of energy that emanated from the figure in purple, as they tightened the grip around their staff and leaped towards the ruler of the Fateless. Malvorn tried to avoid the attack by stepping to the side, but he was too slow. The staff jammed into his abdomen with the force of shifting mountains, and he stumbled backwards. Not skipping a beat, the assailant charged after him, but was blocked by a row of soldiers that formed between them and Malvorn. The attacker ferociously whirled their staff through the air, too fast for any of the soldiers to react, and so they fell one after the other, tumbling and gasping for air.

Despite all their might, Senya could see that the figure in purple was panting hard, and their hands were shaking after every blow that found its mark. Malvorn also saw their exhaustion, and he laughed as the first slash cut through the Fateweaver's formerly impeccable defense, wounding their left thigh with an inch-wide gash. They dropped to one knee, staff still up high, still swooping around and hitting hips and collar bones. But there was no winning against the mass of armored bodies surrounding the attacker, and so eventually, their staff started to slow down, as they suffered cut after cut all over their body.

Throughout the entire encounter, Senya's vision had been fading, and the burning pain that seeped through every part of her body started to drown her consciousness in dreamy darkness. Gathering her remaining strength, she tilted her head to the other side, overlooking the banquet hall like she had done mere moments ago.

The purple mist had thickened, collecting at the bottom of the staircase and wafting through the room in thick clouds. In it lay bodies stacked on bodies, their limbs tangled and twisted in a desperate death struggle. There were bodies on the floor, smothered and deformed, on the tables and chairs, in the aisles, and bent over chairs. There were bodies everywhere, like a scree field covered by purple morning mist.

They were all dead — and Senya could feel she was joining them.

Just when the darkness closed in on her like she was drowning in pitch-black water, she could sense the touch of a firm hand on her shoulder, yanking her upper body forward and reaching for her head. Then, she could feel something fibrous being stuffed in her mouth, dry and bitter. She gagged, but her teeth were being held shut until she swallowed the unpleasant substance, almost regurgitating in the process.

Immediately, she could feel a cleansing warmth radiate from her esophagus, and within minutes her senses returned to her, one after the other.

Malvorn was standing in front of her, his back turned towards her, examining what was left of his grand celebration. His fists were clenched, blood that wasn't his dripping from the callused knuckles and onto the stone steps, where the last hint of the purple shimmer gently slid down towards the bottom of the staircase.

When he noticed Senya shuffling behind him, he slowly turned around, his face distorted by rage — and just a spark of relief.

"You almost died," he said in a flat tone.

Senya's mouth was dry as sand, her lips numb and flaky. She swallowed a couple of times, wincing in pain when saliva was pressed against her irritated throat.

"What —" she stammered, but the word turned into a brittle rasp.

"Night's Oath," Malvorn hissed behind gritted teeth, his eyes drifting over the sea of dead bodies below them. "A most deadly poison, even in small doses, which this was not."

For a moment, his furious eyes got lost in the purple swirls that filled the room, and only slowly dissipated through cracks in the doors and shafts in the floor.

As Senya tried to collect her thoughts, she could hear soldiers shout orders above them. When she looked over, she saw that the purple-robed figure was being dragged out of the room, their body still moving but severely damaged. Other guards were tending to their wounded comrades, but most of them were just watching the scene below the balcony in horror and disbelief.

"How am I still alive?" Senya managed to ask.

Malvorn grunted. "For one, their plan didn't work quite as they intended.

Night's Oath is a heavy poison, heavier than air. They wanted to poison me, but instead they unleashed a waterfall of death that killed everyone below me. You happened to be right in the stream, but it wasn't enough for a fatal dose. At least not right away."

Senya considered his words for a moment. Lately, she seemed to barely escape death on a daily basis.

"Still, it would've killed you, and it almost did. Luckily, our enemies brought both curse and cure."

He opened his fist and exposed a few fibrous strands of a herb Senya didn't recognize, with brown stems and white spots.

"What is it?" Senya asked as she stared at the plant that had saved her life.

"The surface dwellers call it Widow's Weed. Our kind knows it as Moon Dew. It negates the effect of Night's Oath surprisingly well. The assassins used it to protect themselves from the poison."

Senya acknowledged that Malvorn had read the situation surprisingly well and fast enough to save her life. His anger and physical appearance made him seem irrational at times, but even in these heated situations, his mind seemed to be sharp as knife.

They fell silent for a moment, until Senya found the energy to push herself off the floor. She stepped next to Malvorn and overlooked the carnage.

"They killed your witnesses," she said without emotion.

Malvorn nodded grimly.

"That they did. For all their righteousness and pretense, they have shown their real face today, and it is every bit as ugly as I've always known it to be. Finally, they revealed the monster within them."

Senya hesitated for a moment.

"So you still count this a success?"

A cruel expression took hold of Malvorn's face.

"Who would still question my plan after today? Who would not be willing to plant a blade in a Fateweaver's heart?"

"Those who will be scared of the Fateweavers after how much damage a mere handful of them caused," Senya offered, fully aware that Malvorn would not like her concerns.

The smug expression on his face gave way to a grimace of rage.

"They should be scared of what damage I will cause to any coward I find among us."

Senya noticed a vein on Malvorn's neck bulge, pulsating with the steady stream of his anger.

"What of the Fateweaver that survived?" she asked to take off some of the tension.

The question painted a sinister smile on Malvorn's face.

"Oh, she will still serve her purpose. If she survives, that is."

"She?" Senya blurted.

A part of her found it inspirational to see a female fighter carve through the ranks of Malvorn's men like a knife through soft butter.

"A formidable warrior, I'll give her that," Malvorn murmured bitterly.

Senya's eyes met the remains of the servant she had talked to earlier, Mattias, his face puffy and lined with bloody tears.

"We have lost many supporters today," Senya said factually, still staring at the young man.

Malvorn scoffed. "They have done their part. Look at them — they are no fighters, they are politicians. And the time for politics is over."

Senya nodded.

"Into war, then."

"Into war," Malvorn rasped.

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