The Seven Kings

Rashim

Without opening his eyes, Rashim knew he had screwed up.

It wasn't the irritating cries of the traders who moved from mage to mage, advertising their products and haggling with whoever cared to answer them. Neither was it the steady clomping of hooves from the passing horses, dragging whatever cart or carriage they needed to. It was the burning hot sun that had reached past his drapes and slapped him across the face, leaving his skin reddened. That was how he knew he was in big trouble.

He sat up immediately, swinging his legs off his bed. Grabbing the blue pants that hung over his bed, Rashim made his way to the entrance of his hut. While struggling to slip it on, he yanked his white tunic off the wall beside the curtain-covered door. He put it on as fast as he could, swiping his grey cloak off the ground along with his black boots. Not bothering to wear either, he darted out of his hut, looking like a madman.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he swore, pulling on his boots as he tried to wave down a passing carriage. "Oi! Hold on for fuck's sake!"

The coachman, a dark-skinned man with wrinkly skin and deep brown eyes, gave him an apologetic look and turned back to the road. Rashim swore once more, watching as the carriage pulled away. He couldn't see who was on the inside, as a brown door obstructed his view. Frowning, Rashim hobbled forward frantically. Managing to slide on his second boot, he swung his cloak over his shoulders and pulled the hood down. He was going to have his face rearranged when he got to the Rider trainee camp.

"Need a ride?" a passing coachman called. "Noticed you missed the one that just went by."

"Yes, bless you," he nodded, sighing with relief.

"That'll be three skrons ."

Grunting, Rashim lifted a brow quizzically at the man. "Really?" Usually, he was charged only two skrons for hitching a ride. But the coachman was trying to take advantage of his situation and charge higher than he was supposed to.

"You're the one in a hurry," the mage smirked, affirming Rashim's thoughts. "So are you going to pay or not?"

Digging his hand into his pocket, he fished out three skrons. They were pale green with a circle cut in the middle of its square frame. The inner curve of the circle was gold, while the outer part was green, like the rest of the skron. Rashim tossed it to the man, who snatched it out of the air with ease. He stuffed it into a black pouch he had pulled out of his pocket, before giving Rashim a crooked smile.

"Hop in."

Rashim swung the door open and lifted himself into the covered carriage, pulling the grey door shut as he sat inside. It was cleaner than most carriages he had entered. The seats weren't termite-infested or half-broken, neither were they blackened with charcoal or dirt. They looked like they had been thoroughly wiped clean, along with the rest of the bland interior. Satisfied with what he had paid extra for, he knocked the wooden surface of the carriage twice.

"Let's go boy," the mage in front ordered tugging on the ropes that were hooked onto the sides of the weary brown horse that dragged the carriage.

Rashim leaned back, shutting his eyes, as the carriage took off. He tried shutting out the noise all around, but in the end, succumbed to listening to everything he could. The city was as busy as usual, the road clogged with mages trying to either get somewhere or sell something. Or at least, the northern part of the city was. More commonly known as Traders' Haven, the section Rashim lived in was the poorest region in Verdack City.

The traders would have easily overtaken the wealthier mages living in the middle regions of the city if they didn't work for them in the first place. Rashim felt their living conditions should have been based on notable accomplishments or an evaluation of the most powerful Heka. To him, keeping the lazy and weak away from the walls was stupid. He knew several powerful mages. Powerful enough to go toe to toe with some of the trained soldiers under the Horsemen's commands.

The four horsemen or, as the mages within the walls called them, the Quartet of Blood and Death, were the king's guard. They followed the king everywhere, regardless of the dozens of soldiers that trailed behind them. Just one of them was rumored to have power on par with one of the demon generals. And the demon generals were no pushovers. From the books he had read, he knew some of their names along with what they had done to attain such a high rank.

"Oi, kid!" the coachman called, his voice cutting through the thick wooden frame of the carriage and Rashim's thoughts. "This is as far as I can go."

Confused, Rashim reached for the door handle. Carriages from the gate usually took a path that led deeper into the well-structured areas of the city. Then they'd be stopped by soldiers and sent back after dropping off their customers. After paying the coachman three skrons, Rashim was annoyed he hadn't even gone all the way. Pushing the door open, prepared to barrage the man with insults, he was suprised to have the door forced back on him, slamming shut as people brushed past it.

Then he heard the screaming.

From the rapid thudding of running feet and the paniked screams, Rashim had a feeling it wasn't just some mage causing trouble. It was unlikely the gate had been breached as well. The direction in which they were running towards was the gate, so whatever threat they were trying to get away from was from within the walls.

