"Come at me, Filthiness!"

The hyrrean king's voice boomed across the chamber with the intensity of an earthquake, sending a ripple of vibrations through the columns that held up the lofty ceiling above them. His bare chest - a jungle of wiry ginger hair - visibly rose and fell, his breath leaving his lungs in heavy puffs and snorts. Light scintillated against the beads of perspiration that trickled down his exposed arms, following its path down the grooves and bulges of his defined muscles.

Fealtanis's left eye twitched underneath his horned mask. Not even a quarter of an hour had passed since Tychon acquainted the two of them, and the man with the ridiculous bronze helm shaped like a boar's head had already challenged the Head of the Masks into a duel.

Thanks to their significant difference in height, Feal felt as if he was a giant rhinoceros beetle about to spar with a midget boar.

"My name is Fealtanis," he corrected the king. The sound of a drink being spurted out of someone's lips could be vaguely heard behind him, followed by the choked laughter of the half-aerhyan woman that accompanied him.

He sighed in annoyance as he pulled out the training sword that the king had so kindly lent him from its scabbard. The satisfying sound of finely-forged metal leaving its case sliced through the air, almost like music to the yildean's ears.

The moment the Boar King saw the flash of the training blade, he charged at the yildean with the ferocity of a feral hog, hollering at the top of his lungs, raising his blunted claymore to attack.

Without much bravado, Feal dodged to his right, evading the king's opening attack.

The Boar King came at him with a decisive thrust, which Feal parried. The shrill screeching of metal sliding against each other rang out across the chamber. The yildean took a step back, light on his toes, and circled the king warily. His sword was pointed low, at an angle he found inconvenient.

Perceiving an opening, he lunged at the king with the intent of quickly ending the fight.

Unfortunately for him, his blade met that of the hyrrean's and was knocked off its intended course. He recovered his poise quickly and launched a direct attack at the king, hoping to pressure him. The blunt side of his blade brushed against the hyrrean's face.

With a grunt, the hyrrean king jumped away. A purplish mark formed on his cheek, marking the place his blade had found his skin. Instead of deterring him, his lips peeled back in a grotesque grin, the flames of enthusiasm alighting inside his eyes. He heaved his claymore into position and closed the distance between them, a boar-like noise escaping his throat.

Feal locked his blade with the man's. His rather tall stature made it easier for him to push his sword down upon the smaller hyrrean. His wrists artfully twisted the hilt, turning his sword into a lever, attempting to wrench the claymore out of the hyrrean's sturdy grip. Satisfaction swelled within his chest.

Time to end this nonsense.

Feal had expected the king to put up a futile resistance, to hold onto his claymore with all his might. His victory was secured.

The king did not.

Right at the last second, he allowed his claymore to be knocked out of his hands. Before Feal could switch his blade to corner him, the king unleashed a guttural roar and rammed into the yildean's stomach with his bronze-shielded skull, sending him flying backward in a flurry of silver hair.

It felt as if a cannonball had landed square on his abdomen, knocking the air right out of his lungs. His fingers wrapped against the ears of his boar-shaped helm, struggling to push the wild boar king away. The heels of his boots scraped against the stone floor. His eyes searched for an opening in the back of the king's neck, though much to his dismay, he found that it was protected by his helm.

Thinking quickly, the silver-haired man retracted his right leg, before bringing it forward at full force. His sole connected with the hyrrean king's gut, kicking him away from his abdomen. He felt a rush of air freely enter his chest once more, albeit tainted with the pungent odor of sweat. Feal coughed, sitting upright, adjusting the mask on his face.

That was the ugliest spar he'd ever had the dishonor to engage in.

King Baldur XIV Stenberg laid outstretched on the floor, groaning. Feal came upon the realization that not only had he kicked a monarch, but he also kicked his client with far more force than necessary. With bated breath, he slowly advanced towards the downed king, hoping that the old man lived long enough to pay him.

Much to his relief, he was perfectly fine. The king let out a howl of thundering laughter- a rich, hearty sound compared to the boarish noises he'd made throughout the altercation. He hoisted himself upright, flashing another of his grotesque grins at the yildean.

