The rain fell into thin needles, piercing at night as if to make it cold even.
Edelstadt was sleeping… except at the top of the sacred hill.
There, the high-time stood, block of white stone and tarnished gold, lit by torches that sizzle in humidity.
Ashen stopped at the foot of the steps.
Under the madman's mask, his breath calmed down.
He looked at the heavy reinforced wood doors and, without a word, put his hand on the guard of his dagger.
Two silver armor guards had spotted him.
They put forward, halberdes forward.
- Stop! The temple is closed to pilgrims at this hour! launched the first.
- And it is prohibited for madmen, added the second, a grin to the lips.
Ashen raised his head.
- Prohibited for madmen? So ... it's time to change the rules.
He went up a walk.
Then another.
The first guard advanced to repel it ... Ashen planted the dagger under the helmet, straight in the throat.
The blood sprang in a hot jet that flared up the clear stone.
The second yelled and swarmed his halberd in a wide arch.
Ashen drank, grabbed the handle, died, and a backhand, cut the jugular.
The two bodies rolled at the bottom of the steps.
The rain started washing blood ... but not fast enough.
Ashen slowly climbed the steps, each step resonating against the walls.
Behind him, the street torches were already far away.
In front of him, the heavy doors of the high-time seemed to breathe.
He pushed them.
They opened by creaking, revealing a hall with massive columns, paved with marble.
The flames of the brazier projected deformed shadows there.
A squad of six soldiers was there, ready spears.
- Are you lost, masked? One of them launched.
- No ... I arrived. Ashen whispered.
The first threw himself on him.
Ashen the para of the dagger and opened the thigh with a dry movement.
He swivel, dodged, struck by throat, eyes, joints.
The dagger came in, came out, the flesh gave up.
A soldier fell, then two.
The other helders ... just enough for Ashen leaping, hit the third, then the fourth with a single chain.
The last try to flee to a side corridor.
Ashen grabbed her nape, twisted her with a dry blow.
A cracking. Silence.
He remained motionless for a moment, observing the bodies.
Then he wiped his hands on the cape of one of the dead, and looked up towards the main staircase.
-I go up ... he whispered.
- And no one will stop me.
Ashen set foot on the first inner step.
The blood of his victims already marked his way.
The steps went up, steep, narrow.
At each level, statues of saints stared at Ashen, their faces eaten by the shadow.
Blood still flowed from the dagger, drawing a red net on the light stones.
Halfway through, metallic noise.
Heavy, precise steps.
Then a silhouette appeared at the top of the steps.
The armor was not silver like that of the ordinary, but black guards, inlaid with golden badges.
The helmet had an engraved visor of old runes.
And in his right hand ... a wide sword like a man's arm.
- Ashen… said a serious voice.
- Do we know each other? he replied, tightening his dagger.
- Not yet. But I know your file. And my orders are simple: not one more step.
Ashen put on a walk.
The captain raised his left hand, and his voice changed, more sharp:
- On his knees.
His body had a spasm. His legs folded slightly, as if part of him wanted to obey.
Ashen scorned and forced his muscles to resist.
- Nice tip. But you'll need more than that.
The captain descended two steps, each step resonating like a hammer blow.
-You may not understand, crazy ... But I am the last rampart between you and the sanctuary. And I don't fall.
Their weapons met for the first time.
The strength of the shock made Ashen's arm vibrate to the shoulder.
The captain struck in size, Ashen dodged, seeking to slip into his blind spot, but an order slammed:
- Recule.
His right foot took a step back despite himself.
Ashen Jura, tight teeth.
- It's annoying, that.
They stood down and feigned, the dagger against massive steel.
Ashen was targeting the joints, the flaws of the armor, but the captain anticipated, parant with surgical precision.
Whenever the fight rocked in favor of Ashen, a voice fell:
- Stop.
- LEFT.
- Lack the guard.
And his body obeyed ... a fraction of a second.
But it was enough to lose the advantage.
The tension rose, the two men breathing in the middle of the blood stained with blood.
The relentless captain was always advancing.
Ashen, he began to smile behind the mask.
- I think I understood your game ... and when I have found how to break it, you will regret each order you gave.
Ashen crosses the last step by backing up.
The room that opened in front of him was not vast like the large nave, but a circular vestibule, lit by bluish torches.
Rarely stained glass projected reverse cross -shaped shapes on the ground.
The captain in turn entered the sword raised.
- Here, you won't have an escape.
- It's funny, said Ashen, I thought it was you who was afraid that I am advancing.
