A silhouette moved gracefully in the quiet morning light. Draped in luxurious garments, the figure prepared breakfast with tender, deliberate care. His hands worked with a meticulous rhythm as if orchestrating a symphony of devotion. Every motion was imbued with purpose. A delicate cup of tea, freshly brewed, was raised to his lips.
"Ah, too hot," he muttered, his voice soft yet strangely textured, as though it carried the weight of years. He set the cup down and added a pinch of herbs from a small pouch at his side. "Still not quite right... Master deserves perfection."
He hummed quietly as he worked, pausing occasionally to adjust the placement of a delicate flower or to polish the silverware for the third time.
The door burst open with a violent crash.
"We can finally rid ourselves of this crookback!"
One of the guards kicked him in the face, sending him sprawling to the cold stone floor with a heavy thud. His ornate garments tore as he fell, exposing his twisted form. A hunched back curved sharply, one shoulder rising unevenly above the other. His face was a grim assembly of deformities—one eye unnaturally large, his jaw misaligned, and his skin uneven.
Though short in stature, his frame was broad and heavy-set—a striking contrast that only deepened the unsettling nature of his appearance.
"Alyssa!" he gasped, his voice cracking.
Ignoring their taunts, he ran, his awkward gait carrying him through the palace corridors. The cold stone walls seemed to close in around him as he climbed the spiral stairs to her chamber.
Gasps of shock rippled through the gathered nobles. Alyssa lay motionless in an ornate coffin, her pale hands folded across her chest. Women shrieked and fled to the corners, their hands covering their mouths. Men scowled, some drawing swords.
He drew near, each step heavy with dread, until the harsh inscription revealed itself. Around her, richly dressed courtiers stood, their voices seemingly devoid of grief.
His chest heaved as panic set in, each breath a struggle. "M-My… my.."
"Batin!" one of them barked. "You have no place here!"
A visiting noble glanced nervously between the others and asked, "Who is this creature?!"
One of the senior nobles shifted uneasily, eyes darting away. "He… served the princess in ways we cannot fully explain," he murmured, his voice uncertain.
At last, the guards caught up. They grabbed him roughly by the arms, dragging him backward. "We'll deal with him ourselves," they said. "That's right," one sneered, "there's nobody left to protect you now!"
They hauled him down the stairs, each step punctuated by a rough shove or a kick.
"End me! END ME!!" he cried.
"We don't want your cursed blood on our hands"
The grand doors were thrown open, and the guards hurled him outside. His body crumpled on the cold stone. The doors slammed shut behind him, their echo lingering like a final sentence.
Batin lay motionless, his fine garments now torn and sullied. His chest barely rose and fell as he clung to the remnants of life.
"Without Master, What am i to ..."
The palace gates loomed behind him, unyielding and cold.
The moment replayed in his mind like a haunting melody. The pen had felt heavy in his hand as he whispered to himself, "The pawn, the lowliest and least powerful of pieces, can rise in status and gain great power. Never underestimate any pawn on the board."
His grip tightened as he continued, "But in general, pawns are there to protect the other pieces, and pawns are there to die."
"When I realize just how disposable I am."
At the time, it had seemed like a calculated decision. A test. Yet now, the words felt monstrous, their implications suffocating.
"But if he never comes back," Emery murmured, "would that make me a murderer?" He froze, staring at the pen as though it might answer him.
I may have gone too far...
The days crawled by. Wednesday came and went, the day Alaric would usually visit for a game of chess. By Friday, the news reached him:
Alaric had been cremated.
The revelation struck him like a blow. The finality of it churned his stomach, and at Alaric's funeral service, surrounded by mourners, he could scarcely breathe. On the walk back, nausea overwhelmed him, and he staggered to the side of the road, retching violently.
"What have I done?" he gasped, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand. "I just... killed a man. I killed a man."
The following nights, sleep evaded him entirely, leaving his thoughts a relentless cacophony of whispers. The pen seemed to pulse with a life of its own, demanding to be used.
There's something I need to settle. Until I do this, I won't find peace again.
Each passing hour weighed on him, his thoughts looping endlessly between regret, guilt, and a gnawing temptation that refused to let him go.
Since the night his parents were taken from him, happiness had become a distant memory, replaced by an unyielding restlessness. The guilt of Alaric's death became the final drop that tipped the scales.
