Chapter 1: The First Lord

He stood on the balcony, gazing out across the rooftops of the city towards the horizon, well beyond the walls, as light began to bleed into the night sky, turning it from a blanket of black to something closer to Navy Blue. The stars, pinpricks of silver in that navy fabric, were beginning to fade, making way for the great sphere of light that was the sun. It was his favorite time of the day, where the shadows were long and dark, the night sky just barely coming to life, the city around him still quiet in the depths of sleep. It was, he felt, the most honest time of the day. Those who worked in the light of day rested still, and most of those who plied their trades in the dark had retreated to bed. The birds had not yet risen from their slumber, the insects of the night falling quiet and leaving only those like him, those who woke before the light of day.

Closing his eyes, he drew in a long, slow breath, savoring the crisp chill of the air in those early hours, tinged with woodsmoke but otherwise clear. In these early hours, there was nothing to do, no worries bearing down on him, no duties to fulfill. It was his sanctuary from the stress of his status, and he held those moments close.

Then came the first chimes of the city's bells, ringing out the Waking Bells to bring the citizens awake, and the moment was gone, fluttering away like a bird. Opening his eyes, he breathed a soft sigh, turning and making his way off of the balcony and into the room beyond. He would not mourn the loss of the moment, as once he might; he knew those moments would come again. Until then, he had duties to perform. Humming a soft little tune, he stepped from the bedroom into the attached bath.

An hour later, a knock sounded at the door, causing him to pause with his shirt half-buttoned, the fine silver toggles catching a flicker of the light now pouring through the open doors. Frowning to himself, he raised his voice, speaking with the smooth, cultured tone his father had drilled into him. "Enter," he called, raising a hand and idly swiping it from left to right before returning to buttoning his shirt.

The door's lock thudded open at the motion, a heavy, obvious sound. A second later, the door creaked open, revealing the drawn, pale face of an old man, nearing the end of his life. He was dressed in fine gray robes, the clothing of the advisors; his eyes, once sharp green, were now paler, their acuity lost but the intensity undiminished. "My lord," the man said, bowing at the waist, "My apologies for coming to you so early, before you have even breakfasted. However, I have been asked on behalf of the manager of district six to urge you to see him today. There are matters he feels you must be made aware of."

Frowning, he gazed at the old man, then nodded, holding back the sigh he was all too tempted to release. "Very well, Arthur. Send a runner to inform him I shall visit district six today. Is that all?"

"For now, my Lord." The old man bowed again, then smiled a little smile. "Your father would be proud to see you today. You are everything he hoped you would be, and more besides."

"Thank you, Arthur," he said, his face devoid of expression, though a surge of emotions rushed through him at the mention of his father. "Although I am not so certain he would be proud, knowing that I've undone so many of his decrees. I shall see you in the council chamber for the council meeting this evening." The dismissal was obvious in his tone, and again the old man bowed before backing out, closing the door after him. He stared at the closed door for several moments, then sighed and turned to look in the mirror, at the man within.

He stood about five foot ten, and he had the hard, slender build that he'd once heard described as 'an assassin's build.' His skin was only slightly bronzed, and only remained that way due to his frequent ventures in the sun; it seemed to only take a few days out of the sun for his skin to lose its glow and pale until it matched the moon. He'd already tied his long hair back, the tail falling almost to the middle of his back, smoothed and held in place with a light application of scented oils. His attire for the day was somewhat simple, a long-sleeve black shirt over black pants, which were themselves bloused over polished black boots, the metal pinnings strikingly silver against the leather. Aside from his boots and the toggles for his shirt, there was little silver to be seen in his outfit, a stark contrast to his father, who had gloried in the unique 'challenge' of finding new combinations to keep the black and silver balanced. And at his hip, his weapon, a long, slender sword, its guard a pair of leaping wolves, two snakes curling up to form the grip before the pommel split into a ring, a smoothly-polished black stone set into the ring, the snakes' heads to either side, along the flat of the sword, sheathed in an ebony-wood scabbard.

