by Chloe Cullen
When she reached the building, she paused for a moment and stared up at it, the marble pillars and great double doors shining bright.
The Legion’s Mausoleum.
Cori would appear as nothing but calm and content to any onlookers, only she knew of the maelstrom of emotions that rioted within.
When she entered the building, the doors clanged shut with an alarming echo around the solid white walls. Cori knew exactly where to go; she had visited her grandparents and ancestors’ tombs regularly with her father and Nes in prior years. She didn’t bother looking at any of the other names, both familiar and unfamiliar, as she passed by, her eyes fixed straight ahead as her footsteps echoed around the silent walls. It was a veritable maze of tombs, the names of their occupants gilded into the walls, and Cori delved a few floors below ground level to find what she was looking for.
Cori stared at the door leading to a room beyond, a room that was set aside for the Oakheart’s. Her family name was large and bold across the top of the door, and she swallowed a thick lump in her throat.
The Lone Oakheart. That’s what they had called her after the Massacre, and it was the truth. Only Cori would be a regular visitor to this room to mourn the family she had lost, and unless she had a family of her own, her name would be the last to be added to this room.
With a hand that shook slightly, Cori pushed the door open and walked inside, letting the door swing shut with a swish behind her.
Her chest tightened, her eyes immediately finding the names freshly plated into the walls, standing out from the others, the lettering brighter and cleaner than the others.
Brennon Oakheart. Nessida Oakheart.
Her family, the people she had loved the most in the whole world, their bodies now lay wasted away somewhere behind these walls. Cori’s knees shook, the icy grip of grief holding her by the throat, choking her until she let herself sob. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she just stood and looked at the names, at all she had left of them.
***
Thoren was emanating a practiced semblance of calm as he chatted with some Legionnaires in the dining hall, his unwavering hands spooning hot broth into a bowl. It was his insides that shook, his mind that was a riot of thoughts, his stomach that begged him not to eat lest he vomit from the unrest that had settled there.
For two years Thoren had wanted Cori to be here, back home with him. Now that he had gotten his wish, he wondered if it was a mistake for him to have wished it in the first place. She had been so pale, so stiff, her words clipped and unfeeling when she had been around him.
He couldn’t help but worry that it was too soon for her to be here, even though she had been away for more than two years. Perhaps her being back was only going to be worse for her than where she had been in the East Markets, smiling and laughing with the black-haired girl.
For his own selfish reasons, he had convinced Cori to return, and perhaps that had been a mistake. A self-serving mistake that would only cause Cori grief and despair.
Thoren was reaching for a bread roll, when he noted a small movement near the doors to the dining hall. Looking up, he saw a sheet of blonde hair disappear beyond the doors, the colouring and length of the hair too familiar to not be her.
Thoren said nothing to the others as he abandoned the bowl of broth on the table nearest to him and strode towards those doors where he had seen her. When he reached the lamp-lit hallway, he glanced down the length of the room, seeing no sign of Cori.
He should go back and eat his dinner and then start his patrol of the Royal Quarter. He was due to relieve Trey before the next hour struck. He should most definitely not follow behind Cori to see where it was that she was going. She had said it was private.
Thoren sighed loudly into the empty hallway, before starting a quick pace towards where Cori would have been heading.
When Thoren came to the back doors to the outdoor gardens, he stopped to glance out the windows, and sure enough, there was a small figure striding across the grounds, her shining hair streaming like a moon-kissed veil behind her.
Thoren had been ready to walk out and continue following her, but he noticed the direction that she was headed in. Towards the Mausoleum.
She’s going to visit Brennan and Nes. Thoren closed his eyes, throat bobbing as he swallowed. Thoren knew what it had been like for him to lose them, and he imagined what it must have been like for Cori, to find out who had killed her family. They had slain their President, sweet little Nessida, and many other Legionnaires.
It was a catastrophic day that none of the remaining Legionnaires would ever forget, but it had struck Cori in a different way. Not only could she not forget, but it seemed like she couldn’t trust anyone around her anymore.
Thoren still recalled that morning like it had been yesterday, thundering up to her rooms and breaking down her door. Only to find the rooms beyond empty, drawers half open, discarded clothes forgotten on the floor, and the windows to her balcony open, curtains swaying lazily in the breeze.
He had stood on that balcony, looking for any sign of her in the crowds that had assembled in the front courtyard, but he had found none. For a few days, Thoren had convinced himself she would only be gone for a little while, to regain her bearings. But as days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months, Thoren had ventured out to find her after a rumour had surfaced that she was spotted to the East. He had returned the following day, sure that he would never see her back with the Legion ever again.
But Cori was back now, and Thoren watched her small figure disappear into the marble halls that held all past Legionnaires, and felt a deep, unending well of sadness for what they had both lost that day.
Thoren quietly walked away from the window, back towards the dining hall, knowing his desire to comfort would be unwelcome.
9
THE ASSASSIN PART ONE
She went by many names.
