A Chapter by Yello Duzzit

First chapter, possibly a prologue (I know- I know, please, bear with me) this is where the idea started in my head.

As beautiful as the city was, Hero knew, soon after he killed its king, it would fall to chaos. He’d seen it a few times, already. They were smaller cities, and none of them the star of the most prosperous nation in the known world. Nevertheless… chaos. The star speckled black castle home of Hero’s prey was sculpted out of the Star Stone mountain side that formed the cities northern border. The highest point of the city blended into the highest peak of the region. He fantasized about being called, the Mountain Crumbler, when he was done- No. The Mountain Crusher? Ehh. He’d think of a name later.
Hero, itching with sweat chilled by the night air, chewed on the weight of his body straining his tawny hands. The ache sang of the three stories he had climbed, Just to dangle from this balcony. His stomach became weightless as he looked down. He inhaled slowly, gazing at the majestically ornamented courtyard he’d likely splatter onto, had he not been a runt. He was always small. Skinny, but strong. A gift and a curse in the cut throat assassins guild he wished to be standing in… he wished to be standing anywhere, really.
Metallic tinks and scrapes punctuating obstructed sentences confirmed the guards were finally eating. The smell of the stew almost made him want a bowl. Almost. Weeks of scouting taught him where the guards ate, and by extension, where they would be most vulnerable. It’s why he ate alone. Gods shame us. Centuries of divine tinkering could separate us from monkeys, but not prevent our guards falling while we eat. falling. He glanced downward, nervously. You’re slipping- focus! He chided, adjusting his grip.
Half looking for an excuse to climb onto a sturdy floor, Hero figured he could attack now and easily take out two of them. What, 22 years since the last war? He hadn’t been born, yet, but his leaders always talked about… the good ol’ days. That, and his experience told him no one was left he couldn’t kill. No one outside of the guild, anyway. From the sound of their voices the two were facing away from him, but the rest… he didn’t want to activate his braid, unnecessarily. He would need it if the king was really as good as his leaders said.
Hero knew kings to be thick with greed and lust, easy targets, but the leaders spoke differently about this one. Maybe this was a real king. Or maybe the size of the city, or the castle intimidated them. They couldn’t just walk in, and few could hang out here for as long- confused grunts, coughing, and heavy thuds confirmed that the special sauce Hero had added to the guards’ stew had taken effect. If peace hadn’t made them so complacent- they should’ve smelled the tonic- its their own fault.
Sleeping guards were less suspicious then dead ones, and for an assassin, minimizing suspicion meant success. Hoisting himself onto the balcony he silently thanked the old herbalist in sometown for understating the tonics potency. “Thank the Gods.” He said, rubbing his sore shoulders. Is there a god of floors?
Through the mesh door he slid just wide enough to slip through, he smelled tainted stew, and he could see 4 guards positioned around a wooden table: two were bronze skinned, seated at the table with their backs toward Hero slumped. One, extra large and ginger, on the floor beside the table. The other, pale with dark hair, closer to the door that lead into the hallway, which was open. Compared to Hero these were giants, but he had to move them. He rushed over to the lantern by the door and blew it out, picking up a chair to prop the door open. The light from the hall was plenty.
He lifted the dark haired guard from the table (various clasps and metal pointy bits adorning the front of his uniform digging into Hero’s shoulder) and into the chair by the door. He dragged the extra large ginger, nearly slipping on the spilled stew and sat him back against the inside of the door.
He listened for movement while straitening his charcoal garb, pulling his hood lower. He checked his chest strap for his blow gun and 3 feather ended darts. Check. On his hip, he felt the leathered hilts of his daggers. Check. He pulled one and his dagger snipped free; it was just over a foot long and had an notched crescent blade that started thick at the base where the sign weaving was. The circular sign glowed yellow. Check. He placed it back into the holster. The twin daggers draped over his thick, loose fitting pants.
Hero peeked his hooded head out into the hallway. It was wide and empty, but the walls were decorated with twisted silks of every color, paintings, and in some places just paint. Some stylized writing. Eyes widening as he grinned. He could make out enough of the letters to know it was common tongue, but the lettering was stretched, scrunched, rounded and angled, all in the wrong places… artfully. Nice.
He walked out into the hall. Holding the door open he pushed the guard off of the chair back onto the guardroom floor. The door closed slowly scratching the chair into the hall lodging it under its handle. Blocked from both ways. It wont prevent entry, but it will prevent exit. Which gives Hero more time. A possibly unnecessary, but inexpensive precaution.
