Sven Mortiz III, Shinokar's Faker, wore white on the day he has to kill.
White clothing was a Marsedian tradition, strange to him. But he did as his masters commanded, and asked no questions.
He sat in a grand stone hall, warmed by enormous bonfires that cast extravagant light over the revelers, drawing beads of sweat from their skin as they danced, drank, shouted, sang, and clapped.
Some collapsed to the floor, faces flushed from the excess, proving that their stomachs were nothing more than wineskins of poor make. They looked dead—until their friends dragged them out to their beds.
Sven did not move to the rhythm of the drums, nor drink the pale-safira wine, nor rise to dance. He remained seated on a bench at the back, motionless in his white garb, a servant unnoticed. During the treaty's celebration, few spared him a glance. Just another servant. Shin were easy to ignore.
Most in the East considered Sven's people docile and harmless. They were usually right.
The percussionists struck up a new rhythm. The beats echoed in Sven's ears like a quartet of pulsing hearts, pumping waves of invisible blood through the hall.
Sven's masters—dismissed as savages by some of the more "civilized" kingdoms—sat at their own tables.
Men of ebony skin streaked with red.
Marsendians, cousins to the more docile and subservient parshmen known throughout the world. A peculiarity. They did not call themselves Marsendians; that was a name given by the Mitrezians. It meant something like "varshmen who think." Neither side seemed to find it insulting.
It was the Marsendians who had brought the musicians. The Mitrezian lighteyes had hesitated at first. To them, drums were the instruments of darkeyed commoners. But wine was a great murderer of tradition and decorum, and now the Mitrezian elite danced with abandon.
Sven rose, weaving his way through the hall. The celebration had lasted long; the king had withdrawn hours ago. Yet many still feasted. Sven had to step around Kalan Dazno—the king's brother—who was slumped drunkenly at a small table.
A robust old man, he pushed away anyone who tried to coax him to bed. Where was Jasmine, the king's daughter? Elaikar, his son and heir, sat at the high table, presiding in his father's absence. He spoke with two men—an Arish man with dark skin and a strange pale mark on one cheek, and a thin Mitrezian who kept glancing over his shoulder.
The heir's companions were of no consequence.
Avoiding them, Sven crept along the edge of the room and approached the drummers. Fairies of sound spun in the air nearby, tiny spirits flickering into the shape of translucent ribbons. As Sven passed, the musicians noticed him. Soon, they would retreat—along with the other Marsendians.
They did not look offended. Nor angry. And yet they were about to betray the treaty signed mere hours before. It made no sense. But Sven did not ask questions.
At the far end of the hall, he passed a row of blue lights emanating from the junction of floor and wall—spheres infused with Soulight.
Sacrilege.
How could the men of these lands use something so sacred for mere illumination?
Worse, there were rumors that Marsedian scholars were close to forging new Soulblades. Sven hoped they were only boasting. For if it truly happened, the world would change—and soon, people from Arcadia to the heights of Vah Gorin would be speaking Marsedian to their children.
The Marsedians were a grand people. Even drunk, they radiated nobility. Tall and well-built, the men wore dark silk jackets buttoned at the sides and meticulously decorated with gold or silver. They looked like generals on a battlefield.
The women were even more splendid. Their silk gowns were vibrant, form-fitting, the left sleeve long enough to cover the hand. The Marsedians had strange ideas of modesty.
Their dark hair was styled high, in buns or intricate braids, often intertwined with ribbons or golden ornaments, and gems glowing with light. Beautiful.
Profane, but beautiful.
Sven exited the banquet hall. In the corridor, he passed the door to the Beggars' Feast. It was an Marsedian tradition—a banquet for the poorest of the city, held alongside the king's own celebration. A long-bearded man lay slumped by the door, smiling vacantly—whether from wine or a feeble mind, Sven could not tell.
"You see me?" the man asked, slurring. Then he chuckled, mumbled nonsense, and reached for a wineskin. It was the drink, then.
Sven moved on, passing a row of statues depicting the Ten Heralds of the old Valorin theology. Jasriel, Ishtar, Galak, Vanitas. He counted—only nine stood. One was missing. Why had the statue of Sheshlash been removed? They said King Gravok was deeply devout. Excessively so, some claimed.
The corridor turned right, curving around the domed palace. Sven was now on the king's level, the second floor, enclosed by stone walls, ceiling, and floor. A sacrilege. Stone was not meant to be walked upon. But what could he do? He was Faker. He obeyed.
Today, that meant wearing white. Loose white trousers tied with cord, a translucent long-sleeved shirt left open at the chest. White robes for a killer—a Marsendian tradition. Though he had not asked, his masters had explained.
White to be bold. White to not blend with the night. White to warn.
For if one was to kill, the victim deserved to see it coming.