A dark figure stood under the shadow of a tree, smooth and agile, hardly breathing as he stared far off into the pale horizon, where a round, silver moon was slowly creeping its way up to the black night, cloudless and starless, awaiting its light.
“it’s almost time,” he muttered, eyes unmoving. “It’s almost time.”
A gale of soft wind blew passed, rousing gentle rustles of whispering trees, where birds, peacefully rested in the thick leaves, gave a small chirp of alarm from the movement.
Another silence passed, and aside from the warbles of nightingales and the soft chirping of the summer cricket, there was absolutely no sound in the woods.
Suddenly, out of the blue, there came a warning cry of a bird, and a golden streak of sparkling vapour shot across the sky, illuminating the dome for an instant, then dissipated almost immediately, leaving no trace of its short glory behind on the dark stage of night.
The dark figure raised his head to the source of the light, a pair of bright eyes peering out of the shadows, an immense joy shining in them, a strong difference to their previous anxiety and distress.
He smiled in the dark, and with only a soft brushing of branches and leaves, disappeared into the night, running into the deeper parts of the foreboding wood.
The man’s footsteps went unheard and unseen as he flew through the woods under the gentle bean of the silver moon, a fleeting shadow against the trees and the ground as he drew ever closer and closer to the origin of the sudden golden brightness.
Tension was slowly building its way up in the air, though all but went unnoticed by the eager figure as he continued his way. Or nor did he noticed the sudden eerie quietness of the woods around him. Alas, the Fates in the end, are cruel. For, with a shuddering, trembling cry of an owl, the messenger of ill omens, a piercing scream was heard throughout the woods, echoing far and wide, and left a silence in the air that makes every living creature in the wood quiver with fear.
The man stopped, frozen in dread as the screams faded and died away, leaving a quiet silence behind for him to suffer. If you examine him closely and look into the shadows of his dark cloak, you could see fear and dread in his eyes, slowly mingling into despair as a determined mind struggled to get itself up and continue its path. And it seems that it had succeeded for as sudden as lightning and as fast as the north wind, the man broke out racing like mad towards the source of the scream, the same place where the golden and glorious brightness originated, just a few time apart.
As he drew closer to the place, he can faintly see the lights of icy blue fires burning in a small clearing through the gaps of bushes and leaves. Feeling his dread building, he bursts through the trees, and was finally met by a sight that sent his heart ripping to shreds.
On the ground, lying cold and lifeless, was his beloved Sasha with a dagger through the heart.
He rushed forward, kneeling beside the bloody body of his love, once beautiful and vivant, now splattered with the scarlet liquid of dread.
The man looked upon her beautiful face, eyes peacefully closed, as if just sleeping. He sobbed, not because she was dead, but because he cannot do anything about it.
The man was so drowned in his own grief and sorrow and despair upon his loss that he grew quite unwary of his surroundings. So, when a black-cloaked figure slowly crept up to him behind his back, toying around a silver dagger in his hands, the man failed to take notice of him.
“Ahh, it seems that our big brave ‘hero’ has come to rescue his poor little princess.” The voice was raspy and scornful and full of malice, coming from the deep shadows under his dark hood.
The man’s eyes widened in surprise and attempted to turn around, grabbing his sword hilt, but it’s too late. There was a flash of silver, a splatter of red, then all was dark.