THE SHADOW OF THE BLACK ARMOR
In the depths of the Dark Forest, silence was not a sign of peace, but a harbinger of approaching death.
The trees looked as if they hadn’t seen the sun in centuries; twisted, their trunks a sickly shade of gray. Not a single footstep could be heard on the rotting leaves covering the ground. Yet, someone was walking there.
Lord Sarlas.
The Kingdom’s "Shadow Executioner."
His armor was so black that it devoured the forest's dim light, refusing to gleam. He was clad in metal from head to toe; the eyes peering out from the thin visor of his helm were his only connection to the outside world. His steps were heavy, yet terrifyingly silent. The joints of his armor, oiled by the kingdom's finest smiths, granted him the silence of a ghost.
Sarlas stopped. He placed a black-gloved hand upon a moss-covered stone.
That scent in the air… Amidst the smell of metal, blood, and rotting earth, there was a scent that didn’t belong there. Freshly blooming jasmine and the smell of soil after rain.
Fae.
The King's order was absolute: "You shall not sheathe your sword until the last one falls, Sarlas."
The "Great Purge," which had lasted for years, was nearing its end. The wings of the fae had been torn, their homes burned to ash. Those radiant beings of legend were now merely lines in history books. Except for one.
Sarlas slowly turned his head to the north, toward the hill where the old ruins lay. His eyes narrowed behind his visor. There, in this dead world dominated by gray and black, an impossible color was vibrating.
Pink.
A delicate, soft, living pink.
He gripped the hilt of his sword. The faint hiss of steel rubbing against leather was the only sound in the forest. He moved slowly toward the ruins, passing through dilapidated arches and ancient columns strangled by ivy.
And then he saw her.
Feris.
She stood beneath an ancient stone arch, her back turned to him. The wings on her back were the most fragile things Sarlas had ever seen; transparent like stained glass, bathed in rainbow hues by the faint light passing through them. The dress she wore looked as if it were woven from morning mist and rose petals.
Sarlas approached her with the composure of a hunter. His heart did not race. His breathing did not change. This was just a mission. A cleansing.
"Turn around," Sarlas said. His voice came out muffled, metallic, and cold as ice from beneath the helm. It held no human timbre.
Feris flinched but did not flee. Her wings fluttered slightly, peri dust mixing into the air to form a golden halo around her. Slowly, very slowly, she turned around.
Sarlas expected to see a face full of fear. Pleading eyes, trembling lips... The face of every victim who saw their executioner was the same.
But there was no fear in Feris’s eyes.
There was sorrow.
"You’ve finally come," Feris said. Her voice was as melodic as a wind chime. "Lord of Darkness."
Sarlas drew his sword. The pitch-black, long, and lethal blade closed the distance between them. The tip of the sword hovered just inches from Feris’s delicate neck.
"It is finally over," Sarlas said. "The Kingdom is now clean."
Feris didn’t even look at the tip of the sword. She looked directly into that dark slit in Sarlas’s helm, right where his eyes should be.
"Clean?" Feris whispered. She raised her small, white hand. Sarlas tensed, expecting a spell, ready to strike.But Feris cast no spell.
She reached out and pointed not at the sharp edge of Sarlas’s sword, but at the breastplate of his armor, right where his heart would be.
"When the world is reduced to nothing but gray," she said softly, "what will be left inside that armor to warm you, Lord Sarlas? The King's medals?"
Sarlas froze. Was this sorcery? An illusion invading his mind? Why could he not lower his sword, yet not strike either? His muscles, which had obeyed orders without question for years, were disobeying their master for the first time.
Feris took a step forward. The tip of the sword was now touching her dress.
"Kill me," Feris said, her voice sounding not defiant, but accepting. "If there is no heart left beating inside that metal, then do it."
Sarlas’s armored fingers gripped the hilt so tightly that the leather glove creaked.
The forest held its breath, awaiting the executioner's decision.