Finally, his eyes tracked up until they found themselves in the mirror, the brown-green hazel surrounded by a relatively thick outer border of black, an artifact of his blood. As he studied his own eyes in the mirror, he saw a flicker of motion behind him.

"Artorius," sighed a voice, even as he pivoted in place, his hand held low, his heart thudding at the whisper of his name. The room was empty, however, and after a moment of unease he shook off the feeling. Perhaps it was his imagination; after all, no magic could get someone into this room without his knowledge, and he felt nothing, no life within a hundred paces. He shook himself, shrugging aside the uncomfortable thoughts as he made his way to the door, pausing only briefly to pull the heavy, Shadowed Leather-reinforced cloak from its place on a hook. Swirling it onto his shoulders, he took a moment to brush his fingers across the silver toggle that held it closed. Then he stepped out of the room, the door slamming and locking behind him...

Artorius wasted little time with breakfast; he was not one of those who ate luxurious feasts. He preferred smaller meals, and only went against those preferences on occasion. He had been in his position for long enough that the cooks no longer clucked and shook their heads at the relatively small meals, and everyone knew that he was often straight to business after the meal was done, as was the case today. After a breakfast of eggs, porridge, and bacon, Artorius swept from the interior if the castle that stood in the center of the city. He had no desire to waste his time, and article one on his day had become district Six.

The city was separated into a number of districts, depending on the purpose of the buildings inside. The largest district by far was the first two housing districts, taking up almost three-fifths of the city. Then came district three, the commercial district, and district four, the shipping district, where one could find both the docks and the entry point for trade into the city. Then came district Six. District six was a fortified section of the city that had, apparently, once been a large military barracks, a fort within the city. Built against the inner city walls, it was where the military had long been housed, prior to the expansion of the city in Artorius's grandfather's time, which had seen the outer city walls' construction, as well as two more modern and better-positioned forts that, while smaller individually, allowed the city's military to increase to half again its original number.

There had been much debate on what to do with the older fort. It was very close to the harbor, but the buildings were too unappealing to interest most as housing, and too heavily built to destroy cheaply. So instead, Artorius's grandfather had seen an ideal solution to another problem: That of numerous slave escapes from the commercial districts at the time.

The buildings were renovated, with numerous holding cells added, and after a year of renovations the sixth district was reclassified from a military district to a trade district. Demi-humans, nonhumans, and enemy combatants taken in battle were taken there to be sold, while debtors and other, nonviolent slaves were sold as normal in the commercial districts. As a direct result, the incidence of slaves escaping and causing harm to the citizenry dropped, and the sixth district became known as the Slave District.

Harold Averson, the manager of the Slave District, was someone who prided themselves on never needing to call on officials outside of the district. There was little reason for him to request to see Artorius unless it was something important. That he didn't mention it in his request was... Somewhat concerning, and that he did not come to Artorius, but rather requested that he call on him was equally concerning. Frowning, he swept his hood up to cast his face in magical shadow.

The walk to the sixth district was a relatively short one; it was within the Inner Walls, which was about as close to the castle in the city's center as one could expect it to be. However, it was still a walk that measured just short of a mile, and in the hours since he'd woken the city had come to life. It was still early yet, but the bakers had begun their baking, and those fortunate enough to live in the inner city but unfortunate enough to work beyond the inner wall were making their way towards their places of work.

Though his face was hidden, his appearance still caused waves. Few dared wear the combination of black and white or silver that he wore; some, pretending to be a Lord of Shadow, were known to wear some variation on the clothing to garner respect, but none would dare do so in one of the capital cities. What remained were two options: Either a Lord of Shadow, or one of their direct servants. Whatever he was, he was highly-placed, and as such a bubble formed around him from the moment he was noticed, the crowds parting before him and closing again behind him.

By the time he emerged from his thoughts, he was standing before the gates of the Slave District, the heavy gate standing open, the murmur of sound from beyond the only hint that there was life beyond. A pair of guards in leather armor stood to either side of the gate, mirrored, he knew, by a pair on the inside. They came to attention as he strode into sight, the butts of their spears clattering against the stone underfoot.