The Everton Assassin, the Night Stalker, or the one she had heard whispered through the streets – the shadow you see before death. But whatever they chose to call her; her calling was the same. She was told where to be, what to steal, who to intimidate, or who to leave in a pool of their own piss and blood.
The Assassin knew that there was a dark and twisted gnarl of a broken tree rooted within her soul that she found some ruthless enjoyment in that last one.
Killing. It shouldn’t be an easy task – but somewhere along the way she had convinced herself the orders were justified, and besides, she didn’t choose them. She just killed them.
It was in the dead of night and she was crouched on a rooftop, taking in her surroundings, seeing that all but a few lamps had been winked out in the windows around the sprawling city.
She knew that beneath her, a man rested soundly in his bed, unaware of the killer lying in wait above him.
Moments before, the Assassin had been on the opposite rooftop, squatting in the shadows, unseen, and watching the man now beneath her preparing for sleep. She had watched him settle into his night-time routine that she had been observing for many nights now, and what the man did before lying down to sleep always made her stomach curdle like she wished to vomit. She had watched him as he carefully, almost reverently, reached into a spot hidden beneath the floorboards of his bedroom and take a small box out from the shadowy depths. He would then proceed to take items out of the box, pictures, and would stare at them for a time, before placing them back in their hiding spot.
Knowing who this man was, what he had done, caused a sick form of wrath to pace desperately in her heart. The Assassin had known what was inside that box, for she had spied the contents only the day before… to confirm who he was, to confirm that he was to be killed.
And so, he would be.
She unsheathed her favourite weapon, a long, slim stiletto from her belt, and held it between her fingers. The Assassin glanced down at the shining blade, thinking its name as the moonlight glinted off the pointed tip. Irandyal.
Irandyal had seen much in the way o
f blood, and it would see more tonight.
With a quiet breath, she sheathed Irandyal and ensured her hood was securely in place. Now was the time.
She was a blade in the dark.
Quiet and nimble, she swung from the rooftop, feet finding purchase on the sill and for a moment she just crouched there in the window, her shadow elongated by the moon’s glow on the floorboards in the man’s room.
The Assassin watched the sleeping man for two heartbeats, the anger and sickness rising up through her as she watched him breathing. She had observed him for the better part of that day, had observed him to be happy, content… alive. It was a sick joke.
She moved through the open window and her feet touched the floor, where she took a few silent steps to stand over him, her shadow now cast across his face.
The shadow you see before death.
The breeze floated through the window, her cloak fluttering silently around her. She tilted her head to the side, again just watching for a moment, before she reached behind her in a careful, slow movement to draw Irandyal from its home in her belt.
The next part didn’t require much finesse, or quiet for that matter.
The Assassin threw herself onto the sleeping man, her knees digging into arms, a hand over a mouth and the other holding Irandyal to a throat.
The man had come awake with a jerk, a muffled yell emanating from him and eyes wide with shock staring upwards at the weight suddenly upon him.
He found her face in the darkness beneath the black cowl, and his eyes grew wider, shock turning to pure fear. A sob wriggled its way from between her fingers covering his mouth, and she cringed inwardly at the feel of his moist breath on her hand.
The Assassin wasn’t a talker when it came to her job, nor was she a timewaster. So, she simply pressed the sharp edge of the blade harder against his ruddy skin, a trickle of blood running down the side of his neck onto the white sheets below.
The Assassin leaned in closer, the blade pressing just a little deeper. Another muffled cry underneath her hand, a word that might have been please if he had been able to speak.
Leaning closer, she reigned in her revulsion. “Mr Teller sends his regards,” she whispered into his ear before pulling back to look into his eyes again.
That was when he started to thrash violently underneath her, knowing his end was about to come, but she was quicker than that. With a single swipe of her hand, the blade sunk deep and across, opening his throat with a spray of blood as she leapt backwards off him, glad to be away from his warm, repulsive body.
She watched a foot away from the bed as the man choked, hands on the gaping wound at his throat, the blood streaming in uncontrollable bursts down his front, down the sides of his neck and pooling across the once pristine white sheets.
As he struggled, died, and quieted, the Assassin thought only of the pictures in the box hidden by the floorboards beneath her feet. A deep, satisfying feeling of relief spread through her.
She had never known a silence quite as loud as the one following death, and for the space of a breath, the Assassin enjoyed that moment.
The black hood had fallen from her head during the struggle, so she lifted it back into place, and pulled her cowl up to cover her mouth, readying to leap back out into the night, a shadow amongst shadows.
She only took another moment to retrieve the hand-sketched pictures he’d had hidden away, shoving them in a pocket, unable to look upon the innocent faces there. The Assassin deftly stalked towards the window and climbed out without bothering to look back at the man again, who was now lying still with dim eyes, his body cooling in a mess of his own blood.
10
Maveron sat at his desk, the early morning sunlight streaming in through the windows of his large Presidential office. He was staring at an old tome that he had taken down from the bookshelves behind him a few days earlier, when he had seen Corisande for the first time in over two years. He had wanted to present it to her then, but the timing had not been right. Not for this. Now that she was back and had accepted that her return was inevitable, Maveron thought that Cori would be in a better emotional state to receive this gift.
