The entrance to the house of lust was a corridor that was divided into three parts by three veils, all of a different color. As he stepped past the first one, he was greeted with the smell of perfume. There was a smell that reminded him of the woman he had walked past moments ago. He swallowed.
The next veil brought with it a feeling, one that began in his head and ran through his whole body, as if it were a touch, or many, that gently caressed him, seeking what a man like him would like; what was the touch that he sought?
And the third veil removed all doubt. It removed the feeling of shyness, the pressure one could feel, and even the nervousness of the one who had entered in search of pleasure.
His whole body receded; he had never felt so free to do as he wished. There were many things he wanted to do, so one question remains: Why not just do them? What is the harm in seeking pleasure and the touch of another? Now he could do it all, even the mission.
Past the third veil opened up a large space, a great room that was more like a bar or a tavern than anything else; there were tables and booths, couches that filled those booths with people idling and conversing with each other, often with people much more beautiful than they were. But on the faces of each individual, there remained an illusion of intrigue: the customer that a prostitute was to serve this night was not old or ugly; for them, for this night and perhaps many nights after, they were beautiful, they were filled with youthful energy, and everything they said was interesting and important.
There was also a desk with two sets of stairs on either side. Ignar studied the room, the people that were there, and the new faces that he had never seen before. The way they interacted with each other, as laughter at times, would fill the air around, or when a woman would place their lips on a glass and drink the nectarine, which would bring her courage.
And the man that soon approached him, on their face, an expression of curiosity, they reached him and soon asked, "Sir, I've not seen your face here before, so might I guide you through our grand establishment and even recommend services that may be of interest to you?" Their speech was steady, and the smile on their face never left for even a moment. With both of their hands, they gestured toward the desk.
Ignar accepted this offer and followed the man. They stopped at the desk, where a woman worked behind the counter. She wore a revealing black dress that brought out the white of her scales. She, for a moment, glanced at Ignar, and her eyes sparkled in shades of gold as the yellow iris of her eyes met the eyes of the young man.
She went ahead and wrote something on a note, which she folded and then placed on the counter. Her eyes met Ignar's eyes again, and a coy smile conquered her face. "I know what you're here for." She said, "Ules, I think you should man the counter for a couple of hours."
Ules stared at the woman with a confused expression on his face, then an understanding smile removed such confusion as he scoffed. "So you know this young man?" He asked and looked at Ignar in turn. "I never thought that I'd see the day when you would have customers of your own."
His smile widened. "But I do approve of your choice; this one seems to be able to go all night."
The ever-confused Ignar had to battle not to let the blush on his face show as the woman took him by the arm, grabbing the note with her as she led him upstairs. They climbed the stairs at a normal pace, but after each step, Ignar could feel the rhythm of his heart quicken. He wondered if the woman could feel the sweat that had begun to form on his hand, if she would be able to see how flushed his face had become, and if she could find the lust deep beneath his gaze.
On the second floor of the establishment, there were rooms on either side; at first, the space in between was quite small, but at the end of the corridor, after walking past ten or so doors, the woman opened the door to the left and pulled Ignar inside with her.
The room was large, and it had been divided into three sections. The first section was a space where one could place their shoes and coats; there were also three couches and a small table that was in the middle of them. The second section had a large bathtub in it, with a large window that overlooked the street beneath. Then there was the third section, the largest part of the room, equal in size to the other two combined; a large kingsized bed with silk sheets and multiple pillows placed all over the bed, not to mention a balcony with an even better view of the street below; and then there were wardrobes filled with who knows what, and lastly, paintings that garnished the walls.
Around the room they had entered, there were many lights hanging from different places, creating a sensual mood for the room, combined with the fragrant smell that came from the bathtub.
Ignar couldn't help but feel the urge that came with such a setting, but the woman let go of his hands. She looked deep into his eyes and placed the folded note in Ignar's hand; her expression was serious as she whispered, "You do what you came here for. There should be no one who will bother you, and the rooms are soundproof. I will be waiting here for you.
Ignar stared at her for a moment longer and then read what the note contained. A room number: 309.
He again looked at the woman, but she had already sat on the couch, and she kept tapping the armrest. She was nervous. Perhaps even afraid.
