Corbin sat still in the exact spot that his contact had told him, a tree stump in the middle of a field a few miles east of Lord Gawn's main estate. There was no cover here, no surprises for anyone, and he was told to be there at the first light of dawn. A bowman might have been able to fire from the outlying trees almost a quarter mile north of the stump and reach it, but not with any great accuracy. To the east and west the field stretched out over a massive swath of land. The end of the planting grounds could not be seen from the stump as gentle hills rolled and hid all view beyond half a mile. To the south it stretched only another perhaps fifty paces and then ended abruptly, but there was no land mass or trees or any obstruction whatsoever to the south. With keener eyes, he was sure he could have seen all the way to the great forests that marked the southernmost boundary of the highlands and held beyond them the marshes and river lands of the eastern islanders. He wore simple attire for travelling, a grey cloak with a hood, some plain leather boots, pants and a shirt of wool, but about his neck he wore an extremely intricate pendant that depicted a dragon curled up devouring an eight-pointed star carved from ebonwood. The Dragon's guidance had proved marvelous and with each day his own power grew under the shadow of his master's mentorship.

  #

  "Keep this with you, Corbin." The voice of Haman echoed in his mind as he remembered back to the beginning of his training. "It will connect you to the master. You have been chosen."

  A younger version of himself stood in the foyer of a broad and busy tavern. "Chosen? By who?"

  "The Dragon cast his gaze upon you. He is our leader."

  "Dragons don't exist. They are merely legends from the Age of Chaos." Corbin's skepticism was entire.

  "He dons the title of 'Dragon' and takes the image as his banner. A Dragon to swallow up the Lion, his true name even I do not know."

  "Ah, so a simple title to inspire fear. It seems a fitting image, but what does he want with me?" It was night, a new moon sky leaving only the poor flames of manmade braziers to light the outside and the hearth and candles to light within the bustling tavern.

  The two had to be huddled very close to one another to hear, and Haman leaned in closer, his lips almost at Corbin's ears and enunciated, "He knows you have the Gift, though know not how to hone it."

  Corbin pulled back as if he'd been bitten and took a defensive posture crossing his arms in front of his chest and leaning as far back as the wood-paneled wall behind him would allow. "What do you know of me? What Gift? I am just a blacksmith, from a line of blacksmiths."

  Haman leaned further forward, his eyes flashing wild as he spoke, "He knows! What do you profit by your self-deceit? It takes magic to craft crystal and obsidian, yet these you have crafted. It takes a certain type of soul to force shape into these mediums, to combine them with more mundane steels, yet these things you do. You are no regular blacksmith. Only a handful in the whole kingdom can shape thus. You could be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams, yet you don't attempt. Here you are, in pilgrimage, gathering materials for your father, and learning about the world. Tell me, young Corbin, what have you learned?"

  This was Corbin's first time in Irshirana, the Poet's City. The sheer scope of the city made him dizzy with possibility. His father had sent him on a pilgrimage to purchase the finest materials for crafting. Highland Steel from the Gaels. Crystals, gold, and silver from the Orias Lands in the North. Fine leathers and ebonwood from the lands of Shir and the Megiddo Stronghold. Obsidian from the Buthani far to the south in the Desert of Black Sands. Finally, silks and ironcloth from the Gotei Islands.

  As he travelled his eyes were opened to the disparities around him. Great, monolithic castles sat next to wretched hovels where good, honest folk toiled for the sake of the lazy and the destructive. He saw guards become brigands in their greed. He witnessed good men become scoundrels in their poverty. He saw intelligent, beautiful women give themselves to brothels for the assurance of a meal. He saw great heights of culture and art, architecture crafted by magic in the far north, and the Delvers clan working the bones of the mountain like dogs to gather gold and silver for the kingdom. He saw the ones with plenty, and the ones with nothing and marked no difference save the chance of birth and circumstance, and, in short, he was sickened.

  "I have learned there is no justice in this land. Nothing fair about its make or rules. It is a hollow, soulless place, grinding people like dust beneath its iron wheels." The disgust in Corbin's face bled into his tone giving it an air of sickness, his mouth filling with imagined bile.

  "That is what the Dragon has seen as well. He sees the vast gaps between the blessed and the broken and wishes to shatter the distance. Please, young Corbin, take this pendant, and my master can explain more himself. You were chosen, not just for your power, but for your purity of heart." Haman held out the pendant again, the dragon curled around and devouring an eight-pointed star. The high gloss of the ebonwood gleamed in the firelight between them and made the Dragon's eyes glint.

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  "I will speak to him, if you wish. I make no promises more..." Corbin reached out his hand and grasped the pendant, a voice immediately flooding his mind, its intonation guttural and low, At last, a pupil worthy of my tutelage. Do you know the strength of your soul, young Corbin? Let me show you. Breathe.

  Corbin breathed in as if forced, the air trapped in his lungs. The surprise sent the percussion of his heartbeat into overdrive, pounding like a raging gorilla against his chest. He tried to breathe out but couldn't. Haman merely watched as the boy's face changed colour, the air that brings life cut off, as if he were being choked.