The metal slammed again.
The captain's blade described a fast arc, forcing Ashen to ride on the side.
-Get up.
And in spite of himself, Ashen felt his muscles obey, his back straightening up.
- You know, your voice ... She looks very much like that of certain priests I have known. The tone of those who believe they have the truth.
- The truth does not interest me. Only the order counts, replied the captain, loading.
Their weapons talked about, sparkling sparks.
Ashen voluntarily fell this time, analyzing each syllable.
He noticed that the effect was not immediate on each order ... that sometimes the captain's voice vibrated less, as if the power dissipated.
- So ... not infallible, your little tour, huh? said Ashen with an invisible smile under his mask.
The captain hugged his jaw.
- Even an imperfect order is enough to put a knee rat.
- This is where you're wrong. I'm not a rat ... I'm the plague.
They still clashed, this time closer.
Ashen attempted a dagger hook to the captain's thigh joint, but the sword pushed him dryly.
The captain took advantage of a space to give a dry order:
-Immobilize yourself.
Ashen felt his muscles stretching ... then he laughs.
- Oh ... I think I'm starting to hear you like a background noise.
- It's impossible.
- I have already been killed a hundred thousand billion times, captain. Your voice ... it's nothing compared to the cries that I have already ignored.
For a moment, the captain hesitated.
It was enough for Ashen to slip into his dead angle, cutting the flank of armor.
Blood springs, dark red.
- First cut, announced Ashen, almost joyful. We continue?
The captain, injured but standing, took a step back.
- I won't fall alone, crazy.
- Perfect ... I prefer the hunts where prey knows that it is damn.
They resumed their positions.
The room, saturated with odors of metal and blood, was waiting for the next blow.
The captain's breath was heavier.
Each inspiration sounded like a groan that pride refused to let out.
Ashen was around him, dagger in hand, not in a hurry.
- So what are we waiting for? A blessing? A miracle? Or just ... that I get tired?
"You talk too much, spat the captain, before killing: kneel.
The vibration of his voice struck the air like a wave.
But Ashen remained standing.
- It's funny ... it doesn't work anymore.
- …What ?!
- Your power ... I understood it. It only takes if you totally control your breath and your conviction. But ... the pain I left you in the side, it cuts your breathing, huh?
The captain hugged his teeth and loaded, hitting with all the strength he had left.
Ashen Para, the blades rubbing in a metallic cry that vibrated the stained glass windows.
A dry sequence.
Ashen struck the enemy's hand with the handle of his dagger, disarmed the sword, then plunged towards the throat.
The captain narrowly fell, but Ashen grabbed him with armor and projected him against the column.
- You were the first obstacle. And now ... you're going to serve as an example.
The captain attempted a last order, the broken voice:
- ... Fuis ...
Ashen broke out with a hoarse laugh.
- Me ? Flee ? You are mistaken in the century, my dear.
The dagger sank slowly under the plastron, looking for the heart.
The captain was suffocated, his eyes widened, then sank on the ground, inert.
Ashen leaned towards the corpse, murmuring:
- Thank you for the lesson ... But it's me who dictates the rules now.
He wiped the blade on the mantle of the dead and picked up the sword, more for the symbol than out of necessity.
In front of him, a long corridor went up to the upper stairs of the Haut-Temple.
Echoes of steps and voices were already echoing.
Ashen gave the mad mask.
- Come on ... that they come.
He started to move forward, ready to repaint the walls of the next room with the blood of the following.
Captain's body was still lying, the cracked armor, a tense hand on a sword that he would never use again.
Ashen did not turn around. Each step he made on the slabs sounded like a death knell.
The corridor led to a monumental spiral staircase, up to the heights of the Haut-Temple.
The evening light filled with high loopholes, tinged with red, as if the sky itself bleed.
Halfway, silhouettes appeared.
Five men, in white armor, cold eyes behind worked helmets.
Not simple guards. Steel churisters.
One of them raised a double -edged sword.
- You killed our captain.
"No," replied Ashen, stopping. I corrected an error.
- And you ... you are the error that must be erased.
The five descended slowly, synchronized, their steps resonating like a funeral drum.
Ashen put his hand on his mask, and fixed it well.
The smile engraved on the leather face reflected in the eyes of the attackers.
Then he began to run.
The first meeting was brutal: Ashen plunged under a horizontal blow and planted his dagger in the articulation of a knee.
The man yelled, Ashen withdrew the weapon and pushed him back against his companions, breaking their training.
