"Good evening, little prince," the man said in a gruff, yet surprisingly cultured voice. My eyes watered as the hot smell of whiskey and cigar smoke wafted over my face.

  "Are you ready to die?" he asked, so very calmly.

  At that moment, a thought struck me—obvious, yet strangely out of place: what an odd question.

  At the ripe age of twelve, I had not seen enough of the world to consider myself ready to depart from it. Yet part of me felt I deserved it somehow. That it would be cosmically fair for what I'd done to Lucan. For what I was likely to do in the years to come.

  "Do your worst," I said, my voice wavering as tears threatened to steal all the strength from my words.

  I desperately fought to stop the whimper that inevitably escaped from my lips.

  The assassin’s single, yellow eye crinkled at the corners before he let loose an alcohol-stained chuckle.

  With a flourish, he sheathed his knife and deftly propelled himself over the balustrade. In one fluid movement, he continued his trajectory into a fast-paced march through my chambers towards the door.

  "Are you coming, or not?" he asked over his shoulder.

  The bizarreness of the moment struck me like a heavy blow. Why should I follow this stranger that had just moments ago held a knife to my throat?

  From the confidence and familiarity he demonstrated departing my room into the guard-patrolled hallways, I assumed he was somehow meant to be here.

  Curiosity conquered fear. I followed.

  "Where are we going?" I asked, my voice sounding unusually loud in the empty halls. In the twilight hours, there were few who walked through the palace save for proud guards and demure servants.

  "Your father felt it was time we met," the man said, not bothering to slow down or turn to speak. I had to hurry for my short legs to keep pace with his long strides. The man was tall, with a wiry build framed by a black cloak.

  "He was somewhat impressed by your actions with the void stallion," he said impassively. "Not me, though. One in one hundred, that beast was. If I were your father, I'd have beaten you senseless." He shrugged nonchalantly.

  I blanched, unsure how to respond. Instead, I focused on keeping up, as the stranger's strides devoured the length of hall after hall.

  The palace was composed entirely of dark stone, overlaid with obsidium and gold panelling. Each panel was meticulously carved with images consistently depicting the God-King: standing before masses of worshippers, holding aloft the beating hearts of enemies, seated upon a throne—and so on.

  In the palace there was no escape from my father's disapproving gaze.

  The monotony was disturbed only by intermittent carvings of the twin moon goddesses. It was to one of these carvings that the stranger brought me. Coming to a halt, I looked up at the grand mural: there was little to differentiate the image from the myriad of identical ones throughout the palace. Twin moons, one inlaid with gold, the other silver, overlapped slightly. The space they met was pure obsidium and featured a carving of His Divinity, head tilted upwards and arms spread in serene rapture.

  It was upon this image the stranger placed his hand, muttering a word in a language foreign to me.

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  Soundlessly, the moons rotated inwards until they fully overlapped, shining with a dull silver light. The stone became translucent and I could see beyond them into another hall.

  The man stepped through, not waiting to see if I followed.

  I hesitated for a moment, my footsteps laden with uncertainty, before passing through the glimmering portal.

  The hall was similar to those in the palace, save for a lack of adornments and carvings. Sconces bearing silver and gold flames lined the walls, bathing the corridor in light.

  Footsteps echoed throughout the tight circulation, signalling the approach of another stranger.

  Lithe and graceful, the woman was substantially shorter than the mysterious man.

  Due to my lack of interaction with children my own age, I wasn't sure if I was short, tall, broad, or lean, yet this woman made me feel as if I were quite large.

  At just twelve, I looked directly into her eye: the left was covered by a beautifully crafted black leather eyepatch, adorned with gold thread and a ruby that resembled an eye.

  "Working late?" the man asked.

  A curt nod was her reply as she trained her single eye on me. I could feel her assessing me, though her expression revealed nothing of the intention behind it.

  "Hm," the man grunted. "Ominus, this is The Right Eye, and she was just leaving," he said, his voice dangerous as he turned to her.

  The air turned thick with tension for a single moment as the battle of wills commenced between these two silent figures.

  Without a word, the woman tore her gaze from mine and proceeded towards the exit with precise strides.

  The man exhaled, as the muscles in his shoulders relaxed.

  I let go of the breath I didn't realise I'd been holding.

  "She wasn't supposed to be here," he rumbled.

  "You called her The Right Eye. Is that her name or title?" I asked as we reached a fork in the passage. The man turned left and I hurried to follow.

  He grunted his assent.

  I considered pressing for more information, yet the stranger didn't seem like the type for small talk.

  Finally, we reached a circular door, which opened in a similar fashion to the one outside.

  Stepping through the silver curtain, I marvelled at the sight within: a large chamber, at least fifty feet wide and long. A dais, roughly half a foot taller than the stone floor, dominated the majority of the room. Slightly to the right of the dais stood racks of armour and weapons: some sporting the dull wooden blades designed for training, others honed to a deadly edge. The left corner of the room sported a long table of glass vials of various sizes, twisting tubes, and strange utensils. Large shelves framed the table, some bearing ancient tomes and others mysterious fluids and ingredients.

  At the head of the room, towering over all, was a large obsidium statue: outspread wings carved with intricate designs to represent smoky tendrils, a powerful tail that coiled around hind legs with curved talons the size of shortswords, a snake-like neck that led to powerful jaws lined with razor-sharp fangs and apathetic eyes that promised death.

  This was a toron-ral: creatures that soared the wasteland outside of Draan, preying upon animals and people alike. Many tales exist of toron-ral snatching whole caravans before absconding into the skies with their prize. It was also rumoured they could let loose a psychic scream that debilitated their prey. In the wastelands of Draan, there was no creature more fearsome.

  "Why does it feel so... unnerving?" I asked as the black obsidium eyes gazed down at me.

  "This whole room sits on a fracture. The uneasiness you’re feeling is the void energy saturating the room."

  "Fracture?" I asked, confused.

  The man shot me a disgusted look. "What do you know?" he scoffed.

  Unbidden, Lucan's face came to mind, and I felt a twinge of guilt like a needle, twisting in my gut.

  "Fractures are scars covering Draan—leftover energy from the day the God-King killed Obos. Where fractures meet, they threaten to tear reality itself and plunge all into a realm of void. This statue is enchanted to hold back the tide," the man explained, plucking two training swords from a nearby rack.

  The man threw the sword my way, hilt first, cutting off the barrage of questions about to fly from my mouth.

  I dropped it.

  The man sighed.

  "It’s time you learn," the man said, as he stepped onto the dais.

  "Including those?" I asked, pointing my retrieved sword at the glass vials.

  "Hm? No," he grunted. "Poisons and tinctures aren't the domains of gods. Even little godlings such as yourself," he said, pointing impatiently at the dais. "Any more questions?"

  "Uh, just one," I said, as I stepped onto the dais uncertainly.

  I awkwardly handled the sword, unsure what to do.

  "Well?" The man snapped.

  "Um, what's your name?" I finally asked.

  "I," the man declared proudly as he levelled his sword at me, "am the Left Eye of God."

  In a snap of cloth, he moved.

  A loud crack resounded as the wooden training blade collided with my temple.

  Black leather boots, level with my eyes, walked towards me.

  Darkness...