  Let me breathe! Corbin's mind began to scream, and the deep laughing response through the pendant was a simple, Not yet, pupil. No, not yet. In his muscles he began to feel a power rising, as if being drawn from his bloodstream into his muscles, then through the layers of his skin until it sat atop his flesh, vibrating electric against the air around him. He felt at once weak and horrifyingly powerful as he looked around the room at the dozens of people there, their blissful unawareness an insult to he who was suffering.

  What felt like raw power attempted to tear its way through his form and send the pieces of his body in every direction, as if his frame was too miniscule for such a weight. Let me breathe!

  As you wish, young Corbin. Now you shall see your power. BREATHE!

  At his exhalation a great torrent of force erupted from him, shattering windows and walls and robbing every single person in the tavern of their consciousness. They fell like wheat to scythe, laid out upon the ground in unceremonious heaps of angry silence. Then Corbin fell too, his body unable to sustain the Quickening of his soul, into a stupor. The voice of the Dragon echoed, a haunting lullaby in his head,

  A rival indeed, called in time of need

  To break the Lion by word and by deed

  To suffer the more, to fight and to lead

  A vessel in whom my power to seed.

  #

  Corbin fiddled with the pendant as the sun began to edge over the eastern horizon shaking the world of night and cold. The memory consumed Corbin when an unremarkable man appeared before him. Corbin leapt up from the stump, astonishment etched into his eyes. "How, how did you get here?" Corbin's mind struggled to restrain his fear and surprise when the Dragon's voice came through clear and calm Professional, young Corbin. Do not be so easily impressed. Breathe deeply and address him rationally. The Dragon's voice soothed Corbin, and he did as he was bidden. He reached down and grabbed a pouch of gold dactyls that was tied to his belt. He looked into the man's eyes, a deep, dark brown, and held his gaze. The shift in composure brought a twinkle of curiosity to the assassin's eye.

  "So you wish a king deposed, friend?" The man questioned simply.

  "You are loose with your tongue for such a renowned assassin." Corbin replied with disdain.

  "And you foolish for a weak man of no renown whatsoever." The assassin smiled as he tapped the hilt of one of his daggers. In a flash the dagger was drawn, black lightning leaped forward and shot past Corbin in a thunderous arc and split the stump clean in two. The assassin stood tossing the dagger back and forth between his hands, flipping and spinning it playfully. The dark crystal luminescence of obsidian could not be mistaken. The blade held a vicious curve and was serrated, the normal brittleness of natural obsidian tempered by the magic that made it. Its length was only about the size of a man's forearm. The one drawn was one of two, identical blades.

  He is showing off, young Corbin, do not let fear take you. Such assassins love their own legends, but they are driven by greed not honor or pride. The Dragon's voice came through, or was it his own voice? Sometimes he could no longer tell which thoughts were his and which were planted by the Dragon's power and reach, but neither did he care. "It is clear you have skill, assassin. Now, if you are quite done with self-aggrandizement and empty threats of violence, may we get down to business?" Another flash of black lightning shot forth as the second dagger was drawn, this time it struck Corbin squarely in the chest, wounding him deeply, forcing him to his knees, and made him drop the pouch of gold.

  "My threat appears to be emptying your blood, young Corbin." The Assassin said before leaning in close enough for Corbin to feel his hot breath on his ear and whispering, "Wisdom dictates one does not mock dangerous men." As he stepped back, he sheathed both blades and spat on the ground at Corbin's feet. Blood dripped down from the young man's wound as he huddled in agony and soaked the bag of gold as the assassin reached down and picked it up.

  Blood for blood, young man

  Crimson and gold seal oaths

  To end Royal Life

  With that, the assassin strode west, singing to himself a sad song as he went and left Corbin in agony, bleeding, dying.

  Corbin felt his strength leaving him, and he had no recourse left to him. Many times he had been warned of the dangers of spell-verse by the Dragon who sought to teach him the arts of the Shir, but now was not the time to be safe. Forms and syllable counts, stanzas, verses and rhymes swam through his brain as he held on dearly to life. His vision fled, leaving only emptiness before him and all sound retreated as well. He had little time to think as death came for him.

  Flesh to flesh be sewn and quickly.

  Blood of mine cease flowing.

  Wounds be closed, completely, fully,

  Yield not to Death a thing.

  As he finished the words anguish tore through his chest as the flesh on either side of his wound hastened to draw itself back together and wove a brutal scar. His heart stopped beating stagnating his blood. Still, how long that would last he could not know, he must remedy it quickly before he ran out of oxygen as his blood began to pool in his veins.

  Pump firmly O heart in my chest

  Send blood flowing anew.

  Return me to my nat'ral best.

  Strengthen my body true!

  As his heart began to beat again, the overwhelming dizziness slowly left him. His vision returned after a time and his hearing as well. For nearly half a day he lay in the field under a cloudy sky recovering. When the weariness faded, he was filled with morbid exultation as he fingered the giant scar that he now bore across his chest. Anger and shame welled up in him as he recognized just how stupidly he had dealt with a vicious and skillful killer, but a deep sense of satisfaction soon pried its way into his heart. Whoever survives, I have bought us time. Time to gather strength for the real start of our uprising.