They attacked at midnight, under the guise of the brutal storm to shield of their arrival. Over a hundred armed men assailed the ship, slaughtering every Drusanis aboard.
They wore no symbols and carried no banners—no outwardly signs of allegiance to any particular faction. At first glimpse, one would assume that they were corsairs, but to the trained eye that was not so.
Their numbers were far too plenty, unusually large for a group of marauders. They attacked in trained formation, with a discipline which equaled to that of Northern warriors, and no less savage or fearsome. Although the Emperor's soldiers were the undisputedly the best, these men proved to be no easy foe.
But one thing was certain—they must be simply mad to have chosen to assault a Drustanis ship.
For many centuries, even the most daring of pirates have left the merchant ships pass unmolested through the Jade Seas. Its formidable sails, emblazoned with the serpentine dragon of Kartane, served as a warning to all: an attack on any Drustanis—no matter how small or insignificant—was an act of open aggression against Drustan as a whole.
Just when one war had ended, it now seemed that another may soon begin.
Twenty years of warfare has honed the general into a weapon that killed with merciless efficiency. This was what he was forged to do; what he had trained for.
The Viper of Drustan, they called him, for his sword was coated with a toxin so deadly that it took only one cut to bring down any opponent—no matter strong or weak, small or large—for once the venom has entered into the bloodstream, the heart will cease to function.
He was outnumbered, but not outmatched. He was too fast, and too illusive.
One by one, they came at him.
Many times, he had dodged their blows and sliced through the weak gaps within their armor. And each time he would smile as he slit open an opponent's throat with his sword.
And one by one, they fell to his blade.
The wooden floorboards of the ship, previously a dull shade of mahogany, was now painted crimson with the blood of men. A red taint covered the entirety of its surface, running so thick as it even failed to be wholly washed with the pounding rain.
And such a pretty color it was—Red for hate. Red for anger. Red for passion. In comparison, everything else seemed muted. Colorless. Monotonous. Lifeless.
The leather jerkin he wore was now also stained in blood; some being his, while most belonged to others. The numerous gashes he endured was only a dull sting barely realized, as they did not hinder his movement by the very least. But after such a long period of apathy and numbness, he even welcomed the pain, if only a testament to the fact that he could still feel.
In that moment, he recalled the question posed to him earlier before. Every word had been eternally seared into his memory: 'Men who are accustomed to war often find themselves restless in times of peace. Tell me, General, would you ever be content living the life of a civilian?'
She had spoken so simply without ever knowing how intently those words had affected him, or the weight of which he regarded them. And now, they were forever echoing in the back of his mind as realization dawned: Indeed, this was what he had longed for during the past year—what he craved so desperately during those endless nights—the feel of battle. How intensely he had wished to experience the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins once more as the cold air filled his lungs.
And now, he deeply inhaled, which had felt like the first breath drawn after a lifetime of suffocation. It was almost euphoric, overwhelming his senses. Had anything else ever tasted as sweet? The violence readily embraced him, with the familiarity of an old friend and the warmth of a lover's caress.
But why is it that the only time he ever felt alive was when he fought? Why does his heart only beat in the presence of violence? What perverse cruelty afflicted him with the desire to inflict pain onto others?
His brief moment of self-reflection was soon broken by the sound of a woman's shriek. In the far distance, he saw the slave girl who had attended to the Asharan princess. Her hair was left in disarray, windblown and drenched by the fierce storm. She was chasing after two men who had gotten a hold of her mistress.
However, her efforts to free the princess were in vain, as she was no match for their sheer strength. The corsairs had treated her as a mere annoyance at first—brusquely shoving her aside—but she proved to be a stubborn sort, rising again and again after each time she fell, determined to save her lady.
At last, one of them had driven a sword point into her abdomen. From the corner of his eye, he saw her fell onto the floor as dark blood seeped from her wound. The crimson liquid pooled around her lifeless corpse and mingled with the blood of fallen. One more body had been added to the countless others which lie scattered across the deck, to be trampled upon by those who still stood fighting.
One of the marauders had caught the Asharan princess in his arms, laughing as he pulled her closer; then another struck him hard atop the head with axe-hilt, as someone else grabbed her from behind. They were quarreling amongst themselves over who would have her first.
Aaliyah!
In a frenzied state, the general fought desperately to get to her side, slashing through anyone who stood in his path. However, their numbers were far too great, and he could not get to her quickly enough.
