Night fell on Edelstadt.
Not a breath of wind, not even the murmur of the streets.
Ashen walked alone, cape open, as if he was walking in his own garden.
The cobblestones were clicking under his boots.
With each step, a memory scratched the surface of his mind: hot blood on the stone, the last breath of Kael, the tingling of his sacred sword falling to the ground.
A shiver ... no of fear, but of pleasure.
At the end of the avenue, the Valemyr house stood, imposing and motionless.
Silver coat of arms seemed to fix it like dead eyes.
It does not slow down.
Two guards, lances in hand, crossed the halberd in front of the door.
One frowned.
-Stop!
Ashen stopped ... just a step.
-Do you know where your master is, Kael?
The guard hesitated.
- He is at the palace ...
Ashen burst out laughing.
- Fake. It is on the ground. Cold. Eyes open on nothing. And me ... I brought his greetings.
Before they could understand, his daggers slipped.
A first blow in the throat.
A second under the coast.
Silence was made, only broken by the bloody blood on the steps.
The doors sold under a shoulder.
The light of the chandeliers flooded white marble.
Ashen entered him at home.
A servant, frozen at the foot of the stairs, opened his mouth to speak ... but Ashen raised a finger.
- Not a word. Go get the Duke. And Elaira.
The servant fell and disappeared in the corridor.
Elaira appeared the first, black dress, closed face.
His eyes moved away when he saw him.
- YOU…
"Yes," he replied, almost gently.
She hesitated to descend.
- What do you want ?
Ashen lifted his head, a sliding smile on his lips.
- What all dead wants: that we can remember him.
The Duke VERYON left his office, a heavy coat on his shoulders.
- Ashen, right? You killed my son ...
Ashen Le Coupa Net:
- Yes. And I could give you a thousand reasons ... but it did not even deserve an explanation.
VERYON cleared his fists.
Elaira, she, whispered:
- Why ... why do this to us?
Ashen took a step towards her.
- Because you live as if nothing had existed before tonight. Because your memory is a corpse, and I ... I came to unearth it.
Ashen finally put the madman's mask on his face.
The engraved smile superimposed to his.
- The Valemyr house has slept for too long. It's time ... to wake her up.
Silence fell, heavy, just before night was breaking.
The madman's mask returned the light of the chandeliers as a glass of glass.
Ashen did not move, simply tilted, one hand behind his back, the other placed on the guard of his dagger.
-Duke VERYON… Lady Elaira… he started with an impeccable bow.
His voice was soft, almost charming, but each syllable vibrated with invisible tension.
Elaira frowned.
-How do you know my name?
Ashen straightened his head.
- Ah ... your name. Elaira Valemyr. Like a sound that would have engraved on a blade, polished by time, but which always cuts as much.
She took a step back.
- You ... we never met.
Ashen laughs, a brief and dry laugh, almost muffled.
- It's true. You have never seen me ... not like that. But I knew you. Long before you could say "I". Long before you know what it is to lose someone.
Duke VERYON intervened, with the cold voice:
- You dare to come here, after killing my son, to ... speak in puzzles?
Ashen turned to him, and slightly tied his head.
- Your son. Yes ... he was so ... lively. But you know, Duke, liveliness does not save an empty heart. And his defeated for himself.
- You're crazy, spat Slyon.
Ashen put his hand on his chest, feigning an injury.
- Mad ? Oh ... I gladly admit it. But you see, in this world, you sometimes need a madman to tell the truth to kings.
He slowly removed the mask, revealing a calm smile ... too calm.
His eyes overwhelmed in those of Elaira.
- You have forgotten, Elaira. But I ... I remember.
She blamed.
-What ... What do you mean?
- I mean ... that forgotten names do not disappear. They stay, carpet, in the shadow of the walls you live. Let them grow in the dust, until the day they knock on your door ... as I do this evening.
She opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came out.
His hands were shaking slightly.
Ashen put the mask with slowness, like an actor taking up his role.
- I didn't come to scare you, my lady ... No, no. I came to make sure you know that I exist. That a name you have forgotten ... can always come back.
He bowed deeply in front of her, then added a sign of the Duke:
- And you, my dear Duke, you know better than anyone that ghosts do not strike twice at the same door ...
He marked a break, leaning his head slightly.
- ... unless you still find something to take.
