The doors of the Haut-Temple yielded into a groan, as if they were forced.
From the inside escaped a heavy breath: the smell of hot blood, mixed with that of still burning incense.
Fragments of broken prayers floated in the air, carried by the echoes of the massacre.
Ashen appeared in the embrasure.
His boots slid slightly on the slabs, saturated with red.
Her hands, sleeves, mask ... everything was stained.
Not only by blood. But by something deeper.
He remained motionless for a moment, silhouette cut in the declining light, before slowly descending the white marble steps.
Halfway at the steps, he stopped.
His head tilted slightly, as if he listened to an invisible voice.
Then, a sound rose from his throat:
Not a frank laugh. Not yet.
Rather a whisper that turns into a radiance.
- "Hah ... Ah ... ahaha ..."
He laughed. Strong. A long time.
Laughter rolled out the steps faster than him.
He seemed to be laughing at everything: massacre, gray sky, passers -by below who looked away.
When he resumed his breath, it was to speak.
Not to someone. But to the world.
- "Do you remember?" No ... of course not.
No one remembers.
We remember what we want. And you…
You have chosen to forget Caldor. »»
He raised his hands covered with blood and contemplated them as if they were works of art.
- "Here are my hands ... they killed the pillars of your order.
They torn off the heart of your city.
And yet ... they still tremble.
For what ?
Because something is missing.
Something is still missing. »»
He turned his face to the sky, shook his head.
- "I thought ... I thought that by killing Kael, breaking the high priest ... I was going to feel ... what? Peace?
Hahaha ... Ah ... what a farce.
There is no peace.
There is only silence after a cry. »»
A merchant, at the bottom of the street, observed discreetly.
Other passers -by slowed down, curious, then accelerated their steps.
No one dared to go up.
Ashen resumed:
-"You, there ... you believe that I am a monster.
You are right.
But a monster, at least, does not lie on its nature.
And you ? You hide your fangs behind crowns, crosses and laws.
Me ... I show them. »»
His laughter resumed, more acute, almost painful to hear.
- " The life ? Life is a theater where everyone plays a role ... except me.
Me, I am the one who snatches the curtain, who breaks the sets, which sets fire behind the scenes.
Because I know ... I know that the play is already over.
The end? She is written.
And I want to rewrite it ... with your corpses as ink. »»
He put his hand to his mad mask, patted him like an old friend.
- "You and me ... We continue, huh?"
We will still laugh, until nothing left to burn. »»
He finally descended the last steps.
Passing in front of a child, he stopped, leaned, and placed a room in his hand.
-"Build yourself a mask, small. One day, you will see ... Living without is unbearable. »»
Then he walked away, slowly, in the streets of the capital.
His shadow mingled with those of the towers, and his laughter resounded even long after he disappeared at the corner of an alley.
The news arrived in the golden salons even before the nicks of the high-time were constantly ringing.
In the corridors of the Haut-Sceau Palace, the messengers were running, the scribes jostled.
Each word brought the same smell: blood.
- "Kael is dead ... the high priest too ..."
- " Impossible… "
- "We say that the madman ... the madman ... came out alive. »»
The nobles gathered in the Hérauts room looked at each other as if a plague had just crossed the doors.
No one dared to say Ashen's name, but everyone knew that he had stopped being a shadow.
He had become a storm.
Under the frescoes representing the past victories of Maelrath, seven figures sat around the long table.
Dukes, advisers, and two bishops.
The Duke of Mervanth was the first to speak:
- "If this man can kill Kael, he can kill any of us. »»
Bishop Dalmor clenched his fists:
- "Anyone? It can destroy the whole church.
The high-time was our sanctuary. He reduced it to silence. »»
A heavy silence followed.
Finally, Chancellor Rhaeven spoke, in a slow voice:
- "He's not an assassin ... It's a message.
Someone armed him. Someone wants us to tremble. »»
Meanwhile, in taverns and markets, the stories were multiplied.
Each witness added an impossible detail:
- "He laughed while slaughtering them ..."
- "His eyes burned like two suns ..."
- "He made a theater appear in the air, I swear ..."
In low-quarters, some were starting to see it as a legend, wild justice against corruption.
Others, more cautious, preferred not to say his name, fearing that the madman would hear them.
At the top of the palace, in the red stained glass window, King Maelrath listened to reports without saying a word.
Sitting on a throne carved with bleached bones, he slowly turned a silver ring around his finger.
- "Two men I thought were immutable fell.
So ... Who tells me that I'm not the next one? He whispered.
His advisor attempts a prudent response:
- "Majesty, we can send custody of the shadows ..."
Maelrath shook her head.
- "No ... I need to know why he struck.
A man does not kill without reason. Find it… and find it. »»
Additional patrols were sent.
The doors of the capital closed earlier than usual.
The high-time bells remained silent, a sign that there was no one left to make them ring.
In the dark alleys, it was whispered that the madman had not left Edelstadt.
That he was waiting.
That he was preparing something else.
And in a forgotten corner of the city, a silhouette alone was still laughing, as if the massacre had only been a prologue.
Elaira stood in front of the window, the curtain ajar.