He walked light footed, but quickly toward the far end of the hall. At this time of night the guards would be the only ones roaming the halls this high in the castle. Darting his eyes, checking behind himself, and angling his ears, he still worried that someone might be meandering. There are always things you can’t plan for.
He turned left.
He learned how to get to the master chambers from the fourth floor guards room by playing a young and dumb messenger boy and chatting with a younger and dumber chamber maiden. But at this time, on this day of the week, the king wouldn’t be in the master chambers, instead would be unarmed performing the ritual prayer. The chamber maiden also told him about the linen chutes that will give him direct entry into the sacred worship chamber. What an interesting place to die in.
“…the king’s there every week, and every month we have to replace all the linen- wrapping the cushions, the tables, even replacing the rugs. Bringing it up is so hard,” she had complained. “Praise be to the Gods, but when we prayed at home we used the same rugs, and none of them were as nice as these. The good thing is, we can just toss the dirty ones down the linen chute, its right across the hall,” she had said, matter-of-factly. He almost liked talking to her, she was sweet, but the whining was painful. These people had peace. Who’d they have to kill for it?
Another left.
Another painted hallway. Halfway down he could see what looked like a handle on a wall. He smiled. Almost done.
Facing the linen chute. He took inventory. He grouped under his garb to confirm he still had his 3 small feathers and blow gun. He slid his daggers from his hip to his back. He lifted the wooden slide door, it scraped, then clicked. He crawled, feet first, into the chute. It would be too narrow for most, but it was just wide enough to be a mildly uncomfortable, annoyingly difficult climb one story down to the worship quarters.
The coarse stone against his hands reminded him of doing push ups in the quarry, but now there was significantly more pressure keeping him from falling four floors to his death, or terribly injured imprisonment… then death. The coarse stone against his back reminded him of sit ups in the quarry. He had to go slow and quietly, incase there were guards outside of the worship room. He hoped there weren’t more than three. His drum of his heart seemed to echo, his back felt warm.
One synchronized hand and alternate foot movement after another, he crept lower. The faint smell of lilac came and went so quickly he would’ve thought he had imagined it, but the Lightless Caves taught him to trust his senses, among other things. He assumed that scent meant he was close. He listened more intently. He lowered his foot slowly placing it against the wall, but the distance changed. He froze. He looked down. Saw faint streams of light passing from under the roughly hewn wood. He lowered himself to be eye-level with the opening.
Wearily, he reached for that burning place inside him to activate his braid. Just enough to hear better through the wood. He looked up at the light from the open chute door. It beamed brighter, lighting the black shaft grey then softening to grey enough to see. The rough stone dug painfully into his back and hands then eased. The smell of lilac repugnant, then quite pleasant. He could taste the dust in the air.
His heart dropped into his stomach and turned to moths. His pulse raced with the ringing in his ears. Panic set in, and his braid burned his back. The stone shaft bright grey, hands burning against the stone, nose twisting from lilac. He looked back up following the sound and saw nothing. Even less than before. The light from the hall is gone. The door closed. Or did someone close it. They would have made noise if they looked inside. Why would they look inside. Just incase. It might be policy to check open chutes. Its too dark to see anything if they had looked.
He shook his head and relaxed his thoughts, but his body would take a while to catch up. Should’ve closed the door, he concluded. He slowed and deepened his breathing. Four breathes a min. His lungs protested. He reigned in his senses, conserving his energy. Using the braid was costly. Cool sweat trickled down his burning back.
Hero pulled a dagger free, and slid it underneath the wooden door. Gently nudging it between the wood and stone, allowing a dagger thin sliver of light to line his honey eyes. Through which he saw the large, stained glass door, adorned with religious symbols. No guards? That was stupid! Even the nobody leaders of those nothing cities had guards- paid thugs, really. They even stood watch outside the brothel room doors- mostly curtains, really- this’ll be easy.
“Peace has made the people weak,” Hero recalled the leader’s words. And Hero remembered this every time he killed a So called, king. They were all the same, complacent. Lazy. And few of them had ever trained, and those that had stopped long before Hero got there. There was one guy, a good person, he tried to lead his people out of poverty, but they rebelled, wanted to raid neighboring villages. Somebody paid for his life. Hero delivered it.