Elaira had pale to the point of appearing a statue.
VERYON hugged her fists, but did not move.
And Ashen, he took a step back, as if to savor their silence.
- I will come back. When the moon is full. We will resume this conversation ... But this time, I will ask you to look me in the eyes without diverting your head.
He turned away, dry and nervous laughter resonating against the walls, and crossed the door of the Valemyr house as if it belonged to him.
The clicking of the door resonated for a long time in the empty hall.
VERYON remained motionless, hands tense behind the back, staring at the shadow left by Ashen.
Elaira, she had sat down, as if her legs could no longer wear it.
A long silence, just interrupted by the crackling of an oil lamp.
-Who… was it? she finally asked, the low voice, almost cut in half.
- A madman, replied Valyon, but his eyes betrayed a doubt that he did not want to show.
- A madman ... who knew my name. Who knew ... things.
Veryon turned to her, dry.
- You mean he threatened you.
She shook her head.
- Not directly. But he spoke as if ... as if I had forgotten something important.
The Duke began to walk slowly in the room, the heavy steps on the marble.
- The madmen know how to listen, Elaira. They feed on rumors and gossip, then spit everything in a mask of puzzles.
He stopped in front of her.
- It was just a game. Don't be disturbed.
She wanted to answer, but the front door slammed again.
Rapid steps crossed the vestibule.
Elaira (the youngest) appeared, the still wet cape of the exterior drizzle.
She seemed to breathe out, cheeks reddened by the cold.
- Father ... Mother ... he was there! she launched without preamble.
VERYON frowned.
- Who then?
- The madman. that of the circus. I followed him in the streets, but he disappeared at the bend of an alley ... as if he knew exactly where I would lose it.
The first Elaira straightened up suddenly.
- He ... came here.
The youngest froze.
- Here ?
VERYON intervened dry tone:
- Yes. And he left. This kind of individual does not deserve to be given more importance than he has.
The youngest hesitated, then left her pocket a small object: a piece of black fabric, torn.
- I think it's him. I picked him up where he turned.
She stretched him to her mother.
The texture was strange, dense, almost hot to the touch.
Elaira (the elder) looked down on the fabric and murmured:
- It looks like ... the same fabric as that of his mask.
The Duke hugged his jaw.
- Enough. Whether it's circus, street or shadows, it has no place in this house.
However, when the youngest left the room, Elaira discreetly turned to VERYON.
- You can't find strange ... that he told me about it as if we had already shared something?
Veryon looked away.
- The crazy people live in their own stories. And sometimes they try to lock up others.
He did not show it ... but his fingers cried slightly.
As if he knew that this story was not going to close so easily.
The rain fell fine, almost silent, drawing dark veins on the cobblestones.
Ashen advanced without hurrying, his boots leaving behind a trail of water and dust.
His fingers distractedly stroked the edge of the mask in his pocket.
He still felt the scent of this house ...
And Elaira's eyes fixed on him.
A silhouette detached an arcade, as if it had always been there.
The indicator.
- SO ? He said in a calm voice.
- So ... replied Ashen, leaving the wall, I saw their faces.
- And ?
- They don't remember anything. Not even my name.
The indicator had an almost tender smile.
- Perfect. It's easier to kill those who don't remember you.
- Kill ... or break?
He raised an eyebrow.
- Destruction is more complete when it touches the soul before the body. But you, Ashen ... you have always had a heavy hand.
Ashen haus the shoulders, eyes fixed on the void.
- I could erase them. Tore them as you tear a page. But…
He had a slight laugh.
- I want them to understand before dying.
The light approached, his coat rubbing the damp wall.
-So do it. Take revenge. Destroy them all. Their houses, their names, their memories. Leaves no stone to carry their inheritance.
Ashen turned his head towards him.
-What if I do it ... what will remain?
"You," replied the seer, "and laughs.
A long silence settled.
The rain drops seemed to grow, each impact on the ground like a death knell.
Ashen passed a hand in his hair, eyes widened with an almost feverish shine.
- Do you think I can burn everything? Even the palace? Even the throne?
- Especially the throne, said the indicator. This is where the root is the most rotten.
Ashen had a distorted smile.
- So I'm going to tear the whole tree. And I will dance on the roots.
The seer moved away, letting his shadow blend into the corner of the street.