From her room to the third floor of the Valemyr house, she saw smoke.
A dark trail that rose above the roofs, where the high-time was.
- "It's nothing, my lady, just an ... incident. Said the servant by withdrawing her sheets.
Elaira did not answer.
She knew how to recognize the smoke color of a simple fire ... and that left by the burned blood.
In the evening, the whole family meets around the long oak table.
Kael was not there.
Officially, he had to "settle a diplomatic case".
Duke Veryon, impassive, cut his meat as if nothing had happened.
But the looks between other family members betrayed concern.
-"It is said that the high-time ..." began one of the aunts.
- "... was attacked, yes. »Gively cut.
- "By whom?" Asked Elaira, pretending to be simple curiosity.
The Duke stopped chewing.
- " Never mind. This is not our business. »»
But Elaira had grown up in this house.
She knew that it is not our business meant it is exactly our business, but shut up.
Later in the evening, she crossed two valets in the corridor, who spoke in a low voice:
- "... they say that he laughed while striking ..."
- "... and he put Kael on his knees ..."
- "Hush, if you can hear you say that, you lose your tongue ..."
Elaira's hearts were hugging.
Kael?
She did not like her brother ... but the idea that he was able to be defeated by a stranger seemed unreal to her.
The next day, she insisted to go to town, on the pretext of buying fabrics.
Her escort followed her closely, but she stretched out at each market, each crossing.
The stories changed each mouth:
- "He was alone. »»
- "No, he had an invisible army. »»
- "They say he was wearing a mask ..."
A mask.
The word remained hung in Elaira's mind.
When she returned, she brought an old acquaintance, a rare book merchant.
He spoke to him in a low voice, his hands trembling:
- "We say that this madman ... is not new.
That he is ... returned. »»
- " Income ? Asked Elaira, intrigued.
- " Yes. As if ... he had already walked here, a long time ago ... but that we had forgotten everything about him. »»
These words resonated in it.
She didn't know why ... But a feeling of deja-vu was starting to bite her mind to her.
The morning mist was mixed with a metallic odor.
Not that of market iron, nor that of the ink of the scribes ... but that, acre and tenacious, of coagulated blood.
Elaira descended from her carriage before the high-time enclosure, ordering his coachman to wait for him.
- "My lady, the place is ... prohibited. »»
- "So you didn't see me. She replied, adjusting her coat.
The forecourt that led to the temple was unrecognizable.
The large white marble steps were striated with cracks, stained with red.
The stained glass windows - formerly so imposing - hanged into sharp shattering, reflecting troubled light.
Soldiers were on the guard at a distance. None dared to cross the big door.
Elaira slipped between two collapsed columns, holding her breath.
The air was heavy, almost tangible.
Each step on the blackened slabs produced an echo too long, as if the place refused to let the sounds go.
On the walls, the sacred frescoes had been lacerated.
The representations of the seven inverted virtues seemed to bleed from black paint.
And everywhere, brands of blades.
Not those of a classic battle: those of a personal fight.
The traces of the massacre
In the center of the nave, a burned circle marked the ground, as if a fire had sprung up nothing.
Around, dozens of motionless silhouettes.
Statues? No.
Soldiers petrified in frozen defense or leakage positions, gray skin, empty eyes.
A whisper slid behind her:
- "You shouldn't be here. »»
Elaira turned suddenly.
He was a young monk, covered with dust. His hands were shaking.
-"What happened? She asked.
- "The madman came ..."
- "The madman?" »»
- "Yes ... but he didn't laugh like the others. He laughed like ... someone who remembers all his dead. »»
Elaira felt a shiver slide behind her back.
She wanted to ask what he looked like ... But instead, she asked:
- "And ... why?" »»
The monk looked down.
- "Because they had killed someone he loved. »»
- " Who ? »»
- "I ... I don't know. No one remembers. »»
She slowly retreated, a beating heart.
The mist was again inspired by the roof breaches.
Going out, she cast a last look at the burned circle.
Something told her that it was not the first time that she saw a scene like this ... But no precise image returned to her.
Ashen crosses the large broken gate of the Haut-Temple.
The morning sun burned his eyes, as if he came out of a chasm.
On his boots, the blood had dried in dark crusts. His hands were still trembling ... but no fatigue.
He laughed.
Not a clear shine - a low, broken laugh, which returned by waves, like a sick cough.
Passers -by turned away. Some crowded, others signed themselves discreetly by whispering a prayer to the king.
Ashen was there with their eyes.
- "Everyone flees ... But no one really knows what hunts them. »»
He walked without a goal, crossing the main arteries of Edelstadt.
The bells sounded far away, as if they were trying to announce a normality that no longer existed.
- "Life ... What a farce.
We are born, we take on from illusions, we die.
But me ... I died more often than all these idiots together.
One hundred thousand billion times ... And each time, I hoped that the next one would be different. »»
He stopped in front of a fountain where the water, tinged with red, continued to lazily sink.
His reflection in the trembling wave still wore the madman's mask.
He passed his fingers on it, slowly.
- "And each time, the world is the same. Maybe it's me ... who is the rotten center around which everything is running. »»
About twenty steps behind him, Elaira was advancing in the crowd.