The second attacked him by the flank, the blade touched on his coat. Ashen Pivota and used the captain's sword to pierce his throat.
Blood gushes on the steps, splashing the stone.
The remaining three hesitated a fraction of a second, enough for Ashen to resume the initiative.
He threw the dagger, who planted himself in the eye of one.
The soldier fell, his hands trying to remove the metal that already killed him.
The last two charged together.
Ashen para the first blow with the sword, used the enemy's push to deflect it against railing, and a dry movement, broke the neck.
The last tried to retreat, but Ashen grabbed the helmet and crushed it against the stone until it cracks.
Silence fell, only broken by Ashen's breathing.
He picked up his dagger, wiped the blades on a coat, then resumed his ascent.
At the top of the stairs, a large silver door awaited him.
Behind, he knew that another protective circle was waiting for him, tighter, more prepared.
And somewhere, at the end of these corridors ... Kael and the high priest.
He gave his mask one last time.
- I'm coming.
The large silver door opened in a creak, as if the metal hesitated to deliver passage.
Ashen entered.
The corridor that stretched behind had nothing more of the sacred marble of the lower rooms: here, the stone was dark, like charred by an old fire.
Torches diffused an unstable light, projecting shadows that seemed to breathe.
Halfway, he distinguished voices.
Serious. singing.
A choir ... but not a choir to pray.
Each word looked like an invocation.
And then he lives them.
Twelve men, arranged in an arc of a circle, wore purple dresses and eyes of metal without eyes.
In their hands, long and thin spears, cut to pierce before the opponent approaches.
They did not wear armor: their protection came from the discipline.
Their chief, recognizable by his golden mask, spoke in a voice that resounded throughout the corridor:
- You should never have crossed the red steps.
- And you, replied Ashen, advancing, you should never have closed the road to me.
The circle closed.
The first assault came from the left: a spear bordered on his throat.
Ashen pulled, grabbed the wood from the weapon and pulled violently, losing the balance to the wearer.
The dagger found its place under the coast.
Two other spears arrived, crossed like a pair of scissors.
Ashen plunged to the ground, rolled, straightened behind one of the men and cut the tendons for him.
The howls broke the pace of the choir.
The training hesitated for a second, but the masked chief yelled an order.
The spears were all lowered at the same time.
Ashen threw himself on the wall, supported a torch and jumped over two opponents, landing in their back.
He struck without thinking: throat, collarbone, artery.
Three bodies fell before the others understood.
The masked chief tried to pierce him from the front, but Ashen grabbed the shaft, broke her with a dry blow, and used the song as a stake to drive it under the golden mask.
The body collapsed without noise.
The silence fell again, only disturbed by the crackling of the torches.
Ashen stood in the center, breathing heavily, red hands to the wrists.
He looked up: at the end of the corridor, another, wider door, engraved with the symbol of the eye.
Behind ... he could almost feel the presence of Kael and the high priest.
Not yet visible.
But close.
Ashen moved.
- Soon, this temple will be empty.
The door engraved with the eye closed behind him in a dry snap.
The corridor widen suddenly, giving way to a large rotunda where the walls disappeared in the shadows.
Only a few suspended lanterns diffused irregular halos, as if the light hesitated to stay.
Ashen moved two steps ... then stopped.
He was not alone.
They were eight.
Eight thin silhouettes, in dark coats, their faces covered with a black fabric where two narrow slits let shiny artificial blue eyes.
Their hands were empty ... at least in appearance.
Ashen quickly understood that they were not: the fingers cried out, and short blades grooved from their sleeves, the steel reflecting the trembling light.
One of them spoke, his low and whistling voice:
- Third circle. Last threshold before the throne room.
- So are you what the temple has best to offer? Ashen replied.
- No. We are what cleanses.
A whisper passed between them, then they dispersed, melting in the dark corners of the rotunda.
Ashen Pivota just in time: a blade crossed the space occupied by his throat a second earlier.
He paraded the handle with the handle of his dagger, made a step aside ... and a second shadow fell from the ceiling, aimed at his ribs.
He dropped back, rolled, and got up with a metallic radiance in the eyes.
- Do you plan to make me dance until I run out? he launched.
- We intend to open you until you stop moving.
They struck by waves of two or three, coordinated as a single organization.
Whenever one of them was injured, the others covered his retirement, without a word.
Ashen knew that he could not count on brute force, not against such rapid opponents.
He fell back to the center of the rotunda, where the shadows had nowhere to disappear.
Her eyes swept away the movements: a braid shoulder, a foot that slides on the stone, a breath too strong.