"Malik Severin!" A loud voice called out to him, piercing through the sound of the pouring rain and the clashing of swords.
His head whipped around to face the man who had shouted his name. A sense of horror gripped him when he saw her, with a blade pressed underneath her chin. His gaze immediately shifted from the Asharan princess to the man who was holding her captive.
There, he met a pair of eyes which mirrored his own—black and cold as onyx—set in a gaunt face devoid of any warmth. It was a vaguely familiar sight, a long-forgotten visage. Where had he seen those eyes before? He could not recall.
He knows my name. It was then that Severin understood—that they were no ordinary corsairs. The attack on the ship had been a premeditated one, no random chance encounter. These men had come for blood, and not for gold. Above all, it was he whom they personally sought.
"Drop your weapon," the man threatened as he held a dagger to Aaliyah's throat.
The general hesitated. She was only a woman and an Asharan one, no less—a group of people whom he despised most of all. How many of them had he personally killed over the years without a passing thought? Why would he be affected by the very least on whether she lives or dies? The simple fact that he was even considering to surrender was incomprehensible.
When the man saw that the general was unyielding, he pressed the knife harder against her throat to reinforce his threat. A trickle of blood ran down her neck, followed by more drops of crimson. And yet, she never flinched or cried out, but only stood with her heavy-lidded eyes downcast, her gaze hollow and vacant.The Asharan princess did not plead, nor did she begged.
Severin stood motionlessly, refusing to submit, but neither did he attack. In a silent understanding, Aaliyah turned her face away, as if she could no longer bear to tolerate his presence.
Had she possess so little faith in him all along? Was it disgust or disappointment which had brought her to turn from him, a devil known to be absent of the slightest shred of honor or compassion. She would not be wrong to regard him with such disdain. This would not have been the first time in which he betrayed another's trust.
In that moment, lighting illuminated the entire sky in a bright flash of white, casting dark shadows over the ship. His heart began to sped to a deafening pace as an unfamiliar emotion tore at his chest, deepening as he saw the pained expression which she tried to hide. Was it dread that he was feeling? Or concern? —for her?
Certainly not. Severin quickly dismissed the notion. He had sworn a vow to look after her safety—that was all. Surely, his failure in his duty was the only explanation.
His hands went limp, dropping the blade which he had kept by his side for over twenty years. As his sword fell onto the floor, it made a clanging noise which rang above all other distractions. It was then that time seemed to have stopped, as he could no longer hear of anything else—not of the rain, not of the thunder. Unconsciously, his fingers flexed, reaching for a illusory weapon that was no longer there. His sword hand felt oddly lighter—unfamiliar—as if missing an essential part of his person.
His gaze left the Asharan princess, resting back on her captor. Instead of finding a look of satisfaction as he had expected, there was only a fleeting glimpse of shock coupled with amusement. Had the man doubted that the general would relent? Severin himself was equally surprised by his own action.
What have I done? he silently asked. He no longer breathed, and for a prolonged period, it seemed as if his heart had ceased to beat.
The man had lifted the dagger from her neck but still he held a firm grip on her arm. With one hand raised, he signaled to his comrades.
Two men approached from behind. The general did not resist, but only stood in silence as they tightly bound his hands together with rope, leaving no room for him to move even if he had tried.
However, there was not a chance of his surrender being mistaken for submission. His eyes seethed only of hatred, darkening with each passing second as his gaze rested on cut marring her skin. An inexplicable, possessive rage built within his chest as he looked at the arm draped around her shoulders, its rough fingers digging into her flesh.
Inwardly, Severin began to curse himself. And to think, that he had so foolishly thought she would be spared—only from a certain death it now seemed, but not from a worse fate. A beautiful woman such as her would not be relinquished untouched. Perhaps it would have been kinder of him to let her die that day—buried at sea—without shame, and without suffering.
While it was true that that the general was greatly outnumbered, he would have been able to slay a dozen more before following her to the afterlife. With a blade in hand, he would have died a warrior's death; an honorable death. But his indecision, in turn, had possibly doomed them both.
Unbeknownst to the general, their captor was studying his every reaction with a peculiar interest. A mocking smile formed on the man's lips, ugly and twisted, as he shouted the last orders to his crew, "Take these two as prisoners. Kill the rest."
Sign in to Mod The Sims