- Don't forget, Ashen ... You haven't been spared a thousand billions of times for nothing.
- A thousand billion… repeated Ashen, laughing gently.
Then stronger.
Then again, until his laughter resonates throughout the empty alley.
When he calmed down, he looked up towards the already missing silhouette.
- Very good ... I'm going to destroy everything. And this city will finally learn to remember my name.
The rain stopped.
The heavy clouds remained suspended above Edelstadt as a lid ready to fall.
Ashen was walking.
Not to a specific place. Not with a clear idea.
His boots hit the cobblestones with regularity, as if each step was a note in music that he alone heard.
He did not see the passers -by who crowded around him.
He did not see the royal posters on the walls, nor the religious symbols engraved in stone.
He only saw shapes, shadows ... and, behind them, the echoes of disappeared faces.
A saleswoman cried out the arrival of figs from the southern ports.
A crier announced a decree of King Maelrath.
A child stared at him in silence from a walk, tightening a headless doll in his hands.
Ashen stopped for a moment.
The child did not move.
- Are you looking for it? Ashen asked, designating the absent head.
No answer.
So he laughs gently and resumed his journey, leaving the frozen image behind.
The more he walked, the closer the city seemed to him.
The alleys were closing, the facades seemed to be leaning towards him.
Each window, each door, each balcony ... He saw them as closed mouths ready to open and scream.
-Not yet, he whispered for himself. You will cry soon.
He passed the central market.
The smells of spice and blood mixed made him look up.
A memory returned to him: Caldor, laughing at this same smell, saying that it felt "like an imperfect victory".
Ashen felt his fingers tremble.
He began to walk.
Where? He didn't know anything about it.
Only… further on.
Higher.
Until his steps carry him where he could strike.
He crossed the Arches district and found himself facing the Grande avenue which led to the Palais du Haut-Sceau.
The view of the flag - the eye sewn on the hand - gave him almost nausea.
It does not slow down.
No detour.
No waiting.
Each step brought him closer to where the blood would flow again.
In the shadow of a porch, an old beggar mumbled:
- No plan, no future. Just walking ...
Ashen stopped, stared at him, then smiled.
- Exactly.
And he continued.
The white cobblestones of the Royal Avenue resounded like a war drum under his steps.
At the end, the Haut-Sceau Palace stood, massive, crushing, its high columns cut in a marble as pale as bones.
The flag of the eye and the hand floated heavily in the air saturated with humidity.
Ashen does not slow down.
He advanced as if he returned home.
On the steps, half a dozen white armor guards noticed the silhouette.
They exchanged a few words, then one of them raised the voice:
- Stop! Identify yourself!
Ashen simply raised the left hand ... and the mask of the madman reflected the gray light from the sky.
Silence fell instantly.
We heard the noise of the metal that we draw.
A nervous voice, almost a whisper, rose:
- It's him ... he's the madman.
From there, the cries fused.
The alarm bells began to ring.
The doors of the palace closed halfway while men were running on the ramparts to post at the slots.
Ashen rode the first steps.
-Oh, no need to give you so much trouble ... he said in a perfectly calm, almost polished voice.
He slid his dagger out of his belt and made her turn between his fingers.
- I came to enter. And I will not hit any door.
A captain stepped forward, the spared sword, his voice slamming like an order of death:
- By royal decree, your only presence here is a crime liable to immediate execution.
Ashen tilted his head slightly.
- So let's get upset. But let's start with the right actors, do you want?
The guards hesitated, but the captain raised his hand.
A dozen of them formed a semicircle around Ashen.
Behind, the servants, scribes and courtiers who had the misfortune to find themselves in the courtyard retreated hastily.
Some whispered his name.
Others made religious signs as if to protect themselves.
It was clear that the whole palace now knew.
The madman was there.
Not in a rumor.
Not in a story that we tell ourselves at night.
In flesh, blood, and dagger.
Ashen turned slowly on himself, observing the faces, feeling the tension rising.
- You are afraid ... And yet, you smile behind your helmets. You are waiting for order. Like erect dogs.
The captain took a step forward.
- Last chance. Go.
Ashen laughs, a frank, almost joyful laugh.
- Oh, captain ... you don't know how many times I have been given a "last chance".
He raised his dagger, ready.
- And not once ... I didn't take it