She had no certainty, just this oppressive presentiment.
Each Ashen movement seemed familiar, each inclination of his head, each gesture of his hand.
But impossible to put a name on it.
She stopped when he gave himself up against a wall.
His laughter echoed, stronger this time.
- "The king ... the temple ... the gods ... all failed actors.
They thought they could write my role.
But I'm the author now.
And I write ... in blood letters. »»
An old man missed Elaira and murmured:
- "It's him ... the madman. »»
She frowned.
The madman. Yes, we have been talking about him since yesterday, since the massacre.
But why ... did she feel like he had known him well before all that?
Ashen straightened up, gave his mask correctly and launched a last look at the crowd around.
- "You don't know yet ... but I will all offer you the same room.
A theater ... where each of you will die in their role. »»
Then he turned into a narrow alley.
Elaira hesitated ... and followed him.
But at the end of the alley, he was no longer there.
Only a distant echo of laughter, as if the walls themselves remembered it.
Elaira remained motionless for a moment, staring at the place where he had disappeared.
The cold wind rushed into the alley, lifting shreds of dust and metal odor.
She inspired deeply, then advanced.
Nothing.
No trace of footsteps.
Not even an imprint in the damp mud.
How can we disappear like this?
She returned to the main street and approached a fabric merchant who stored her fabrics.
- Did you ... saw the masked man who went earlier?
The merchant looked up, a mixture of fear and contempt in the gaze.
- The madman? Of course. I will still see it in my nightmares.
-Where did he go?
- The madmen have no destination. They go where it bleeds.
The merchant's dry tone did not invite to stay.
Elaira continued her march, questioning other passers -by.
An old woman, his back vaulted, murmured him:
- He gave me a room ... just like that.
- And ?
- And he said ... "You all pay for something. You just don't know what. »»
Elaira felt a thrill going up its spine.
Under the shadow of the large arches on the market, air felt iron and smoke.
She found a kid crouching behind an empty stall.
-Hey, little, did you see a masked man?
The child nodded vigorously.
- Yes, madam! He laughed alone. Then he asked if I wanted to be in his room.
- His room?
- Yeah ... like a theater. He told me that I could play the role of a king ... but that I would die in the end.
Elaira felt her heart tighten.
He was still playing with words.
Even with children.
At the end of the afternoon, in a small neighborhood tavern, she heard low voices.
Two men spoke, believing that he was protected from indiscreet ears.
-… He got out of the high time alone. No one can do that. Person.
- Do you think he has a pact?
- Either a pact or ... it is no longer really human.
Elaira cleaned her fists.
The more she learned, the more the portrait was blurred.
There were only two constants: the mask ... and this laughter.
Night fell.
The city lights up oil lamps and red brands.
Elaira found herself on a bridge, his gaze lost in dark water.
She talked to herself:
- "It doesn't matter who he is ... or what has become.
I have to find him. »»
An icy breath passed behind her.
like a whisper in the shade:
"Maybe he will find you before ..."
The moon hung over Edelstadt as a pale mask.
Ashen was walking in the narrow alleys, each step erasing a little more his shadow behind him.
In his left hand, he held a bag of leather closed by three curls.
Inside, nothing that makes any noise ... but everything to make silence speak.
He stopped in front of a dusty showcase.
A merchant of rare objects and forgotten relics.
The tinker tin at its entrance.
- What are you looking for? asked the old man, the trembling voice.
- Three meters of black rope. Two vials of lamp oil. And ... a southern ceremonial mask.
The merchant swelled.
- Are you preparing a ritual?
Ashen smiled, slightly inclined his head.
- Yes. A ritual ... very old. And unique.
He put on the three -coated rust -stained silver counter.
The old man took them without asking other questions.
Ashen spent the night in a room he had rented above a engraver shop.
He sat on the floor, released a piece of coal and traced an approximate map of the royal palace on the wooden slats.
Each corridor, each guard station, each rescue way ...
He knew everything.
As if I had already done it a thousand times, he thought.
And maybe it was true.
He whispered for himself:
- "The throne room is just a scene.
And the king ... an actor who does not know the end of his play. »»
He noted the care schedules, patrol changes, the exact moment when the kitchens delivered the royal districts.
Chaos would start before dawn.
An hour when the city was neither awake nor sleep.
Under the bed, Ashen released his dagger.
The blade barely reflected the light of the candle.
He passed his finger on the wire, without grimacing when the perla blood.
Then he grabs the mask of the madman.
He stared at him for a long time, his features distorted in the polished reflection.
- "They think I come for the crown ... But I come for the final curtain. »»
He put everything in the bag.
In the street, the cold bit the cheeks.
Ashen took the direction of the noble districts, walking like a simple citizen.
Each richly decorated facade made him want to laugh ... and hit.
Passing in front of a coffee, he heard murmurs:
- Tomorrow, reception at the palace. The king wants to bless the new knights.
Ashen slows down.
A twisted smile took shape under his hood.
- A reception… perfect for a tragic room.
Tomorrow he would enter.
Tomorrow he would close the doors.
And tomorrow, Edelstadt would see a red throne