It's a necessary evil.
Until one day, after a slow and gradual unraveling, the final thread of his will snapped. The words fell from his lips like a confession, sealing his fate:
"I've become my desire for revenge. My hate for injustices. My lust for societal change..."
"..."
He sat, the pen clutched tightly in his hand.
"I give in."
The kingdom stirred like a living, restless beast, its people caught in a tide of fear, hope, and whispered stories. The name traveled from hovels to high towers, from bustling market squares to the shadowed alleys: The Death Dealer.
In the smoky taverns where the poorest gathered, grizzled men muttered with a mix of awe and dread. "He kills the wicked, aye," one croaked, fingers clutching a chipped mug. "No more rotten dogs walkin' free to bite honest folk."
"But what of the ones he spares? Those cursed souls who come back from death… changed," another replied, eyes flickering with suspicion. "I heard some've turned pious, speakin' of light and forgiveness. Like they saw the truth in the beyond."
Outside the palace gates, a noblewoman watched from behind her silken veil, whispering to her retinue.
"The Death Dealer is a scourge," she declared, lips tight with disdain. "This... vengeance masquerades as justice. It threatens the order we've fought to build. A world where men die twice? Madness."
One courtier nodded, "And yet, there is fear. Even the King's guards whisper his name with unease. The people want order... but at what cost?"
On cobbled streets, beneath the fluttering banners, troubadours set up their stools. Their voices rose in haunting melody, drawing crowds like moths to flame:
"Wanna make a deal?
A name in the book, a fate to seal.
From prison's chain to death's cold meal,
The Death Dealer's hand, swift and real."
"He's the shadow in the night,
The judge who deals the final right.
Some cry foul, some cheer his fight,
But none can hide from his dark light."
"Pawns who schemed and plotted deep,
Lay silent now, their souls to keep.
But some awaken from the sleep,
Their hearts reborn, their faith runs deep."
In the workshops and fields, laborers paused their toil, whispering among themselves.
"Aye, he's cleansin' the streets of those who never meant to change," a blacksmith grunted. "The jail's full o' those who don't want to be free — they'd rather rot in sin than seek the light."
A woman nearby sighed, "But pain alone can't teach a man to be better. There's no cure in the sword's cold bite. How many more will fall before we find a way to heal their souls?"
In shadowed corners, whispered rumors swirled.
"They say the Death Dealer is divine punishment," a beggar murmured, eyes wide. "A curse on a kingdom that forgot mercy."
"But others say he's no more than a ghost, a warning to thieves and killers."
Among the clergy, sermons changed. Some saw in the returned souls a miracle.
"Those who rise bear a message of redemption," the priest intoned, voice booming through the stone halls. "Through death's door, they found grace, and now preach humanity's path anew."
But others frowned, wary of such power. "Playing God courts ruin," they muttered.
The Death Dealer's name was a blade, sharp and double-edged. In the courts and the streets, the whispers painted a kingdom at a crossroads, torn between the old ways and the dark new justice that had come to life.
And somewhere, in the background, the troubadour's voice lingered:
"Wanna make a deal?
A name in the book, a fate to seal.
The world may shake, but hearts reveal—
The Death Dealer's hand turns steel."
Emery lay down beneath the sprawling canopy of stars, the full moon casting silver light over the quiet world. The day had been long—hours spent hustling for coin playing chess, and hours more enacting grim justice on those who deserved it.
He could have used the pen to gain wealth beyond measure, to cast aside all worries of money. But he chose the lesser evil.
In his heart, Emery believed he was a force for justice. And he no longer anguished over those who might never wake. In his eyes, he hadn't killed them—he had given them the sentence they truly needed, one that could last anywhere from an instant to an entire lifetime, depending solely on their willingness.
His role as the Death Dealer was settling into something familiar—new routines taking shape, and the chaos of his life slowly falling back under his control.
Lost in these thoughts, he suddenly noticed a shadow stretching toward him under the moonlight.
Bewildered, Emery half-stood and turned, only to stumble backward in horror at what he saw, his shout tearing through the stillness of the night.
"You sure look quite surprised…"
Emery's eyes widened, sweat beading his forehead as he scrambled back on hands and feet. The figure approached, slow and confident.
"…Death Dealer."