15 years old and Hero was already an accomplished assassin at the guild. According to his leader though, he paled in comparison to the guild’s glory days. He didn’t care, he was still top of his generation. And truly strong, the braid proved it. He lived, most don’t.
The leader had mentioned this job, and wanted to wait. He didn’t know who he should give it to. Hero figured it was a test, so he had given it to himself. He furred his brow and curled his lip. A familiar configuration. A visage he recognized. The face of resolution. Conviction.
Hero twisted the dagger allowing more light into the chute. He peeked as far as he could left, nothing. Right, nothing. He lifted the wood slowly until it clicked and slithered out into the hall. He stood in front of the door. Not all of the glass was stained, some was reflective. He glimpsed his tawny boyish face and scarred left cheek. He pulled his hood back up and over hus long brown hair, twisted and locked, accented with colors natural to his people. Auburn, blonde, and silver, sprnkled throughout. His honey eyes went dark and disappeared in shadow. His back burned, as he prowled into the worship room.
It was warm. The scent of lilac and something earthy hit him before his breath caught in his chest. What he saw confused him. The room was taller and wider than it should’ve been. It must go into the next floor. Ceilings arched and ornamented w/ twisted fabrics of every color. The corners of the room were lined with lanterns. The walls were painted w/ glorious depictions of religious myths. Legends. The floor covered in patterned rugs each with a different God, or religious image, and its own cushion to one end. The floor appeared to have a map painted onto it. If he moved the rugs he was sure he’d see the entire known world. At the far end of the room was a table wrapped in white linen pushed against the wall. Two bowls sat on the table. One glass, filled with a pale blue substance, and the other was black stone and gargling fire. If it had sparkled he would’ve thought it was starstone. Between the bowls was a silvery coronet.
But directly in the center of the room was the strangest part. Curled into an unassisted seated position, wearing short cut pants and a top that appeared to just be bandage wrapping, with an ankle atop a bent knee, a wooden bowl balanced on the raised leg, a closed fist held in front of a round olive-skinned face, hair pulled back, and an out-stretched arm pointing the largest sword Hero had ever seen directly at him, was a woman.
He finally realized her eyes were closed. Meditation? He loosed his breath, slowly. Carefully. Quietly. Is she the king? He reached under his garb. She’d never know what hit her. Slid the blow gun down and out, pulled the darts free and hung them carefully by the feather in his mouth. He inhaled.
“It’s been close too 25 seconds since you let that breeze in and, you’ve only taken 1 complete breathe,” her voice froze Hero. He knew he should just blow, but he was surprised. Impressed. She continued eyes still closed, “the Gods only know what I would do for that kind of control. What are you down to? 3 breathes a minute?” She asked, earnestly.
Hero was silent.
She blinked. Finding focus, she squinted turning her head, slightly. Was she confused? Still in the one legged seat. Still balancing the bowl. But looking passed her giant sword at her assassin. Her eyes were bright, green, and curved like a sea stone. He was going to kill her. His back burned. His blood flowed faster. Hotter. With power. His senses sharpened. The colors of the room seemed to dull. His target brightened. He blew the dart and retrieved a dagger in one motion.
She shifted the sword slightly, blocking the dart. She stood scowling as the bowl spilled, soaking the rug beneath her. He dashed toward her. Slicing with his dagger. She blocked w/ the broad side of her sword. He jumped left, slicing again. She spun, too fast. He missed. She swung the broad side at him. His increased power sprang him back but his garb was caught on the point. Tearing it, he was thrown toward the table at the back of the room.
His other dagger pressed against his flaming braid as he slammed into the table. He imagined his spine might’ve broken otherwise. The glass bowl shattered. He was overcome by the stench of… accelerant!? It soaked his sleeve. The flame became frighteningly apparent. The coronet jingled against the ground. She watched him warily. He blew another dart. She lifted the rug in anticipation. The dart lodged into it. He growled. She can’t move as fast as I can with that. He thought of her giant sword.
She threw the sopping rug at him and lunged forward, too fast, sword in tow. Free hand out stretched. Hero sliced the rug in two, spun, and stabbed at her arm. It connected. Blood tipped the dagger, but no visible damage was done. She gripped the back of Hero’s garb and swung so quickly he was spinning out of it and hitting the wall before he knew he was thrown. It had torn at the rip in the chest. Pain spread through his body, followed by the burning. His breathe left him. He crumpled to the floor. His mind still worked. Where’s the dart?
She inspected her arm. Her Face screwed up in confusion.