Nodding to them, he strode past them, through the gate and into the former fort. Inside, the paving stones gave way to older cobblestones, ruts worn into them from countless wagons grinding across the stone while countless feet through the ages had smoothed any edges. Immediately inside to the right was the former garrison headquarters, while the officer's quarters were to the left; both had been mostly unchanged, playing the role of a tradehouse for the headquarters and sleeping quarters for out-of-city traders to the left. And ahead of him, the old barracks that had been remodeled into holding areas for slaves, as well as row after row of cages, roofed to protect the slaves from rain but otherwise bare and doing nothing to mute the occasional scream or shout from their occupants. After all, few slaves remained in the district for more than a week.

Turning towards the administrative building, Artorius pushed through the door. The murmur of voices within was silenced in a wave as eyes sought out the newcomer and mouths clicked shut as the appearance clicked. Reaching up, Artorius flicked his hood off, his expression flat and bored as he gazed around. "Averson," he said, his soft voice echoing in the sudden silence.

He took the opportunity to look around the interior; directly in front of him was a stone desk, behind which several clerks stood. Behind them was a small room, blocked from general access by a heavy iron gate, filled with the paraphernalia common in such places; Collars, whips, flogs, and special inks designed to be tattooed onto a slave's skin, becoming a permanent mark of servitude and granting their owners the ability to cause them great pain at will. That, of course, was the most expensive option; most opted for the collars, which were made of metal-reinforced leather and enchanted to constrict at a verbal command, and not to stop tightening until one of two stop commands were uttered. Far in the back of the room was a set of stairs leading to the second floor.

To his left was a small area filled with tables and chairs, where traders could meet with potential buyers and haggle over prices, or for traders to share information with their fellows.

"Ah, Lord Artorius!" Came a familiar voice, drawing his attention from the meeting area and behind the desk. There, a broad man was staggering down the stairs, just cinching the belt of his blue robes closed. "My apologies, I did not expect you here so early!"

"That's not my problem," Artorius replied curtly, letting a note of displeasure into his tone. "You wished to speak."

"Of- Of course! Please, come back! Meris, open the gate for him." One of the clerks behind the desk, an older woman in a pale blue robe similar to Averson's own, ushered Artorius forward, unlocking the steel gate and letting him pass. He swept briskly past her, striding over to the stairs, then following him up the stairs to the second floor.

He could see the military design on the interior; even after its modifications, the rooms were cramped, the hallways small, and the stairs boasted a slight curve to the right at the top, a defensive trait meant to make it harder for attackers to swing their swords up, whilst leaving defenders on the upper floor free to swing downward. At the top of the stairs, they walked down a short hallway, then through an iron-banded door into what appeared to be the manager's office. It was cluttered with shelves boasting both books and scrolls, likely detailing the transactions made over the last year; anything older was sent to the Archives, a massive building that was constantly being expanded both up and down, and bore records of any transactions made in the last hundred years.

"My apologies for the mess, my lord," Averson said, shuffling over to stand next to his desk. "Had I known you would be here so early..."

"To the point," Artorius said, cutting the man off as he glanced around. "You wished to speak to me. What about?"

"Slaves," Averson said, his hands resting on his stomach; he wasn't overweight, but that was likely a near thing. "In particular, things that I have heard from slaves we've taken, and what it might mean."

"And why must I come here for this?" Artorius asked, something in his voice making Averson swallow.

"Because I wished for you to speak with several of the slaves yourself," he replied, his words just a bit rushed. "I admit I could have written a report, but given the potential urgency-"

"I understand," Artorius said, cutting him off once again. "Tell me."

"The Northlands are in turmoil," he said immediately, relief almost palpable. "Greater turmoil than is common, I mean. From what I have learned, the armies of the Soriithans have been rampaging through the area, sending the natives fleeing before them. Normally, this would be a matter reported to General Halvey, but... A few of our slaves survived their encounter with the Soriithan armies. According to them, there are Magi amongst their forces."