Ignar let out a silent sigh. In his mind, he damned the whole mission. Couldn't he instead have fun in this fine establishment? He left the room and silently closed the door behind him. He searched the door and soon found its number: 209. He looked at the other side of the corridor, at the door that was there, and its number was 210.
He returned to the staircase, making note of each door and its number as he went by. Based on this, he figured that the room that he was looking for was on the third floor, a room that would be above the room in which he had just been.
The third floor had the same layout as the second floor, but the only sounds that he could hear were those that came from the first floor—the sounds of laughter that silently echoed through the stairway and up to the floor on which he now was.
He sneaked onward, again taking note of how the rooms were numbered. The rooms that were in use were marked with a sign that hung from the door handle. On such signs, it usually reads "Do Not Disturb," or just "In Use."
The numbers followed the same logic; the first number was the floor, and the ones that followed were the room numbers.
At the end of the corridor, he found the door he was looking for; it was numbered "309," and on its handle was a sign that read "Do Not Disturb."
Without even trying the knob, Ignar knew that the door would be locked, but that would not be an issue. There were many ways one could break down a door; it had not been long since Urgur had showcased one way of doing it, but he would not break down the door. He needed to be more careful; he needed to be as subtle as he could.
Thus, his only feasible option was to lock-pick the damn door. The only issue was that he had never done anything like that before, and he wasn't sure how long it would take before someone would enter this floor. And he wasn't that sure if the rooms being "soundproof" meant that the sounds coming from outside would also be muffled, and not just those that were formed within the rooms.
But really… How complicated could a lock even be? He thought to himself and began thinking of the different locks that he had seen in his lifetime. There were padlocks, warded locks, and magical locks; this one was obviously a magical lock, so there really wasn't a need for a keyhole, even when the lock had one, but it was there for most aesthetic reasons, to kind of notify anyone who might try entering that the door could be locked.
Magical locks were, by nature, complex. But the complexity of the lock itself then befell the person who created the magic for it. If he had been unlucky, then the person who had created the lock for this door would have been someone much more magically gifted than he, but thankfully, such was very rare.
And in this case, the creator of the lock had not been someone who was greater in magical ability than he was, but still, they had been someone who knew their shit. Thus, even if the person had less aptitude for magic, they made up for it with knowledge.
It was eerily silent as he just stood there and looked at the door and its lock. The only sounds one could hear were his own heartbeat and the laughter, which was very muffled, that came from downstairs.
Maybe he could not unlock the door, but he could remove the magic that kept it locked. For that, he was powerful enough. He carefully sought the magic within and formed it into a nullifying spell, one that, if it came into contact with any magic that was either lesser or equal, would become nullified. It was as if two forces met each other and then became naught afterward. The nullifying spell would become nothing, and so would the magic that meets it.
In most scenarios, it was almost like a show of force. He could remember the way Kalla had done so against the guards of the Adrian Estate—how everything that they threw at him became nothing or was instead stopped by other means. If it were just the nullifying magic that he had used, then perhaps it would've been less impressive, but that mixed with how he controlled the magic of others, on the other hand...
Ignar released the magic that he had created; he could feel the magic of the lock and his magic; they were as if connected by tethers one could not see so easily; they struck each other, and Ignar could feel how these two forces first battled, seeing which were stronger, then they both collapsed and became nothing. The feeling that remained after was cold, and there was an absence of that which once was.
He quickly opened the door and entered, knowing all too well that the person within could easily notice such magic; the first glances that he could see of anything were a similar layout to the room that was beneath it, and then an ice lance flew toward him. Ignar closed the door behind him and formed a quick code to block the magic thrown at him.
The ice lance shattered as it met a well-placed stone shield that had materialized in its way. The sharp icicles flew in many directions, but all of them Ignar scorched away with quickly formed flames.
And then, at last, he could see the person he was supposed to kill. A man with a grin on his face; his white hair flew around wildly as he conjured another spell to remove the enemy that had entered his room without his permission.
A man with far too familiar facial expressions; a man who stopped doing what he was doing the moment they too realized who they now faced.
All movement stopped; all creation of magic ended; instead, two men stared at each other. A father and a son. Kalla and Ignar.
A smile on the face of the old man as he finally spoke, "So this is the assassin my father sent for me? How thoughtful of him!"
