LEVORIAN SLIPPED THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW. The small latch keeping it locked had proved fruitless when it popped under a little pressure from his pick. He placed a toe on the marble tile of the Hold, then followed with the rest of his foot.
He waited the space of a breath, then closed the window behind him. It took a few silent strides to cross the small sitting room. Levorian chose this room for a reason: there was only one door.
All the bedrooms in this Hold were all on the second floor, but tripping a second story window invited more risk than he was willing to take. By starting in the seating room, he could get a measure of the place and make a hasty exit if he must.
He pressed his back against the wall next to the single oak door leading from the room and listened. A single moon was high in the sky—nearly full, the last time he checked. Nights like these were not good for sneaking into a place, but little could be done for that; he was already in.
The Hold was quiet.
Levorian stayed pressed against the wall another twenty breaths to give any curious listeners time to return to their dreams. He turned the door handle and pushed slowly. The room beyond was dark and quiet; he walked inside on the balls of his feet.
A large dark stairwell took up the center of the foyer. Two doors stood to either side of it, a pair of doors were opposite it, and a final one was tucked into the corner across from Levorian. He left his door ajar.
He spent twenty breaths at each door, listening. It was a patient business, but no hard thing was done without a little waiting. As he listened at the third door, counting his breaths, he was keenly aware of the beat of his heart. In such a large, quiet room, it was the only noise. Levorian closed his eyes and expelled it from his peripheral. No distractions.
With the final door checked, he faced the stairwell. The steps were made of solid cherry wood and bowed in the center. A thick red stair runner draped over the full flight, dark with use and age.
Levorian turned his ears to the stairs and applied pressure at the corner of each step. When he was sure of a solid foothold, he took one step up. It took ten minutes to climb to the top. He did so silently.
Corridors extended to either side at the end of the stairs. He turned left. The master bedroom was to the right, but he had no business there.
There were four doors in this hallway and a fifth around a corner. He listened to each with due diligence. Behind the fourth door was the quiet, patterned breathing of someone swathed in dreams. Levorian was about to move on after counting twenty, but he observed that his breaths had fallen in time with the sleeper’s. He crouched for a moment longer, then left.
The door around the corner waited for him. He crept over to it and listened. Behind this door was labored, uneven breathing. In the thirty-five breaths Levorian spent listening, the sound caught three times. He waited for a fourth, then removed a small bottle from the pouch at his waist.
He screwed a spout on the end and applied oil to the door’s handle. The bottle he returned to his pouch, then he wiped his hands on the white cloth wrap covering his torso and legs.
He grasped the handle, applied pressure up and toward the door’s hinges, and twisted slowly. The handle revolved silently, then stopped. He crept the door open inch after inch until there was enough space for him to slip through.
The man in the bed did not stir.
He lay uncovered, a blanket all bunched up at the foot of his bed. One of his arms lay over his stomach, while the other was over his forehead, covering his eyes from the beam of moonlight that cut in from a window above him.
Levorian stopped, hand still on the door, watching. But the man was not awake. Levorian took his hand away and crept in.
A small table crowded with mugs, towels, and a dish of water stood on the left of the bed. There was a chair to the right, positioned so that it could watch over the man.
Levorian studied the him for five breaths then removed two items from the pouch at his waist: a white folded cloth and a dagger. The cloth he unfolded and draped over his left hand, the dagger he held in his right. Its steel blade shone silver in the moonlight. He stood over the man and watched his chest labor up, then down.
Better to be done with it.
In one motion, Levorian muffled the man’s mouth with the cloth and thrust the knife into his chest. There was pressure as it hit the skin, then a pop as it punctured through.
The man jolted as the dagger struck true. His eyes snapped open and found Levorian’s face. He didn’t scream. The momentary horror on his face gave way for something else as his eyes fell over Levorian’s white wrappings and dark skin.
He reached out a hand—as most men do to toss off their assassin—but did not clutch Levorian’s arm. He held it cupped toward Levorian’s face.
Levorian pulled away from the dying man. The cloth slipped, and the man uttered three words through chapped lips: “I forgive you.” He gasped as his chest fruitlessly pumped blood, fruitlessly drew breath. Then his head slumped against the pillow.
A tear sparkled in the moonlight as it rolled down his cheek.
Levorian stood a foot from the bed and lost count of his breaths. A pool of red soaked through the man’s shirt. Levorian slid his dagger cleanly back into its sheath and picked up the cloth from where it had fallen. At the door, he almost turned and looked back at the bed.
Levorian was sure he did not know this man, but as he folded the cloth and returned it to his pouch, he wondered if he should have.
That was the prologue from a spinoff book in the world of Hearth that I wrote for NaNoWriMo back in 2020! In the original book, I didn't have a prologue, and the writing was much worse. This prologue I wrote in 2023 on a whim. I'm happy with how it came out.
For reference, this all takes place in Lothrame, which is in Eldenguard. In the coming weeks, you'll know much more about these places and Hearth in general!
If you'd like to read the first chapter of the book this is a spinoff from, you can find it here!