The Trial of Ashkova
No one was supposed to be awake. No one was meant to be there, not at night and not this late. Night had wrapped her velvety hands around the land many hours before. The darkness extended infinitely, kissing the low-hanging branches of the trees and slumbering in the eaves of the buildings that soared up into the sky. Yet despite the aching cold and frigid wind four figures walked through the night. The snow fell in steady spirals from the heavens and covered their tracks within minutes, erasing any evidence of their presence. The building which they headed towards was guarded, however not very well. The watchman sat slumped against the wall, his breath circling from his parted lips in soft white wisps that quickly vanished on the cool air. The cloak he wore was wrapped tightly around his thick frame, but despite his best efforts shudders of cold raced across his body. The first of the four hooded figures paused, drawing a blade from his hip. Without an ounce of compassion, he drew the sharp ebony edge across the man’s throat. The watchman’s eyes didn’t even open before blood began to run like water across the stone steps and drip onto the white crystalline snow. He slumped forward; dead.
