A trail of blood runs from a deep gash above Daphne's brow. It streams down her face, forcing an eye shut as it slips past her eyelid. Traversing her cheek, the crimson tear rests briefly on her chin before dripping onto the cobblestone ground below.

Teeth crushing teeth, the girl stares at me; by leaps and bounds, her sole open eye surpasses the point of any knife. With a smile carved into my lips, I step closer to the bloodied girl. Sword in hand, I raise my arm, ready for the final strike.

A blur rushes towards me; instinctively, I leap from the path of its trajectory. Six silver-haired men, wearing garb identical to that covering the Bishop Clan Tension Masters, burst from the building their comrades had exited prior. Fully capitalising on my moment's distraction, Daphne reclaims her fallen axe, stands, and once again faces me; she stumbles on her feet, but she does not fall. With the sleeve of her tailcoat, she wipes the blood from her face, lifts the head of her axe, and directs it at me.

'Surrender this instant! You are outnumbered.' I glance to my sides; the girl's words are not without effect. In the span of a breath, my companions transition from the ferocity of beasts with an unquenchable bloodlust relentlessly vying to devour their game to the spiritless cowardice of the conquered awaiting discipline.

'Do you believe us so weak that we would baulk in the face of numbers alone? We came here for justice, and we will not leave without it.' My words, spoken to the shame of my allies rather than any legitimate declaration of gallantry, produce the result intended. As the last syllable hops from my tongue, my unwitting accomplices howl their indomitability to the heavens and renew their attacks.

Once again, I face the girl. Her reinforcements flock to her side, but it doesn't matter. Numbers and numbers alone are all they have. Their auras radiate weakness; their countenance, fragility. These are not battle-hardened warriors, tempered in blood and misery. They are the lowest of the low- Tension Masters endured but unwanted by their Clans. They reap the benefits of a name, they lord their status over mortals and slaves, but they're wholly free from anything approaching true power.

Of the six men standing next to Daphne, despite appearing at least ten years her senior, not one of them emits the aura of a rank-three Tension Master.

To put it simply…

They're nothing but cannon-fodder.

Ice begins to chill my veins.

Wasting no time to ponder the phenomenon, I gather Tension to the tips of my fingers. Generating acidic orbs, I sprint towards Daphne. Foolishly, a man steps in front of the girl. Runes manifest themselves over the man's face, and a shield appears in his hand. The man stands strong; he raises his shield and takes a firm stance.

Undeterred, I hurl my Art towards the man. Smoke streams from his shield, and in a matter of moments, the five holes from the five spheres widen, join, and erode a broader cavity into the centre of his protection. Without pausing, I continue my charge and thrust the tip of my blade through the aperture in the shield and into the giving flesh of its wielder.

The man gasps, but I hardly register it. Withdrawing my sword from his chest, I flick the blade to the side, flinging the blood of the fool to the ground.

The man clutches his chest; blood leaks down his parted lips. With eyes moist and wide, he stares at me. Croaks rumble from his throat; air staggers past his mouth, but finally, the man falls, revealing as he does the pale face of the girl behind.

With gritted teeth and stern eyes, Daphne gazes into my soul. Ice expels the warmth of my blood- and not a muscle on my face strains as I meet my opponent's glare. All pretence surrendered, I allow the girl to gaze the depths of my dispassion.

Horror, not fear conquers her expression; though similar in appearance, It would take many lifetimes before I am unable to tell the two apart.

She sees me.

Behind the face that I'm wearing, the noble rags I hide behind, the potions and fragrances disguising my nature, she sees me, and she's horrified.

I can't blame her; I am, after all, what Father made me.

I direct myself at a second lamentable foe. Leaping into the air, I land behind the man, crouch low, and slice his legs from beneath him.

The man screams out, but before he falls, I rise to a stand and amputate the arm of another one of the girl's protectors.

Moving at speeds beyond the capacity of these weakling's eyes to trace, I decimate them all. One by one, I part shins from knees, forearms from elbows, and heads from necks. Sans notable resistance, I reduce their numbers to one.

Daphne Bishop…

'It would appear I'm no longer outnumbered.' Channelling Tension to my legs, I kick the girl's stomach, driving her to the ground.

'Don't do this! You're making a mistake!' The girl's words, I hear them, but they don't reach me. With both her palms pressing the ground behind her, Daphne strains to lift herself from her back.

I deny her attempt.

Standing over the girl, I stomp a foot onto her stomach. Scarlet fluid breaks from her mouth, and the girl returns her back to the cold, stone floor.

Tears slip from her eyes. She grits her teeth and breathes sharply through them. Her hand moves for the axe to her side. I allow her to grip the handle before crushing her limb beneath my boot.

Daphne screams.

At least, I think she does. Mouth open, all teeth showing, eyes wide, and I think there's a sound…

No, I know there's a sound, but then...

Why can't I hear it?

Peering down at the pitiful girl beneath my boot, I rummage my soul for something; anything, but I find nothing.

Nothing but ice. Frozen rivers; lifeless, passionless, void of all warmth, excitement, or enthusiasm.

