Deep night draped the palace when John jolted awake. For a second, he didn't know why – his room was silent save for the faint crackle of a wall-mounted glow-stone turned to its lowest setting. He had been in a light sleep, his soldier's instincts never letting him slumber too deeply in an unfamiliar, potentially hostile environment.
He lay still in the grand canopy bed, listening. Years of nighttime operations had trained him to be acutely aware in darkness. His hand slid quietly under his pillow where he had smartly tucked a small ornamental dagger earlier (one he'd found displayed on a shelf and claimed for personal reach). The cool metal handle against his palm was reassuring.
There – a whisper of sound, like fabric brushing against stone. It came from beyond the door to his outer chamber, perhaps from the corridor or balcony? John's pulse quickened but he kept his breathing slow and even, feigning continued sleep to any watcher.
Another faint scrape. The balcony, he surmised. The doors to the balcony were closed, but not locked—he hadn't thought to bolt them after his evening gaze at the city lights. Cursing himself silently, he shifted his eyes toward that side of the room. The gauzy drapes stirred ever so slightly, though no breeze should be blowing in.
Moonlight pooled faintly at the threshold of the balcony doors. And in that weak light, he saw a darker shadow move against the pale curtains.
Adrenaline flooded John's veins, cold and clarifying. An intruder was in his quarters.
His mind snapped into combat mode. Single intruder, approach via balcony likely, method of entry perhaps climbed the outer walls or magically levitated. Motivation: assassination. He had no allies who would sneak in at midnight. Threat level: high, but element of surprise might be his if they think him asleep.
From the corner of his eye, John caught a glint of steel—a blade reflecting a sliver of moonlight as the figure slipped fully into the room. The shape was slight, likely someone dressed in dark tight-fitting garb. The person moved with practiced stealth toward the bed.
John waited, muscles coiled. He would have one chance. He strained to detect if the intruder was alone or if more lurked. No alarm had been raised by the guards outside; perhaps they were neutralized or the assassin bypassed them. Either way, help was not coming.
The figure crept closer. John could almost feel the gaze upon him, checking if the Emperor slept soundly. He willed his body to remain relaxed, eyes nearly closed. The assassin halted a mere two paces from the bed. In the gloom, John saw a raised hand gripping a long dagger—or a short sword—poised to strike down.
In that instant, John exploded into action. Years of close-quarters combat training propelled him; he moved on instinct, as precise as if this were a mission in the dead of night. He twisted and kicked off from the bed with powerful force, simultaneously swinging his left arm up to entangle the assailant's weapon arm while driving his dagger in a tight arc with his right.
His sudden movement took the assassin utterly by surprise. John's forearm struck the intruder's wrist, deflecting the stabbing blade so it sliced harmlessly into the mattress. In near silence, the two figures clashed in the darkness.
The assassin was fast, and now up close John glimpsed their eyes—narrowed above a cloth mask—and realized with a shock it was a woman. She recovered quickly from his initial parry, twisting lithely out of his grip and slashing at him with a secondary knife that flashed in her off-hand.
John jerked back; the tip grazed his forearm, a sting of pain, but he kept his hold on his own dagger. Feet finding the floor, he centered his stance. The assassin lunged low, aiming for his abdomen. John flowed with a defensive move straight out of special forces training—redirecting her momentum with one hand on her forearm and stepping aside as he brought his dagger down toward her back.
She was too skilled to be skewered outright; she spun away with catlike agility, John's blade slicing only through a loose flap of her dark tunic. She hissed in frustration, circling him now.
The room was dim, but both had enough night-vision to navigate by shadows and the faint glow-stone light. They were silhouettes dancing deadly around the grand bed, the silken sheets now rumpled and bearing a gash from her initial strike.
John noted she favored her left foot slightly—maybe an old injury or imbalance. Any advantage he could exploit, he catalogued. She, for her part, was assessing him anew. This was no soft royal target but a trained fighter meeting her stroke for stroke.
She feinted high then sliced low; John anticipated the ploy and blocked with his dagger, metal clanging softly as it met hers. The brief contact allowed him to trap her knife-hand by clamping his forearm against hers and wrenching. He heard a muffled gasp as her wrist snapped with a quiet crack.
The woman did not scream—she was too disciplined for that—but the dagger dropped from her limp hand. In a final effort, she lunged to stab with her other blade at his neck, eyes flashing with desperate resolve.
John intercepted, catching her forearm with both hands this time. Using his superior height and Arslan's considerable strength, he twisted the weapon from her grasp. It clattered to the marble floor.
In one fluid motion, he shifted his grip, spun behind her, and locked an arm around her throat, dagger pressed to her ribs. The assassin strained, but he had leverage now. With her one good hand she tried to pry at his forearm, but it was like iron.
"It's over," John growled quietly into her ear, adrenaline making his voice even lower and more gravelly than usual. "Don't make me kill you."
She froze for a heartbeat, then surprisingly let out a bitter, breathless laugh. In a heavily accented voice she whispered, "Then enjoy betrayal, false king." And before he could react, her body went slack—she bit down on something, a poison capsule perhaps. He felt a shudder run through her; she'd taken her own life rather than be captured.
John cursed and eased her down to the floor. A sickly sweet smell hit his nose as foam bubbled at the corner of her mouth beneath the mask. Quick-acting toxin. Within seconds, her eyes glazed. She was dead. John felt a surge of frustration at being denied answers – and a grudging respect for the assassin's fanatic resolve, however misplaced.
He knelt there, heart pounding, the dead assassin in his arms. Events had unfolded in mere moments, silent and deadly. Only now did the aftermath begin: a muffled shout from outside as a guard finally noticed something, or perhaps heard the brief struggle. The doors to his chambers burst open and two of his personal guards rushed in, spears at the ready, followed by the eunuch and a bleary-eyed servant holding a lantern.
Act I – End