Artorius paused, frowning as he finally turned his full attention on Averson. "Magi? Amongst the Soriithans?" Soriithans had a long history of distrust for magic users, although 'distrust' was a weak word for what was effectively abject hatred, great enough that even demonstrating a magical talent was enough to have a child killed. They were also a nomadic desert people, more hardy than the inhabitants of the Northlands but smaller in number. That they were acting so aggressively...

"Yes, my Lord," Averson said, nodding quickly. "Rumor has it they wield fire that burns as dark as night, and that the attacks have come under the cover of darkness."

Artorius's frown intensified, his expression hardening in a way that made the big man opposite cringe, though he outweighed Artorius by almost a hundred pounds. Those tactics were similar to those used by the previous Third Lord during his conquest of the Aethlands to the west. And the magic... "When did this begin?"

"Two months ago, my lord," Averson replied immediately, a sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. "With travel time across the sea, the timing is about right for these rumors to be reaching us now."

Artorius said nothing, his gaze distant as he thought. He opened his mouth, a command to see the slaves in question on the tip of his tongue when a horn blew somewhere to the northeast, only to cut off abruptly. A moment later, the horn's blast was repeated all around them, with the closest origin being the gatehouse that Artorius had entered through. Averson blanched, his eyes widening.

The horn was an alarm, announcing the large-scale escape of slaves. The clatter and crash of the portcullis in the gatehouse confirmed the sound; they were sealing the district to protect the rest of the city.

Artorius turned immediately, pushing his way out of the office and down the stairs. Rather than waste time waiting for someone to unlock the gate for him again, Artorius jumped across the counter, landing silently on the far side. "Everyone remain here," He ordered, pointing into the haggling room. "I will post the guards here. Remain quiet, and if the guards are overwhelmed, retreat upstairs." Then he shoved open the door.

Outside, the two guards stationed inside the gate had their spears down, and were watching warily for any escapees' approach. "You two," Artorius snapped, drawing their immediate, startled attention. "Protect the people inside this building." Then he turned, casting the two from his mind immediately as he set off to the northeast. The screaming had started, screaming and yelling, and that fact alone urged him from a steady walk to an all-out sprint, the heavy cloak snapping in the air of his passing.

It took less than a minute for him to reach the source of the screaming; men and women, citizens of the city, rushed towards him, running from humans, demihumans, and a handful of nonhumans armed with stolen spears, knives, clubs, or their own, natural weapons.

Most already had blood on them.

"We are nobody's slaves!" Roared one of the nonhumans, an enormous reptilian boasting a thick layering of scale across his broad chest, a Guard's spear clutched in his hands. "We are your conquerors!" As he shouted, he caught up to one of the citizens in the back of the pack; the bodies of the others fleeing hid his arms and the motion of the spear, but a moment later the citizen, a woman in a white dress, was lifted into the air, the point of the spear buried in her back, her body resting on the cross guard.

Artorius drew his sword on the run, his eyes narrowing. In that one moment, they stopped being escaped slaves. They were attacking his citizens. They were enemies, armed enemies.

Seeing the young man in black and silver, the crowd parted around him, almost falling over themselves as they tried to simultaneously run away and avoid hitting him. Some, the closest, saw the slender black blade of the sword, the scarlet glitter of rubies in the eyes of the leaping wolves, the emerald gleam of the stones in the snakes' eyes. They recognized the weapon.

"I am Zal-ush K'tal of the Wildlands of F'taria," the reptilian screamed, raising the woman's body skyward before throwing it off, his eyes finally spotting Artorius. "I will-"

Artorius cut him off with a slash of his sword, the black blade cleaving through the haft of the spear like it was paper, and finding little more resistance in the reptile's scales, skin, or bones. His words trailed off into wet, bubbling gurgles as the blade found both of his lungs. Artorius hopped back, his left hand spreading open and flicking forwards.

Then the rest of the armed slaves were upon him, stabbing with spears or swinging with club or sword. But though there were many of them, at least seven, none of them could connect a strike to the young man in their midst. Dropping low, Artorius dodged the thrust of a spear and amputated the offender's leg just below the knee, taking his club-wielding compatriot's in the deal. Then he straightened, taking a half-step back to avoid a club aimed at his head and whipping his sword around to block a second, steel club. Shifting forward, Artorius altered the angle of his sword, letting the club skitter along the flat of his blade, the wielder staggering forward- just in time to take a dagger in the shoulder as a stab aimed at Artorius went wide.