"Joy, rage, sorrow, mercy. My son, you have no need of such things."

No, Father...

I do not.

The girl continues to scream, or maybe she's speaking, pleading, begging for her life. Whatever useless sounds she makes, I don't hear them. Or maybe, I won't hear them. What does it even matter? The result is the same.

I press the tip of my sword on the girl's chest. Peering into her eyes one final time, I exert pressure on the hilt of my blade, piercing through her ribs and skewing her heart.

Sound reclaims its place amongst my senses.

My heart beats once again.

My veins thaw.

I return to myself.

Pulling my eyes away from the slaughtered innocent, I turn to witness the final moments of the surrounding battles. Of the three Bishop Clan masters to have survived the initial assault, only one remains standing. Blade locked with the brown-haired boy, the lone surviving white-haired boy strains against his assassin's superior strength.

'You fiends will pay for this!' Met only with the mirth of the surrounding Blackshire Clansmen, the white-haired boy's words do nothing to improve his position.

Howling his desperation, the Bishop Clan master digs his feet into the ground, and with all his weight, he forces the brown-haired boy back. With gritted teeth and bulging muscles, the young master advances his position, pushing his blade dangerously close to the white-haired boy's throat.

'I… I will never forgive you!' The young master shouts. Though none of the brown-haired boy's allies interferes with the fight, as the Bishop Clan master pushes the boy further and further back, all laughter dispersed from the air.

Without warning, the brown-haired boy steps backwards out of the way, and the white-haired youth continues forward. Carried by his own weight, the Bishop Clan master stumbles on his feet. His opponent swipes his legs, and the boy lands face first on the ground.

'Scoundrel! I have but one question for you.' The brown-haired boy places his sword's tip to the side of the vanquished master's neck. 'Why did your Clan betray our treaty?'

'If you are to kill me, then kill me, but do not pretend that your actions are honourable.' The defeated pushes himself from the ground and kneels. Touching the blade by his neck with his index finger and thumb, he shifts it from its place, then pivots to face the white-haired boy.

'My Clan betrayed nothing! Your madness was unprovoked, and now it's too late to prevent what's coming.'

Step by step, I walk to the brown-haired boy. Placing a hand on his shoulder, I move him out of the way.

Killing a foe in "glorious battle" is one thing. But to reap a helpless life, that takes something else. Whatever can be said about the brown-haired boy, whatever can be said about his Clan, he, himself, is not a murderer, I can see it in his eyes. Wholeheartedly, the boy believes he follows the honourable path. He believes in justice and nobility; he sees himself as a hero. I know he does.

It's why I chose him.

It's also why I can't allow him to hear any more of his victim's words.

A single strike is all it takes to cleave the white-haired boy's head from his shoulders. Returning my sight to the brown-haired boy, I lead him away and rejoin two other members of our party.

'We have avenged our humiliation, but our work is not yet complete.' My words… They're not reaching them. The three youths look around, they see the dead in the wake of their crusade, and without exception, they recoil from their actions.

Passions lost to the reality of victory, not one of my pawns has the will to complete our task.

It's no surprise, but it is unacceptable.

Gripping the brown-haired boy's shoulder, I pull him towards me and stare into his eyes. 'Listen to me; like you, I abhor violence against our fellow noblemen. In times of normalcy, none of this would be necessary, but we did not start this. It is, however, our duty to end it. You've seen my memories; you know what they did to our brothers. Our leaders refused to avenge their fellow Clansmen, so the duty fell on our shoulders.' Slowly, the boy begins to nod his head. I release my hold on him and face the others in my party.

'What we do this day, we do for the pride of the Blackshire Clan.' I pause, close my eyes, and draw deep, staggered breaths through my lips. Reopening my eyes, I point towards the corpse of a fallen enemy.

'Heaven may forgive those dogs, but I never will! We never will! Our task here is not finished. We must strike fear into the hearts of those bastards so that they never challenge us again.' Reaching a hand into my tailcoat's pocket, I place two fingers within the tight opening of a small sackcloth pouch. Spreading my fingers apart, I pry open the bag and pinch the spores therein. I remove my hand from my pouch, lower my arm and release my hold on the spores, allowing them to diffuse silently in the air.

The effect is immediate. Dulling eyes reignite with fervour. My pawns lift their swords to the sky and shout for victory.

Whatever flood of empathy or remorse threaten to drown the fools is forever evaporated under the searing influence of the tathir spores.

I don't say another word.

I don't have to.

Though amplified by my chicanery, it is by their own sense of outrage and bloodlust that they march into the building the Bishop Clan Tension Masters had come from. With their own mad lusts, they slaughter every man and woman within the Clan's Gandel City bank. With their own swords, their own Arts, and their own hands, they paint the floor red with the blood of their victims, and through their own avarice, they navigate the rear of the building and locate the bank's vault.

That is where their actions cease, and mine begins.

As they close their eyes, reaching into the web of security shielding the vault from intrusion, I draw my sword, and with it…

I cut each one of them down.