Shadows of the Shifter

Chapter 1- Honor to a Family

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For among other evils caused by being disarmed, it renders you contemptible; which is one of those disgraceful things which a prince must guard against.

~Niccolo Machiavelli

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The ominous omens loomed overhead, and my heedless misinterpretations now morph into a cruel reality. My lapses in judgment are etched with the promise of a severe reckoning, a price so steep that survival itself trembles on the precipice of doubt.

Could my existence be more than a mere misstep?

In this inaugural failure, I find myself hoping desperately that it won't be my last. The very confines of this room, this malevolent office, threaten to be the sepulcher where my aspirations meet their bitter demise.

The red walls mockingly epitomize Cyrazine privilege and pride, a cruel irony as I begrudgingly call this frigid stone enclave "home." These formidable walls, once symbols of strength, now form the unyielding bars of my personal purgatory. The door to my cell stands ajar, a tantalizing invitation to freedom just a step away. Yet, this cell, this crucible of suffering, is where my destiny intertwines with despair. Beyond the blood-stained walls lies nothing but the desolation of a future devoid of purpose.

"You are a disgrace!" His voice, a chilling tempest, shreds the core of my being, his words sinking talons into my soul. Emotionless, he personifies my deepest fears—the relentless terror that haunts both my waking hours and tortured dreams, rending my spirit in a merciless dance.

He holds dominion over my fate.

He dispenses punishments with unsparing cruelty.

This unyielding figure, forged in the crucible of disdain for the world, yet reverent to the authority within, bears the title of my father. A title known, but the essence forever elusive. As a daughter, I am shackled to a hollow semblance of paternal authority.

"I didn't mean to fail you, father. Forgive me." I muster the words, a feeble attempt at acknowledging his authority. But respect, it seems, is a currency devoid of redemption in this relentless domain.

Not now.

The monster veiled in human guise lurks behind ashen eyes, advancing, stalking, waiting.

"You've disgraced your mother." The invisible hand of warning creeps along my spine, foretelling an impending assault that I anticipate yet fail to evade. The katana, drawn from its sheath, cleaves through my exposed back, imprinting another scar—a testament to my discipline. Though I stand unyielding, my body's involuntary shudder betrays my internal turmoil.

A true paragon of disgrace.

"Did you flinch?" His curiosity drips from a stoic tone, an unexpected deviation from the emotionless facade. Such acknowledgment is a rare honor, bestowed even upon a high-ranking officer like him, but it comes at the cost of inadequacy.

"Yes." I admit honestly, maintaining my stance, stoic despite the impending onslaught. The katana descends once more, carving its punishment onto my right thigh, my body a canvas for the consequences I've earned.

Crimson splatters the walls, merging with the cold, indifferent ambiance.

The katana returns to its sheath, signaling a respite, yet the monster's thirst for my suffering remains unquenched.

Why can't I execute a simple task? Tasked with guarding the cells of twenty-five werewolves, I witnessed their rebellion, a futile defiance against inevitable death. A muttered curse escaped me as I dispatched them effortlessly. Their feeble resistance posed no threat, for I was schooled in the art of werewolf combat. My uncle had meticulously instructed me on dismemberment and the reduction of these creatures to pulps of wasted flesh.

Yet, in the face of reinforcements, one remained.

I raised my blade and glimpsed a pang of emotion in its eyes—sadness, fear, pain, and a flicker of hope for mercy. A mere child, perhaps twelve.

Twelve, the age of demise?

I hesitated, haunted by a fleeting familiarity, a face from a forgotten memory. It slipped away, leaping through a window into the night, leaving me bewildered.

Now, I stand, a disgraced assassin, adorned with fresh scars. The warm blood traces a path down my back, cupped in my restrained hands to avoid staining the hardwood floor.

"Guards! Take her to the hole." Inside, I gasp, suppressing the sound, knowing better than to voice an alternative. My father's inquiries trap the unwary victim, subjecting them to a fate far worse.

Not the reason for my gasp.

Escorted by guards, I exit my father's office. Red walls confront me again, guiding the way out of the mansion into the crisp air. Portraits of Cyrazine family members gaze down with condemning stares. Past paintings of lethal assassins, I walk—a fallen paragon of the family.

Back in Russia, at the age of three, I recall the halls and the names of the Cyrazine. Adolphus, a sudden addition to our history.

I am led to the hole.

This abyss, a frigid descent of seventy-five feet, becomes the crucible for judgment. A mere level three punishment, one of fifteen, awaits those who fail. Rules ingrained in the Cyrazine legacy, etched into the very fabric of our existence.

Surprisingly, only a level three punishment. My father's bitterness, an echo of his inability to save my mother, executed when I was but a child. His decision, irrevocable, justified in his eyes. I wish for her a death less adorned.

Stripped of my weapons and attire, exposed to the elements, I stand at the precipice.

"Get going!" The guard's barked command propels me into the void, plummeting into the abyss. Seconds pass, and my identity resurfaces, unspoken and unacknowledged. Shamefully disgraced, I embrace the descent, a once proud scion now twenty feet from breaking my own fall.