In the annals of antiquity, there existed a mysterious group steeped in shadows—the Revenants, an enigmatic assembly of cloaked assassins with faces concealed by haunting, faceless black masks. Clad in garments as dark as the abyss, they moved like specters through the corridors of time, a ghostly presence that struck fear into the hearts of those who heard their name.
The Revenants were not mere agents of chaos; they were staunch guardians of the Crown and its kingdom, their unwavering loyalty embedded in the very fabric of their existence. The initiation into their clandestine ranks involved a solemn oath of allegiance to the monarch, a vow that transcended mortal boundaries and bound them to the service of the realm. The faceless masks, symbols of their commitment, transformed them into ethereal executioners, their motives veiled in the darkness that surrounded them.
Under the cloak of night, the Revenants emerged from the shadows, their darkened forms barely discernible as they navigated through hidden passageways and concealed alcoves. The masks, featureless and foreboding, concealed any trace of emotion, making them inscrutable agents of destiny. Legends whispered of their origin—a lineage of silent killers who embraced the anonymity of the mask, dedicated to preserving the kingdom's sovereignty.
One moonlit night, a command echoed through the secret corridors of power—a decree from the Crown that tasked the Revenants with a mission of utmost importance. Their loyalty to the kingdom manifested in swift and silent action. The air crackled with the energy of impending doom as the Revenants moved with silent intent, the dark cloaks billowing like wraiths on a mission ordained by the Crown.
In the heart of a rival city, where political intrigue and nefarious plots unfolded, the Revenants descended like avenging spirits. Their lethal prowess, a dance of shadows choreographed with deadly precision, left a trail of whispered tales and chilling legends. The faceless masks stared unflinchingly into the abyss, reflecting the void within, as the Revenants executed their command with unwavering loyalty to the Crown.
As dawn approached, the Revenants retreated into the shadows, their mission accomplished with the efficiency that only silent phantoms could achieve. The kingdom remained secure, and the loyalty of these faceless assassins became a legend whispered in the halls of power—a testament to the unwavering devotion of the Revenants to the Crown, their shadows forever intertwined with the destiny of the realm.
A man stood upon the wreckage of a throne hall, surrounded by carnage and corpses. In his hands, he held two items; one, a crown, its metal body cupping the jewels it held so tenderly, like a mother to her child. In his other hand, shined a sword not yet dried of its past deeds.
He walked over to an open terrace, sheathing his sword and setting the crown on the stone rail. Bracing his elbows on the cool surface, the man closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the night air tainted with smoke. The night had been long and hard, but successful. He had done the impossible, and now, no one could stop him.
He stretched out an arm for the crown at his side, wanting to feel the weight of it and the satisfaction it carried—
His hand touched stone.
Cool. Rough. Grainy.
Stone.
His eyes snapped open, and he drew his sword and crouched into a defensive stance, his eyes scanning the throne room. He watched as all the torches flickered and extinguished at the same time, as if a wind had blown through the hall, leaving only the moon to light the room.
A figure dressed in a cloak stepped into the light, and the man felt a shiver roll down his back, despite his best efforts. He knew who this was, what it was. He had just spent most of the night fighting through them.
The figure stopped before the doors, silent as ever. Even though its face was hidden by its hood and mask, the man could feel its eyes burning into him.
"Revenant," he spoke to the figure, tightening the grip on his sword. "You have lost. The Crown is mine, and you are mine. You are not allowed to exact revenge. Leave before you join your comrades in death." He said this with a gesture at the Revenant's feet, where a similar cloaked figure lay dead.
The Revenant looked down on its former companion, watching for a moment. Then, it suddenly moved, and the man tensed, raising his sword to defend himself -- but the Revenant just crouched over their fallen companion, moving a hand to the mask.
The man watched as a face was revealed in the moonlight. Pale and young. And human. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He had always been told that Revenants were creatures from another place, but here was proof that they were myths.
The Revenant closed the eyes of the one at its --their-- feet and stood. "A message for you," they said, the voice sending even more fear into the man. It felt strange and unnatural to hear, like rubbing rolled cotton together. If he never heard it again, it would be too soon.
There was a ripple in the space between them, and suddenly, another person joined the man on the balcony. A man clad in a white robe appeared in the moonlight, his flowing white hair shining in the night.
"Good morning, general," the newcomer's voice washed over the general, and sent a chill down his spine.
The general shifted his feet, moving away from the man in white. "Aritren."
The newcomer, Aritren, smiled at the other man, the way a proud grandfather would smile at his grandson. His eyes, however, seemed to send a different message. The general could see a black fire burning in the other man's eyes.
Aritren waved his hand towards his companion. "No need to be anxious, I'm just here to talk. As a matter of fact, I'm not even here, just an illusion. My friend over there has a message orb." Aritren gestured to the Revenant standing a few paces behind him, who bowed their head at being acknowledged.
"Now," Aritren folded his hands in front of him, walking to the railing of the balcony. "What did you hope to accomplish by killing for the Crown? Happiness? A long life? Glory? Do share, I'm quite curious. Blame my scholarly nature."
The general lowered his sword, his gaze never leaving the cloaked figure standing in the doorway. Wait, did the Revenant move closer?
"Oh, don't mind him," Aritren spoke up, nodding his head to the throne. The Revenant walked over to the broken chair, kneeling at its foot. "He's just the messenger."
The general grunted. "For now."
"Perhaps," the other man countered. "Perhaps not. Who knows what they think underneath those hoods and masks of theirs. Your answer?"
"I have none for you, Aritren."
"A shame. Time was, you shared everything with me, and I you. How much we've changed, old friend."
"What do you want, Aritren? If you are thinking of killing me, think again. You can't do magic, your oath denies you its use. And your pet Revenants couldn't kill me, so why are you here?"
Aritren chuckled, a deep and threatening laugh. "True, I can no longer use magic. A shame, really, but a small sacrifice for what I have now. As for why I'm here, I wanted to see you one last time."
The general raised his sword again, instantly on guard. "One last time? What do you mean?"
Aritren grinned, flashing his teeth, his kind appearance shifting to something more sinister. "Why, my dear General Geraan, before your death."
Geraan spun on his heel, eyes racing to the kneeling Revenant.
But the cloaked man had vanished, leaving the throne room empty. All that Geraan could see was a small glowing stone on the floor; the message orb.
A swish of fabric from behind him had Geraan spinning on his heel, but he was too slow. He was already feeling the bite of sharp metal in his thighs before he even finished spinning around. Falling to his knees, Geraan braced his hands on his sword, using it to remain upright.
"Look at me," Aritren's voice had lost any of its gentleness. "Look at me now." Geraan raised his head to gaze at the man in white. He could see now a dozen shadows standing behind the man, each holding a blade of black metal. "How!" Geraan growled. "They were supposed to be away from here."
Aritren smiled, crouching down and lifted Geraan's chin with his hand. "Oh, they were. They truly believed your little scheme, and called all their Spectres and Wraiths away, even the King's. They obviously left their Shades here, hoping they'd be enough to protect the King, but you killed them all."
Aritren patted the other man's head and stood up. He gestured to one of the Revenants behind him, who presented the crown that Geraan had held only a short time ago. Aritren lost his smile, his face turning sad. He reached out to caress the crown, but his fingers only phased through.
"You betrayed everything for this," he said to Geraan, who was struggling to his feet, "all to become the Crown Holder. You do not deserve it. May you rot in the afterlife, and all your descendants after."
With those final words, the man in white vanished, leaving Geraan facing his executioners. He raised his sword, drawing breath for a defiant shout. . . .
But never uttered a sound.
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