Prologue: A Step Ahead

Prologue: A Step Ahead


It was a warm and rainy night in the main capital. No one walked along the sodden streets, and no beggars rattled their cups for money. All of them were boarded inside the small wooden buildings on either side of the street. So, no one noticed as a man dressed in black walked along the pavement.
         The man himself was more shadow than man, for he wore a black cloak that blended perfectly on a dark night. His face was not visible, as it was covered by a hood emblazoned with ancient script. Long, flowing black hair fell out behind him, and a cold scythe lay at his side, waiting like a hound for a new enemy. As he walked, something sinister happened. The raindrops that fell on him simply froze in midair, and his breath clung on his cheeks, instead of going on behind him. He walked slowly towards the tallest building in the capital. The instant the man entered, the guards inside tried stopping him, dumbly shouting to him that it was too late to see the king. But the man kept walking, and as he passed they turned into pure ice, forever frozen, dumbfounded, with their strange expressions.
         Inside, huge overdone stained-glass pictures of brilliant knights and happy villages showed the true irony of the decorators. Large columns set in the wall supported the ceiling, which was colored a bright tan. Divided into many rooms, the palace could be like a labyrinth to an outsider. But the man in black had been here before.
         The largest room of the palace held only a silver throne, and a fat king. The man upon the throne was dreamily sleeping, snoring quite loudly. His hair was a forgotten black, and a shaven chin and a large potbelly was all you could see of him. But as soon as the man in black entered, the king jumped up shakily, his knees knocking together, sweating as he said, “G-guards!”
Of course, no men came, as they were all frozen beneath a foot of ice, with their hands outstretched, open mouthed. So the man in black approached the throne, thrust his scythe at the king’s neck, and said, “We need to talk.”
         The king, now thoroughly frightened, with no guards to protect his life as always, turned cowardly. “A-a-anything for my life, g-good sir!”
         “Good.” the man stated, pulling his scythe off the king’s throat. Instead of it calming the king, his face turned the color of sour milk. “I understand that you have a certain package of profession letters about to be sent. Instead of sending these out, you will return them to me.” the unknown man said.
         “B-but there are thousands of packages, sir! There is no way to find the one you need!”
         “But you know exactly which one I am talking about.”
The king’s face turned whiter still. “B-b-but…”
The scythe returned to his throat. “But what?”
“N-nothing. I-I’ll get them for you straight away.”
As the king shuffled off with a fright to grab the package, the man waited with impatience. After five minutes passed, there was still no sign of return. The cloaked man swore and picked up his scythe. He spoke. “Shcadou!”
         Almost instantly, he began to seep into the floor. His body slowly disappeared through the concrete. His scythe glowed a blood red and went with him. All that remained was a shadow cast by nothing. The shadow was the exact shape of the man and his weapon. Then it began to move. Along the floor the shadow crept, until it went straight through a wall and outside of the castle.
         The king was terrified out of his life. As soon as he could go unheard, he grabbed the parcel, and ran as fast as he could, which was not fast at all.  He only had just reached the edge of the town when the shadow crept up on him.
         “Deshcadou!”
The man in black rose up from the pavement, his hood off, with a greedy smirk on his face. His eyes had no pupils. His entire face covered with markings done with blood. The bones of the man’s face stuck out at odd angles. His skin was deathly white, bleached like a grinning skull. It smiled its deathly smile. The king, now mortally horrified, dropped the parcel, pointed at the figure,  and said, “Y-you’re the d-deathwielder!”
“And your time has come.”
         And the scythe, now emanating its brightest red, sliced across his throat, and the king never spoke again.