As he rose, he coughed out, “getting- tired?” He had to stall, find the dart, and get closer.
“So you do speak.” Her face asked, why now? “Are you stalling?” his eyes widened. She raised her giant sword inches above the floor. The handle was at her head. And she was tall. Too tall.
Crash. The sword stood in the floor. Someone would hear that. Urgency rose in him.
“Alright. What was that?” She lifted her arm. He had to finish this. “I felt you cut me. Is that one of these cursed blades?”
He glared.
Her eye brows rose. She cocked her head.
“Sign weaving isn’t a curse,” he spat while scanning the floor. “It’s strength!” Where is the dart? He was breathing heavily. Too many colors! He knew his braid would burn out soon. Wait!? These cursed blades? He looked at her sword.
“You’re just a boy!” Discovery in her voice. “You’re so fast.” Her green eyes darted down in memory and back up, “And I intended to knock you out.” He tried to find the sign woven into her giant sword. “You’ve seen the sword already, why do y-“ a faint smile flashed across her face. She chuckled.
He glowered.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” she teased, knowingly.
He scowled, raising his lip. He began to tremble. He knew if he used his second activation he’d burnout and wouldn’t be able to make it out of the castle. But dying gloriously after succeeded in his greatest mission was honorable. Also, freeing. Should he lunge or keep looking for the dar- there it is! It was between them. He looked at the king. She watched him intently, not blinking. Waiting. Smiling. He was furious! “Gods punishment!” he barked. It must’ve dropped while he flew through the air. “Don’t laugh at me, you’re going to die here!”
She still smiled, “no one is going to die here.” She was belittling him. His training. His sign woven daggers. His sign braiding. His conviction. Him.
He threw a rug at her just after pouncing left for the table. She stuck her sword straight out in front of her stopping the rug. He through his dagger. Lunged back for the dart. He knew she’d side step the dagger, but she wouldn’t know that he went for the dart. She looked to where the dagger was coming from. He loaded the blow dart. She stepped right. Mid-step, the dagger clanged against the wall behind her. She watched him raise the blow dart. Got her. She grimaced. He blew. He saw the sign woven into her sword glow as she swung it broadly, faster than ought to be possible. Faster than she had all night. Faster than he’d ever seen any sword swung. A gust sent the dart and Hero flying back into the wall.
Panic and awe filled him. As did pain and fire as he lay crumpled on the floor. His braid burned brightly on his back. He turned his head toward her, saw the horrified look on her face, then rose. She must’ve seen the braid… does she know?
“Stop this, little one!” She yelled. “Death isn’t a trifle to be dolled out at our will. The Gods are the only beings fit to even consider who receives it.”
Little one? He seethed, wordlessly. He ached entirely. He breathed rapidly. Warm sweat poured over his body. He knew he had one option, then he would die here. “Yeah? And were you fit to consider who should receive it so that you can have your peace?” he growled, steeling his resolve. It added a bite to his voice, “So that you can enjoy the freedom to rise above strife in your star spangled castle?”
She scanned him. Her face grew mournful. She slouched. “You have knowledge beyond your years, boy. Far beyond. Even if you don’t have the wisdom to understand it, yet.” She sat laying her sword across her lap. The sign glowed, then dimmed.
He was stunned. What in the Gods’ punishment? After all of this? He pulled his remaining dagger. The sign on it glowed. He reached for that last bit of fire he had left in his braid. He pushed through to his second activation. The fire inside him roared, then flickered. It disappeared. It relit. His heart fluttered. His brain fogged. When he looked at the room the colors began to melt together. He started to notice everything was slowing down. He looked at his hands, then his body.
His vision blurred and darkened. Then, sharpened.
But he hadn’t over taxed the braid, not yet. He wavered. He felt heavy. Then he saw the blue-tipped white feather sticking out from his pants. So brightly contrasting against the dark fabric. It must’ve lodged into them when he fell. Then he burned up the fire that was keeping the poison at bay. Stupid! She saw it, he realized, that’s why she sat down.
His vision darkened, again.
It returned.
“You won,” he slurred, “but why do you look so hurt?”
She raised her fist, same as when he entered, and closed her somber green eyes, “…I was wrong.”
The room went black. He thought he heard a dagger clatter on the floor, but it was too far away to tell.