The first mistake was theirs: an assailant tried to take him from behind, but his shadow betrays him.
Ashen turned around, grabbed his wrist and pushed his dagger to the guard.
The body collapsed without a cry.
-One less, he whispered.
The others did not slow down.
A violent shock cut his breathing: a blade had just shaved his ribs, leaving a damp burn.
Ashen fell, breathless, feeling lukewarm blood sink under his shirt.
The eight shadows were now seven, but they still turned around him as predators.
He hugged the dagger.
The mask of the madman, hitherto silent, seemed heavier on his face, as if he expected to be called.
Ashen crunched his teeth.
- Not yet.
He prepared for the second wave.
Silence did not last.
A beat.
Then a whistle.
The seven threw themselves on him as one body, blades forward, impassive faces.
Ashen folded his knees, the dagger tight in his right hand, the left ready to divert a blow.
He understood their rhythm: three fast strikes, a withdrawal, then a bypass.
The first blade came from above - he raised his arm, blocked with the dish of his dagger, felt the shock go up to his shoulder.
The second slipped by the left, he swivel, felt the point touching his flank.
The third ... he narrowly paraded it, his wrist Protestant under force.
-You are fast, he admitted. But not immortal.
An assailant committed the same mistake as his dead comrade: he let his shadow go beyond.
Ashen turned on himself, struck down, and the tip of his dagger pierced a thigh.
The muffled cry resonated, immediately covered by the steps of others.
He did not just hurt: he grabbed the man, pulled him towards him and projected him against one of his allies who arrived.
The two fell, losing.
Ashen rua on them and planted twice, precise, before straightening up.
- Five.
The remaining five did not decide.
They tightened the circle, their movements becoming even more coordinated.
Everyone covered a dead angle from the other.
Impossible to isolate one without exposing your back.
Ashen inspired deeply.
The mask on his face gave him the impression that each breathing was heavier ... but also more stable.
He still refused to activate it fully, but he felt his influence, lurking, ready.
A blade ripa against hers, leaving a wreath of sparks.
He counterattacks low, targeting the knees.
The opponent fell, but another arose behind Ashen, a blade ready to sink.
He dropped to the ground, rolled, cut the ankle from the one who had tried the estoc.
Blood flabbed the stones.
The injured man pushed a groan, stepped back, but did not leave the fight.
- You bleed ... but you hold, noted Ashen. I like that.
The circle was still tightening.
Ashen knew that if he couldn't find a major opening soon, they would end up using it.
His ribs launched him.
His shirt stuck to his skin.
But his gaze shone stronger.
He raised the dagger.
- Come on ... another turn.
The five exchanged a silent sign ... then attacked together.
Their boots slammed on stones like a war drum.
The five moved to unison, and Ashen felt the air shrink around him, as if the temple himself closed his walls.
The first blade fusted towards his face.
Ashen raised the dagger, blocked, and stepped back a step ... But a second blow came low, aimed at his legs.
He jumped back, but a third striker tried to take him out.
He swivel, grabbed the wrist of the assailant, and twisted violently.
A dry crack resonated, followed by a cry.
Without losing a second, Ashen planted his dagger in the exposed throat.
Lightned blood the mask.
-Four, he whispered.
The others reacted immediately.
Two came to the front, while the remaining two attacked by the sides.
Ashen fell, further fell ... then hit a pillar.
Trap.
A smile took shape under the mask.
He plunged to the left, taking advantage of a beat in their synchronization, and cut his hand which held a blade.
The man back, screaming, dropping his weapon.
Ashen picked up it without breaking the movement and launched it like an arrow.
The blade was said in the abdomen of another.
- Two.
The last two, seeing inevitable defeat, changed strategy.
They recused a few steps, exchanged a sign ... and threw themselves on him at the same time, with an almost perfect precision.
Ashen para the first, blocking the crossed blades a few centimeters from his neck.
The muscles of his arms shouted.
The second attacker tried to take advantage of the opening, but Ashen gave a brutal knee in his belly, folding it in half.
He cleared, Pivota, and let his dagger slide into a throat.
- A.
The last one raised his weapon, hesitated a fraction of a second ... and it was his loss.
Ashen left him no chance: he struck the belly, went up the blade to the sternum, and pushed the body.
Silence.
Ashen wiped the dagger against his sleeve, breathed deeply, then looked up towards the massive door that stood in front of him.
Behind… Kael, and the high priest.
- Finally.
He advanced, the steps resonating like a death knell.