Pivoting on the ball of one foot, Artorius brought his sword around, cleaving through his next target from right shoulder to left hip. He fell back as his body separated, spilling blood across the worn stones. He continued his pivot, his left hand rising and finding the wrist of the dagger-wielder and guiding the stab into the stomach of a man behind him. Then he twisted, planting his foot to halt his initial spin before launching into a hard knee-strike into the knife-man's stomach. Then he stepped forward, drawing in a breath before twitching his left hand upwards. He heard the wet sounds of flesh coming apart, but there was no hiss of steel through flesh.

He felt the blood splash across his cloak, and for a moment was glad he'd decided to wear the garment; the blood rolled off it in sheets, unable to find purchase on the material. Turning, he looked about at the group; aside from the one nonhuman, there were three others, two more reptiles and a canid. It was the canid, alongside a Demihuman of a species Artorius didn't recognize, that had lost their legs. The remaining three were demihumans, a fox and two canids. All had clean, cut-like wounds cut cleanly through their throats, save for those he had killed with his sword.

Artorius wasted little time once he'd confirmed the entire group had met their ends; he immediately stepped over the first reptilian nonhuman and set off at a sprint. He had the feeling there was more to it.

He found his answer as he turned down one of the many 'aisles' of cages; about halfway along the line, a group of three demihumans were clustered around a cage, while a fourth crouched, something in his hands as he toyed with the cage's lock.

From the looks of the three clustered, they weren't trying to free the single occupant, who huddled in the middle of the cage, as far as possible from any of the walls. He didn't see much more of the situation after that; he closed to fighting distance in a half-dozen lunging strides, launching himself into the back of one of the three surrounding the lock-picker and hitting with his feet, but one fact stood out in his mind.

These four had swords and wore leather armor. They weren't slaves.

He plunged his sword into his landing platform's back, planting his feet on either shoulder blade as he bore the body to the ground. Whipping his sword free as he straightened, he stepped back, splaying his left hand palm-down before twitching it towards the group.

"He's got your shadows!" Said the demihuman furthest from him, startling Artorius enough that despite his step, he almost didn't move far enough to avoid the instinctive swing of the middle encircler's sword. Artorius's eyes found the speaker, whose eyes were on the ground, where all three of the remaining demihumans' shadows stretched to his own feet.

"That's no agent," said the lockpicker, who'd found his feet and drawn a shortsword, the blade gleaming with an oily rainbow. Artorius's instincts said 'Poison.' "Their agents can't catch shadows."

"Then this-" Said the one nearest him, scrambling backwards, his eyes widening as realization struck.

Artorius didn't give him time to finish; he didn't believe in letting his opponents finish their sentences. Instead, he lunged, feinting a low-to-high strike, then aborting it and stepping into a stab. The demihuman's blade whipped about, blocking against the expected slash but well out of position as that slender blade found its way through his throat. Planting his foot, Artorius half-pivoted, whipping the blade from the side of his second victim's neck and knocking aside the oily sword as the lockpicker sought to slice across his forearm.

Artorius stepped back, avoiding the overhead swing of the demihuman furthest from him, then hopped a half-step closer and leaned into a snap-kick, hitting him in the chest and sending him sprawling. Then he turned his attention fully to the lockpicker.

"How?" The demihuman demanded, his expression a mixture of rage and confusion. "How were you here already? You were supposed to be in the castle!"

Artorius smiled, raising his left hand, drawing the man's eyes. "I am the First Lord Artorius, of the Lords of Shadow," Artorius said, his words cold as ice. Then he clenched his hand into a fist, and two things happened at once. First, the sound of skin coming apart drew the man's eyes to his right, towards the man Artorius had kicked down, just in time to see the shadow that had decapitated the agent retract into the ground. Then another shadow leaped up, wrapping around the lockpicker before he had a chance to scream. Then it sank into the ground, leaving no trace of the demihuman agent.

