ATraceofTime

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/andrewbrumby Rever looked out, across the plummet, to the window he had been watching all night; built into the central spire itself. His room was on the top floor of the last block; the fourth highest floor of the entire tower. Protruding out of the main cylinder, the square blocks were made up of two to five floors, fewer but wider floors at the bottom of the tower, slimmer but greater floors at the top. Each block began halfway up the previous and continued further; coiling around the outside of the tower like the steps of a heavenly spiralling staircase, or the scales of a burrowing beast’s tail. The centre of the spire was a staircase that went from the bottom of the tower all the way up to Rever’s floor and higher; to the royal wing built at the very top, just below the tower’s tip. He couldn’t get to the main staircase directly from his room, however; each block only had one door on their lowest floor with smaller staircases connecting the levels within. Rever always found it frustrating that, when summoned by the king, he would have to climb all the way down his block, then all the way up the central staircase just to get to the floor above his room. He did see the strategic advantages to having fewer entrances to guard and greater control over the flow of people; it just wasn't very helpful to him, particularly tonight. The window he spied was slightly open. It was at an odd angle, further around the spire, and distant enough that he would have had a hard time noticing had he not himself been the one to open it earlier that day. It was discreet, only open enough so that a gust of wind wouldn’t shut it and knock the latch back down. He cringed, remembering how foolish it had felt to look over his shoulder just to unlock a window; Arkhon’s tower had been in a state of paranoia since the election and he could not risk making a Promise on such an unpredictable entrance. Rever hated being a sneak; he was not used to concerning himself with how much attention he drew. He was a muscular man, heavy footed; his usual tasks involved too much screaming to be considerate of how loud he stepped. He was taught the method of Silence as a boy but, as he grew larger, his father found Rever far more useful in chaos than in quiet, so he neglected the skill. He was the eldest son, and though he would never be a king, his role was respected; or at least feared. Neither a knight nor an assassin, when Rever was let loose it was to send a very clear, very loud message to those who would obstruct the kings’ path. That was, until father grew ill. Rever sighed, bringing his foot back into the room and grabbing his hooded overcoat from the back of a nearby chair as he stood and walked to his bed in the centre of the room. Muddied and stained, the dark robe was one of the few pieces of clothing he owned that did not have the dual blades stitched into it. He put his arms through the sleeves and snuffed out a candle that rested on his bedside table. Efface had been given to Rever over a decade ago, presented by his father on his first real assignment for the crowns. Not a twinfull’s sword, nor a bastard's knife; in the Dupyro dynasty, a twinless was adorned with an axe. Since sharp stones were attached to sticks, in the age when man first discovered the spark that stirred courage in their souls; the axe had stood the test of time. The hatchet was well-balanced, fast, and more deadly the more it was underestimated; the only time Efface left Rever’s side was when he threw it at someone’s head. The wooden head was split open down the left side of its face, crying splinters onto the pillow below as Rever ripped Efface back out. He stared at the blade, imagining the drool of blood that would come out of a real wound, before putting it back into the sheath affixed to his leg. He winced as he looked back to the sculpture. The remaining eye, open and still. A beheaded ruler, spiked at the top of his bedpost. On the other side of the bed was an identical, or at least once identical, carving. The two kings, left and right, sat on either side of the bed to remind its occupants that they represent the crowns in all that they do. Rever covered the ruptured face with his hand and put his head down over it. He closed his eyes; ashamed. If there was any other way… but there was not. This will either be his last night, or the kings’. He raised himself, putting up his hood and taking a deep, calming breath. Then he spun into a full sprint and jumped out the window.

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/andrewbrumby The Promises I made have led an empire to the brink of collapse. The Whispers I spoke have helped a king betray his kingdom. My honour made me a thief. My loyalty made me a killer. I wrapped a thousand souls around my father’s neck; now, to save my own, I must take them back… Rever gripped the throat of his hatchet and flung it blindly across the room towards his bedpost, turning in time to see the blade embed itself into the wooden finial; a carving of a crowned head. He found it provoking that, in the twenty-seven years he’d spent nights in this room, only on his last had he been so bold as to deface either one of the ornaments placed above his bed. He sat straddling the open window; one foot hanging out over the edge, becoming accustomed to the harrowing drop below. A gentle breeze played with the curtains on either side as it breathed into the room; it was rarely cold here in Fyrcite, but this night had an unusual chill that did well to alleviate the smothering heat of the day. There would be many open windows on the spire tonight; it was unlikely that anyone would go out of their way to shut one this high up, where the risk of intrusion was…improbable.