Crane

The royal procession makes its way down the hillside and into the Valley of Thorns. Crimson banners flap in the wind, the sunlight beating down in waves cast out among the fields. The haze is disturbed only by a fleeting shadow darting along the trees, tracking the path of the mobile court closely.

As the succession proceeds to the gates guarding the valley, all is calm. The world seems at peace for a second, but it is only compensating for the coming moments. As the lead sentry reaches for his pass, masked raiders spring out of thin air. Each bear the crest of the traitorous lord; their swords already marred; bloodstains still fresh. The escorting security is taken by surprise, and the king and queen’s blood spills in pools along the dirt path. A child’s scream pierces through the air. The princess, now alone save for a few straggling guards, has nowhere to run.

As the barbarians prepare her for execution, there is a flurry of movement caught only in their peripherals before half of their numbers fall to the ground. The shadow has taken form.

His motions are quick, precise, and succeed in making the remaining savages look completely foolish. His dancing blade paints a scarlet mural upon the earth, leaving the princess as the centrepiece. She cries out, running to him as fast as her minuscule legs allow. Before she can reach the arms of safety, however, the lord himself appears before them both. With one swift motion, her head is severed, and her body crumples to the ground; a small, lifeless heap. The lord’s attack is far from over. Swinging his double-edged axe far above his head, he brings it down upon the shadowdancer, causing an eruption of crimson.

Between the physical and mental duress, the only remaining member of the royal court flees, gasping for life as it slowly drips out; the last look of the little girl’s face burned into his memory.