Ignar took a step forward, "What is the meaning of this? There was supposed to be a leader of the rebellion in here." He asked, but he already knew the answer. He already knew what Kalla thought of Kalma; he already knew where all this would go; he could guess how it all would end. Unless…
"Yes, and here I am." Kalla said and spread his arms, "The man who gave birth to resistance. The man behind whom so many stand—there are so many that follow me and that which I believe in."
"So I must die."
"No." Ignar said, "I will never do something like that. I refuse. We can… we can…"
"Run away?" Kalla asked, to which Ignar nodded, for he believed that it was the only choice. But Kalla scoffed, "To run away from a god? From a creature that has so much more power than anyone in existence, who has so many followers that would do his bidding... And you suggest that we run away from him?" He sneered.
"Have I raised a fool as my son?" He scoffed again, but beneath his veil of jest and outrage, there remained a hint of sadness, perhaps not for the accusation that he himself had voiced but because of the reality of the situation.
"At this point, it doesn't matter what you desire. One of us has to die." Kalla smirked as a flash of something like insanity could be seen in his eyes, but a flash is a flash, and from that flash, that unexplainable emotion in Kalla's eyes returned. Again, as if he knew something that Ignar probably should know as well. Such knowledge could be seen there, and that smirk faded away.
He first scoffed and soon burst into laughter, one that had more tears than one would think. And when he was done with this burst, he examined Ignar, the assassin sent to kill him.
"Do you remember the deal we made the day we first spoke?" He asked, "I would give you a name, and I would become your father; I would feed and clothe you; I would have you live in my house; and in trade, you would do what I ask you to do, no questions asked."
"So be a good boy and execute me; chop my head off and bring it to my father. He will be pleased; he will be happy." His voice was so low now, and his smile remained there, one that tried to be brave but would at times falter to showcase the truth of a man who was afraid of death, as is any real man.
There was silence after his words as Ignar stared at his father. He was between tears and laughter, not knowing which was more appropriate for the situation. The absurd reality of it all. Within, he knew that he could not, but above all else, he knew that his father was correct.
It would be foolish of him to even try to escape with his father. It would be foolish of them to try to do such a thing. It was foolish to even dream of such things, for what is a man before a god? What is a man before power that you can't even calculate, that you can't even imagine?
What could someone like him do? Or even Kalla? Surely his father could kill him in mere moments; he could decapitate him; he could remove his head and thus his soul from this existence, and Ignar was unsure if he could do anything to stop him.
He was left with just this one option.
Tonight, he would not be a man. Tonight, he would not have feelings. Tonight, he would be just a weapon used by the hands of the god he now served. Tonight, a son would not kill his own father, but instead, a weapon would kill another weapon.
Tears ran down his cheeks as he began forming a code, a smile came to Kalla's lips, and he closed his eyes and said before it would all end, "Be brave, my son."
For a moment, Ignar faltered; not only did his vision shake, but so did his whole body as he released it. He released death. A golden disk formed in between them; it spun so fast in place that one could hear a high whistling sound in the room, and then he released it.
It struck at Kalla's throat; it severed his head from his torso and then dissipated before it hit the wall behind the bed. A loud thud was heard as two objects hit the floor: the body and the head, now two separate entities, and just blood that gushed out of the two sides, soiling the carpet beneath.
Ignar stared at his creation, his eyes twitching, and shivers running down his spine. He was disgusting. He was so disgusting.
From the bedsheets, he ripped a silken cloth large enough to carry the head. In silence, he kept his cries muffled as he cased the head carefully, not wanting to look at it but still having to face what he had done. Kalla's eyes might've been closed, but on his face, there was this tension that remained: unfathomable pain caused by the moment of impact, by the moment of death... His eyes closed, but beneath his lids, there would always be that disappointed look for him now. The disappointed eyes of a father who now had a murderer as his only son...
He picked up the head and left the room, leaving the body on the carpet. He closed the door, wanting to perhaps lock it, but he did not know how. His mind was empty as he walked down the hallway, each step frail, his knees almost giving up as he went down the staircase, his hands violently shaking as he opened the door to room 209.
There, the woman still sat, now biting her nails. She perked up and stood up the moment Ignar entered the room. She witnessed as Ignar closed the door behind him, as he stared at her, as he dropped the veiled head on the floor and began to weep.
The woman was first confused, but soon she approached the man and, in silence, comforted him, but the tears would not stop flowing.