The throbbing through out Hero’s body distracted him from thoughts he couldn’t remember. He could feel. It didn’t much matter what he could feel, just the fact that he could was good news. He was alive. Unless this is the Gods’ punishment. He might’ve panicked, but his mind was foggy. Every short breath shot daggers outwardly from his core. He was too weak to move. He imagined hell would make sure its residents were lively enough to truly appreciate the eternal damnation. Plus, hell wouldn’t smell like lilacs. Lilacs. He thought he could remember something, but it faded. He thought he felt his eyes weakly flutter open, but he saw nothing. His mind fog prevented panic, again. He didn’t want to move so he didn’t. Whatever he was laying on was soft, so he went back to sleep. He didn’t want to die, but he’d deal with that later.

The voices were not loud, but they woke him.
“No, my liege, he hasn’t woken, yet. I assure you when he does you’ll be alerted, immediately.” An elder, stern voiced woman answered a question that Hero missed. My liege? The kimg? Was she here checking up on him? The memories of his failed attempt on her life flooded back to him. His thoughts raced. He wondered how long it had been. Where he was. Why am I still alive? The strong live, the weak die. The words echoed.
His eyes fluttered open, seeing nothing. The pressure on his face hinted at the cause for his blindness. He felt as if he was swaddled. I am not a baby. He chewed on his anger, then he realized he was likely restrained.
“Thank you. I know I fuss, but do we know that he will wake up?” The husky ring in her voice told him it was the king. If her presence confused him, then her concern bewildered him.
He moved gently, so he wouldn’t raise suspicion. The increasing pressure confirmed he was restrained. He had no way out, yet, so he listened.
A scoff. “My liege, you’ve been here twice a day since you brought him to me. He was badly beaten-“
“Not that badly-“
“He appeared to have not eaten for weeks”
“I assure you, he was quite healthy when- uhh- when I found him.”
“Mhmm. Well without knowing how he ended up this way I wouldn’t be able to guess at when he might fully recover, but he has stabilized, and he takes the ice chips well enough, so…” she hesitated, her tone shifted, “with all due respect, I assure you, when he rises, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Only.” The king said.
“I will be the only person to be notified, when he rises. And be sure to mind his binds.” She hesitated, “just incase he has a fit. To protect him.” A fit? Has she told them I’m ill?
“Yes,” the stern healer said, “to protect him.”
“I’m not mad.” He croaked. His voice frail. He heard startled shuffles. Someone rushed to him. He braced himself. Dull lightning shot through his body.
“Drink this.” The stern voice demanded. He felt a straw press against his lips. He turned his head away and pain shot through his neck. He winced. Her stern voice was tinged with pleading. “Don’t move It’s water, you’ve been asleep for 12 days, your body needs it.” She didn’t ask. Slowly foot steps carried the smell of lilacs over to him.
“Don’t say anything.” He knew she meant him. “I’ll take the water, leave us, please.”
The stern woman huffed, “and do what? Speak with your dimwitted guards?” she sucked her teeth. “Anyway, He’ll likely pass out again-“
“At which time, I’ll call for you.” It was a dismissal. Heavy steps faded into the distance. The straw pressed against Hero’s mouth again. “Drink, little one.”
He growled.
“Right, you don’t like that name, well…” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “I don’t like being targeted for assassination, but I need to lead and you need water.” The straw was forced against his reluctant mouth. But he drank. “There we go. Is that not better?”
The rush of cool water danced on his taste buds. He felt Life in his chest with every gulp. Was this water? He stopped.
As if knowing what he was thinking she said, “delicious, is it not?” Was she mocking him. “I felt the same way the first time I drank it. It’s from somelake atop Starstone mountain. We channeled it down into the city. The rains just ended, so it’s quite fresh.” It was raining when he entered the day long tunnel that connected the two sides of the mountain range.
He didn’t believe her, but it tasted like water, and they’d likely execute him, publicly, so why poison him now? He drank.
“Who sent you?”
He drank.
“You likely don’t know. I saw your hair, I know where you’re from.” She saw more than that. More than anyone who had lived to talk about. He heard a knock. Like wood on wood. She must’ve put the cup down. “You’re smart. You embarrassed the guards, although they think someone pulled a prank on them.” She chuckled. “They were kind of right.”
“They were weak.” He cleared the cracks from his voice. Why is he a secret? Did she plan to torture him? Drug and enslave him? Or did she just want information. He needed an escape plan. “Peace has made them weak.”
“Is it weakness to not expect to be poisoned, on the fourth floor of a mountain castle by a twelve year old boy?”
