The Night Rider

Prologue

"Yes, Milady. She's still imprisoned, I swear to you," Excelliar Sleek said.

Around him the command centre was a silent grave, consoles and desks slowly abandoned throughout his years of working with them until they ran out of power. The overhead lights were dimmed low, yet his pristine white uniform still shone against the dusty, coal streaked floor.

Amidst the silence, Sleek stiffened as a woman's voice floated through his mind like a summer breeze. Due to his Trait, he could create a mental connection anywhere in Hellgrind, and right now, he was using it to reassure and placate his superior as every Excelliar should.

"Rider won't be getting out. She hasn't been able to throughout the last ten years of your glorious reign. I see...I see no cause for concern now," Sleek reassured her, trying to keep his voice even.

He was grateful that his Trait only created a verbal connection and not a visual one. His words were nothing but lies.

"I assure you, everything is...fine," Sleek hesitated for a moment. Fear caused his senses to flare, alertness making his hands shake.

He could feel the blade press harder against the back of his neck. Sweat dripped down his face, struggling to hide his pale stricken features. Despite the obsessive cleanliness of his uniform, he could no longer hide his priorities from such a deadly enemy. A mournful whine broke the unending silence, causing his head to jolt towards the sound. The dagger inched closer, as if to remind him that it was in control, regardless of what other scaly distractions caught his attention. He forced himself to stare towards the front as another reply filtered into his mind.

"Thank you, Milady," he strained, "good Laia to you as well." Hurriedly, he ended the call with a simple thought.

Only then did his assailant emerge from the darkness, blade hovered around to press flush against his jugular. Curiously though, no hand accompanied the knife. It hung weightless in midair just to taunt him while its owner watched on from behind. Sleek couldn't move out of fear of the infamous Trait that he had heard so much about.

"Please. I did as you asked," Sleek said, trying to keep himself calm despite his life hanging in the balance.

"First, tell me where he is," the assailant replied, their gaze hidden underneath a wide brimmed hat.

"I swear on my Trait, I don't know! The Gamekeeper moved your Oathed to his main arena yesterday," Sleek said, hurriedly trying to provide some sort of answer to get rid of the knife's deadly edge.

"Liar," the voice hissed, guttural from lack of use yet still managing to strike enough fear to make Sleek's heart stop beating for a moment.

The single blade began duplicating instantly, turning into five identical copies which honed in on his vital organs, the dark sheen of their hilts making Sleek turn paler by the second.

"You expect me to believe that an Analyst Trait like you, doesn't know?" they said, slinking their arm around Sleek's shoulders like you would greet an old friend.

It was then that Sleek realised how dire his situation truly was. Her delighted grin sent chills down his spine, the bladed edge of her trademark hat casually being spun on her finger before catching it with her free hand. Her scars, oh Laia have mercy, were everywhere. There wasn't a patch of skin that wasn't marred by the horrid wounds, from the innocent looking pinpricks to the dark gashes across her jugular as if it had just been sliced by an executioner's blade. The pinnacle of her war-torn visage, was the blood curdling gouge which ran from the top of her forehead, across her nose and to the edge of her cheek. It seared a path across her face, making her chilling smile even more horrifying.