"You.. you fight well, Filthiness."

Feal could hear Mira laugh at the butchering of his name again. He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "My name is Fealtanis, Your Grace. If you intend to end the rule of the senators, you'd be wise to remember how my name is spelled."

The mention of the senators extinguished the light of excitement from the king's eyes. The grin fell from his face.

"Ah right, about that."

Releasing a heavy grunt at the effort of getting up, the hyrrean hobbled over to a towel hung from a hook nailed to the wall, trading it for his bronze boar helm. He buried his face into it, then proceeded to sweep it over the curve of his neck, wiping off the glistening sweat from his skin.

"Follow me," he said, carelessly discarding the towel.

As the king led them deeper into the palace, Feal soon realized that the hyrreans made it pretty clear that they were trying to compensate for their short stature with abnormally large structures — from their monuments, to their castle hallways, and pillars. He silently marveled at the beautiful craftsmanship of the titanic architecture. The walls were etched with murals of the history of the hyrreans, from the time of Vielar Stenberg. The pillars were sculpted in the likeness of boars — the symbol of their nation. Intricate crystal chandeliers illuminated the interior with brilliant hues of kaleidoscopic lights.

The castle was almost like a boast to cover up the fact that they were so diminutive in physique.

Didn't they realize that increasing the size of their structures would make everything more irritating to them?

The king led the trio into his solar, which, like the rest of the castle, was far bigger than necessary.

Feal put a hand on Mira's shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. He turned to both of the aerhyans accompanying him. "On second thought, let me handle this alone."

Mira narrowed her eyes under her wyrm-shaped mask, which covered only the top half of her face. "You sure about this? I'm pretty sure that I can get along with the king."

"And that's what scares me."

Mira flinched at his accusatory tone. "Did you really take me for a drunkard with no self-restraint?" she demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

King Baldur turned towards them with a huff. "Are the three of you planning to just stand there? I thought we were supposed to talk about the matters at hand!"

Feal threw a final glance towards his companions, before taking the seat that had been laid out for him.

"I believe you didn't state my payment in the contract, Your Grace," he reminded the king, getting straight to the business at hand. "Although, if I remember correctly, you'd be willing to pay me whatever the cost."

"You will be paid in time. Once you do your part that is."

Fealtanis frowned behind his mask. "And my part being—"

"To kill the senate of course. I thought Tycoon here had already told you about it," Baldur proclaimed, scrutinizing the unmasked Tychon, who was pretending to admire a statuette on a display table. The elderly aerhyan had not bothered with the Scarlet Masks' traditions of donning a mask on duty, having long been acquainted with Baldur.

The yildean cleared his throat, leaning forward. "I need more information on them. What they do and where they are—"

"And here I thought you'd be brighter for a master assassin," Baldur sighed, placing a palm on his forehead. "Of course they're at the City Hall. They've infested the place ever since—"

"What I mean is that I need to know where they live, which places they frequent, and what they did to gain the ire of King Baldur XVII Stenberg."

A gulp visibly traveled down the king's gullet. "Was that last one really necessary?"

"Understanding my client's motives eases my duty," Feal answered, coolly, yet he derived no pride from the fact. For all his efforts to distance himself from emotion and sentiment, he was — infallibly — a mortal, a creature to feel by design. His clients' one-sided excuses and justifications were the lies he told himself, over and over, to wash his hands clean of blood and convince himself that he was merely a tool.

A marionette to be controlled by strings.

The lines of age suddenly deepened around the hyrrean's eyes, putting his weariness on display. He pulled out a bottle of spirit from under the desk. "Do you drink?"

"No."

"Good." The king twisted the cork from the mouth of the bottle. "I hate sharing. Once my brother managed to—"

"May I suggest you to stop stalling and tell me the tale already?" Feal interrupted with haste. His talons wrapped around the narrow neck of the bottle, impatiently pinning it down to the table.

The king narrowed his eyes and tugged lightly at the bottle, hoping to dislodge it from the yildean's firm grip. "You may have served many nobles before me, but I think you need to remember that you are in audience with a king. You better watch how you act, or you will be leaving this castle missing a limb."