“Fifteen!” He fought against his restraints, freeing only pain. His ribs stabbed his organs. His neck and arms electrified.
He had to keep suspicion low. He breathed slowly.
“That! That Is the most impressive- How do you do it? How do you get your breath count so low?”
He rolled his eyes, but she couldn’t see it. “Why aren’t I dead?”
“That’s an interesting question. Most would ask if they were going to die. Some might ask why they were still alive.”
She’s meddlesome. “The result is the same.” He snarled. He heard her breathe deeply followed by the jingle of small chains. Is she going to leash me?
“You aren’t dead because, life is precious, and I think you know that. You’re being tended to because my guards are alive.” He heard the smile, it lifted some of the husk from her voice.
He snorted, “that was a mistake, not a choice.”
“I don’t know,” she sang. “you chose to put the guards to sleep.”
He groaned.
“And those darts that were not intended to kill. I assume that was incase I had guards with me.” He was astounded by how much she figured out. “You were contracted to kill me, but you didn’t want to kill, unnecessarily.”
“It was a mistake.” His failure weighing heavier on him by the second.
“But it was a choice.”
“Kill me quickly. Honorably.” He couldn’t return to the Guild. Not only had he failed, but he wasn’t assigned this target. He ruined the opportunity for whoever was given the job. The element of surprise was gone. He tarnished the Guild’s reputation and lost much needed resources. Regicide was expensive, so it was unlikely that someone would request this job again, not anytime soon.
She chuckled again, “I thought I was wrong last time I said this, but no one is going to die here.”
He remembered her somber expression and the words she said before he passed out, “I was wrong.” She was sad for him? He was there to kill her, and when she thought he was going to die, she was hurt? Emotions rose in him he didn’t understand. He felt an emptiness growing in his chest. He clenched his fist. He remembered the foolish reason she stated, “you didn’t want to kill.” He was alive because this woman spared him. Life is precious. Mine? His eyes welled. He was thankful for the face wraps.
She continued, “Since the treaty, not one person has died by the deeds of this nation or its leadership. We desisted capital punishment, and forbade willful killing under any circumstance. It’s a clause in the treaty I’m particularly proud of.”
“A fools endeavor.” But he was conflicted. Killing made him worthy to survive. The strong live. He was strong. He survived the braiding. The weak die. He was born a runt, but he fought, killed, became strong, and lived. But in those quiet moments. A question would start forming in his mind, but the words of the leaders always overpowered it. The strong live. He killed. He remembered the lightless caves, and before that the initiation trials, and before that hunting in the forest surrounding the guild. Only out of necessity. The weak die. He killed, proving his strength. Earning his right to live. The money was just a necessary evil. A question creeped from the deepest recesses of his mind. A question that as soon as he thought it he realized it had always been there, what would happened if I stopped?
“The intellectual’s word for fool is, idealist,” she said. He heard her adjusting in her seat. The jingle of chains. Was it all a ruse, a twisted manipulation, would she kill him now? The weak die. “I have your… things.” Her tone became more formal. “We will be talking more.” What does she want? “I haven’t decided what to do with you, yet. You’ll mind you caretakers, or you’ll be thrown into the dungeons.” She paused. “I advise against fooling with Annshevro, she’s been doing this a long time, knows things about the body people shouldn’t. As you regain your strength its up to you how many more restrictions we place on you. You’re dangerous, and contrary to what you may think, I’m no, fool.” And with that, footsteps and the smell of lilac faded. The strong live.
Annshevro, he assumed was the stern voiced elder woman stomping toward him mumbling her dissension to being ousted from her, “very own care space.” He hadn’t realized how painfully he needed to until she asked, “Still awake? Do you need to relieve yourself? Its been almost two days.”
Hero might’ve been blushing. Luckily no one could tell, “Yes.”

© 2018 Yello Duzzit

Author's Note

Yello Duzzit
Again, be harsh. Please focus on story telling. If it makes sense. It looks like the formatting defaulted, it was originally a word document, so if the tenses switch, just assume it was italicized. Let me know if it makes sense, I guess? As always I'm immensely grateful for your time.

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Added on June 20, 2018
Last Updated on June 20, 2018
Tags: Fantasy, Assassin, Mystery, Action, Adventure, Fiction, Early Civilization, Redemption


Yello Duzzit
Yello Duzzit

Novice, amateur, beginner writer writing his first novel purely for the fun of story crafting. more..