He could still recall the day that Cori was born. It was such a happy, pure day with Brennan and Cori’s mother, Veralind. Maveron had been by Brennan’s side throughout the entire day until Cori was brought into the world. He had been Brennon’s best friend and confidante and had awaited the birth of their child ever since hearing that they had fallen pregnant. The next generation of Oakhearts was sure to be as remarkable as their predecessors.
Maveron had watched Corisande, and then Nessida a few years later, grow into strong, independent women who would become akin to his own children, just as much as Thoren was. The day they lost Brennan and Nessida was the saddest day in Legion history, as well as Maveron’s own personal day of despair that he would never forget. His heart was full of melancholy just thinking about Brennan and his beautiful girls. He had thanked every God he knew the name of that Cori had survived that day.
Cori was due any moment to arrive at his office, and Maveron thought hard about the conversation he wanted to have, the gift he wanted to give.
He fingered the edges of the book in front of him, thinking of the contents inside. He was about to open the front cover to peer in when a knock sounded on the door.
“Come on in,” Maveron called, staying seated at his desk.
The door cracked open and Cori stepped inside, her blonde hair tied back in a braid that swayed with her every movement.
Cori strode across the floor and took a seat in front of him.
“Mr Swarbrick,” Cori started, much too formally for his liking, “first of all I want to thank you for allowing me to have the space that I needed from the Legion.”
Maveron nodded once before folding his hands in front of him on the dark wood of his desk. “We all needed some time after that day, and it was certainly understandable that it would be difficult for you to be here.”
Cori shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Difficult doesn’t really begin to cover it, sir.”
Maveron laughed under his breath, and Cori knotted her brows and looked up at him, confused.
“I’m sorry, Cori,” Maveron said good-naturedly, “it’s just that you have never called me ‘Mr Swarbrick’ or ‘sir’ in your whole life, and I see no reason for you to start now.”
Again, Cori just looked at him with a confused expression. “Well, you are my President now. Protocol would dictate that I refer to you as–”
“Throw protocol out the window,” Maveron interrupted her, “please, I am always Maveron to you. Or the much beloved nickname you used to call me.” A small smile splayed across his lips at the memory.
Cori’s face betrayed a flicker of amusement. “I’m not so sure that I should be calling you Mav-Mav at my age, especially given your title.”
Maveron laughed loudly, relishing in hearing the old name Cori had used to call him when she was younger.
“Alright,” he conceded, “but please just call me Maveron.” When Cori simply nodded, he looked down at the book next to his hands, his smile fading. “Before we speak of more formal things, I do, uh… have something here that I would like to give you.”
Cori followed his gaze, her eyes moving down to the tome on his desk in between them. She tilted her head to the side to read the title, but Maveron knew that Cori would glean nothing from the words scrawled on the spine.
Instead of explaining, he simply pushed it across the dark wood towards her.
Cori just looked at it for a moment, before reaching forward to pick the book up. She turned it over in her hands, and that was when she heard the item move inside, a small hiss of movement.
With a questioning look to Maveron, she placed it back down and then flipped open the front cover of the book to peer inside.
Cori went completely still, her green eyes fixed on the hollowed out inside of the book. Maveron just waited until she was ready to acknowledge
what the book held in its shallow depths.
After a few heartbeats, Cori took out the silky piece of fabric and held it in front of her, a small quiver of her fingers causing the material to flutter.
Her eyes lifted from the item she held to meet his stare, and with a twisted gut he realised there was moisture in her eyes. “This is… was my father’s Legion Five uniform.”
Indeed, Maveron had removed the piece of Brennan’s tunic that held the insignia with his name inscribed above it. He had kept it, knowing that one day it would be a keepsake for Cori or Nes. When Brennan had become the President, he no longer guarded, or patrolled. When he had stopped being a Legion Five warrior, Maveron had told his best friend to keep one of his uniforms, and even though Brennan had thought it was sentimental nonsense, he had done it anyway.
Seeing a sad, yet joyous shine in Cori’s eyes, Maveron knew he had done the right thing, and it warmed the colder, sadder pieces of his heart.
The fabric moved between her fingers which continued to shake, reverently turning it over and over in her small hands.
Finally, she looked back to Maveron. “Thank you for this,” Cori said in a voice thick with emotion and placed the scrap of fabric back inside the box, bringing the hollow book into her lap and clutching it, “it means a lot to me to have this.”
Maveron smiled, pleased by her response. “Did your father ever tell you about the day we met?”
Cori’s brows rose slightly before the corners of her mouth turned downwards and she shook her head, a shoulder rising in a half-shrug.
Maveron had to laugh, the memory of it already bringing joy to his heart. “It is one of my favourite stories… would you like to hear it?” He asked the question slowly, uncertain if it would be too soon for Cori to be hearing a reminiscent story of her late father.