"I don't think you will do it," Feal replied, his voice level and his hand unyielding.

"You doubt my authority here, yildean?"

"No. But you are desperate. You will not risk getting rid of the only man who is capable of freeing you and your family from the grasp of the senators."

The defiant blaze within the king's gaze begun to waver with his breath. He relinquished his hold upon the bottle, slowly drawing up his hand toward his forehead in defeat. "You're right, yildean. I am very desperate. So desperate, in fact, that I am willing to stain my family's name with dishonor. But these pests, these... parasites. They took away so many from me."

"But what other choice do I have? Once I'm dead they will depose my son, my brother, and pretty much everyone with Stenberg's blood."

The man's eyes shone with moisture. "They will murder every one of them. I've lost my queen, the love of my life, and I can't even convict them for it. I lost my heir, my firstborn, to them, and when I tried to find justice, they killed my grandsire as a warning. She was but a babe, so pure and..."

Words failed him as he choked on a sob. King Baldur hid his face behind his hands, though glistening droplets snaked between his fingers and stained the wooden table. The sight of this man, so full of vigor mere moments before only to be reduced to misery, stimulated a throbbing ache within the yildean's chest. He was no stranger to sorrow, to the cruelty of the world, yet his heart was never immune.

He surrendered the bottle to the man, who instantly drained it within seconds. "If I can't do anything the conventional way, then I have no other choice. I don't want my children and siblings to fall the like my queen and grandchild." He looked up with a glower. "Now do you understand, Filth? Does this satisfy you?"

"More than enough," the yildean replied, with quiet guilt.

"Power may have some part in this, but I just want my family to live." Baldur took a napkin from his pocket, wiping his tears away. "What good is the perfect world if thousands died to build it? This I could never understand..."

Fealtanis bit his lower lip, though his mask obstructed the sudden shift of his expression from the king. It was people such as himself that was partially responsible for laying out the foundation of corpses that the world stood upon. People like the Scarlet Masks, even though they were only a means to an end.

The despicable, rotten worms of the world.

"Now, do tell me," he continued, trying to cast his thoughts aside. "Who, in your opinion, is the one behind this? Who do you think suggested the murder of your grandchild and wife?"

"The senate claims that they have no leader, but I know better. One of them the most ambitious of the bunch: Sir Forseti."

"The senator of religious affairs?" Tychon's voice suddenly rang out after a long period of silence, almost shocking Feal. He had been so engrossed in the conversation that he had nearly forgotten his comrades' presence.

"Yes. Thank you for finally saying something." The hyrrean king turned his gaze towards the old aerhyan. "I thought you might be dead for a second."

Tychon bowed his head. "I believe I know where our zealous fellow might be hiding."

"Lead me to him then."

Feal stood up from his seat, offering the monarch a final bow of respect. "We will be taking our leave now, Your Grace. Once the deed is done, we will request an audience with you."

As he turned around to leave, the king's voice stopped him.

"Filthiness."

Fealtanis returned his attention to the king. When their eyes met, a chill suddenly ran through his veins.

The king's eyes were dark as a moonless night, no longer having an ounce of sorrow within them. They were filled with a depraved thirst — one that Fealtanis was no stranger to. After all, he, too, had those eyes... until eleven years ago.

The eyes of a person who lived only to sate the desire for vengeance.

"Make that bastard suffer. Once you're done with him, kill every last one of them."

--------------------------------------------------------

Chapter Writer: Fiona_jessie

AN: [From VeryBigMess] Damn, that chapter banner is an insult to all things graphic design.

Just wanted to dedicate this chapter to GnomeMercy for being such an awesome reader. Also, she's an awesome writer. I recommend you check out her works should you have time to spare.

Also, a shout-out to evo_eevee for the review of this book she has so kindly spent her time to make! I also highly recommend her book, Grendilton: Rise of the Shadows.

Anyways, as always, thank you so much for reading this far! Know that every one of your comments and votes means a lot in pushing us forward in writing this book.