He heard the distant clatter of a portcullis rising, and guessed that the city Guard had finally mustered and were moving in to suppress the violence still raging. With that knowledge, Artorius stepped over to the cage, pressing his hand to the lock. A second later, the heavy tumbler clicked, and he pulled the gate open, giving the single occupant the first good look since he'd gotten there.

She was a frail creature, a Demihuman. Canine, he thought at a guess, though she could be a particularly long-furred, short-tailed feline breed, too. At a guess, he figured she was likely half-starved, but the plain gray smock she wore suggested that she'd caught someone's eye in District Six. She looked to be about sixteen, with long, filthy hair that fell to past her hips. Thanks to the filth, he wasn't certain about her hair color, but guessed it was a dark brown, maybe chocolate-brown. Her ears, canine or feline, were sharply-pointed, and twitched towards him as the gate squealed open, her head staying down with her hands up to protect it. Half-healed welts covered her forearms, which were discolored by bruises, as though she'd been savagely beaten. Judging by the trembling in her left arm, she might even have a fractured bone.

"Look at me," he said, his voice as calm and composed as it had been when he'd been speaking to Averson. The girl jerked, cringing lower. He tried again, switching to the language of the nomads of the arid Northlands. "Look at me."

Finally, she raised her head, freezing as she saw the corpses before raising her eyes higher. When she finally met his eyes, he forgot to breathe. From that moment, he was lost in blue-gray depths.

He broke eye contact as the clatter of armor announced the approach of the Guards. He turned, watching as three guardsman trotted up, moving to cover the bodies and revealing the sweating, panting Averson behind them. "M-m-my lord," he gasped, coming to a halt and leaning with his hands on his knees. "My- My apologies. What- What happened h-here?"

Artorius stared hard at him for a moment, then motioned towards the bodies. "They were attempting to break in to this cell. They are armed and equipped; I believe their goal was to kill this girl."

Averson looked from Artorius to the girl, gaping and gasping for air, then stammered, "My l-lord, she's... She's one of the- the slaves who told me of the rumors!"

Artorius narrowed his eyes, then said, "Did you pass the others on your way here?"

Averson paused, thinking, then went pale. "Y-yes, my lord. They were placed several rows back."

"Take a guardsman and check on them," Artorius ordered sharply, turning to find the guards looking at him and making a brisk ushering motion. "Now!"

Averson and the guard took off, and as he waited Artorius sheathed his sword and folded his arms, his thoughts swirling. He looked up as the pair returned; without needing to be asked, Averson shook his head. Once they were close enough to speak, he said, "They're dead. Stabbed, throats cut, and a spike driven through their skulls."

Artorius exhaled slowly, then looked back at the girl, who was looking between them, tears welling in her eyes. When she spoke, he almost couldn't hear her, and it took a moment for the words to register. "My brothers... Are dead?"

That made his decision for him. He turned his gaze back to Averson. "Send a runner to the castle and request that General Halvey send a detachment of the Griffon Knights to escort us." The Griffon Knights were one of the recently-formed orders of magical knights. In particular, they were very capable with wind magic, and were some of the only ones able to mount the creatures that gave them their name. "You can consider her sold. Fill out the necessary paperwork and send it to Arthur for my signature, seal and payment."

"You don't think..." Averson started, before breaking off and looking at the girl. "All of this chaos to kill a few slaves...?"

"I think," Artorius said slowly, drawing Averson's gaze, "That there is more to the rumors they bore than hear-say."

Averson nodded, then turned with a reluctant groan and began the walk back to his office. Artorius turned, offering the girl his hand. "Come," he said, speaking his native language rather than the Northland's. "I'll take you somewhere you'll be safe."

She stared at him, those blue-gray eyes entirely too big. "Will," she started, before pausing. "Will they find me...?"

She understood enough of his language to follow his conversation with Averson, and was smart enough to realize that the four had been assassins after her life. He felt his lips twitch into the ghost of a smile.

"If they do," he said slowly, "Then they will discover that nothing can hide from the Lords of Shadow in the darkness."

She raised her right hand and set it in his palm.