Forcing his door open, Rashim was immediately knocked to the ground by the running mages. He struggled to his feet, doing his best to avoid knees and elbows knocking him back down. He groaned from the pain, rubbing his head with one hand while he pushed through the crowd with the other. He managed to get a glimpse of the front of the carriage. The coachman had abandoned it and sped off. If whatever was up there was bad enough to seperate a carriage from its owner, Rashim feared the worst.

He was tempted to activate his heka and move through the crowd with ease, but he knew it would end up with him landing a punishment afterwards. He was only permitted during his training. Hopefully, whatever the situation was would count as an exception.

"You're running the wrong way man!" a mage yelled as he raced towards Rashim. "Get out of here while you can!"

"Why?!" he yelled back, struggling to make his voice heard over the noise.

"They're in the city!" the man screamed, fear evident in his voice. "They-"

A loud explosion interrupted him, searing white light following almost immediately. Rashim swung an arm over his face instinctively, squinting as the light cleared off. When his eyes finally reajusted, the man was nowhere to be seen. But the loud crack of wood splitting was heard. Rashim bolted forward, hoping to reach a clearing where he'd be able to assess the situation easier. He took in a deep breath, gathering his aura. Blueish light seeped out of his body like smoke, mere tendrils escaping his skin as he charged forward blindly.

As he finally approached what he thought to be an open area, he suddenly froze, his aura dissapating. With wild eyes, he stared straight ahead, shocked he hadn't sensed the immense killing intenet sooner. He felt like clawing at his throat and curling into a ball, pretending he was dead while whoever was giving off such a powerful presence did what he wanted and just left. Rashim's body felt numb, his teeth clattering against each other.

Gulping down hard, he swallowed his fear and managed drawing in his aura once more, only this time it was less visible and concentrated than when he had first drawn on it. He had no weapon, but his right hand went to his hips, gropping the hilt of an imaginary blade. Kicking himself mentally, he clenched his fists and walked toward the intense aura.

As soon as he broke past the crowd, Rashim felt like turning back and running for his dear life. One man, well over six feet and holding a five foot blade with a yellow and black hilt. At the very end of the hilt, two metal srips extended downwards on opposite sides, folding inwards to form a curl. The man was in black armor, armor Rashim recognized to belong to the demons. And in front of the man, breathing heavily, was the same woman he had seen earlier today.

"How the fuck did you get in, Belphegor?" Rheta growled, her grey eyes giving off more killing intent than Rashim had felt moments ago.

Rashim stiffled a gasp. Belphegor was one of the demon generals. And one of the Seven Deadly Sins. According to the history books, it only took three Sins working together to nearly bring the city down. Now one had found its way through their gates, facing off with the leader of the Amazons.

"Quite easily to be honest," he rumbled. "You mages need to amp up your security."

"Just shut up and piss off demon."

Belphegor threw his head back and bellowed. "I'll leave when you return what you stole. The Sins have no business here otherwise."

"Stole?" Rheta snarled. "Like you assholes stole our realm?"

"Please, please. Just hand the sword over. I know you have it."

Tightlipped and masked with a furious glare, Rheta threw her sword to the floor and flicked her wrist. Rahim was unsure about what was taking place, but he remained silent, now focusing his energy on masking his aura so he wouldn't be sensed. In her empty hands, a sword materialized. It looked rusty and worn out, and being barely up to four feet, it didn't look as menacing as the blade she had flung to the ground.

Although it was smaller and looked dull, Rashim felt a malevolent presence from the blade. He felt fear coursing through his body simply by staring at the sword. Belphegor took a step back as he saw it, his body seemingly tensing up.

"Alright," the demon said, his voice slightly shaky. "Hand it over."

"Are you afraid?" Rheta asked, her innocent stare hiding a malicious smirk. "What could this small, rusty blade do against one of the legendary Sins of Tartarus?"

"What it can do is none of your business," he snapped, tightening his grip on his sword. "Hand over Tizona and we will leave this worthless city in peace."

Rheta cocked her head and looked down at the sword in her hands. Turning it in her palm, she nodded and tossed the blade to Belphegor. Breathing an unmistakable sigh of relief, the demon reached out to grab the blade out of the air, only for his hand to catch open air. Rheta chuckled, waving the sword in her hand mockingly at the demon.

"Looks like it doesn't want to go with you," she said. "I don't think I want to hand it over anymore. It feels perfectly balanced in my hand."

"The Hakai isn't meant for you, mage." Belphegor leveled his blade at Rheta's head. "It's meant for our master."

"Come and get it."

Rheta sprinted towards Belphegor, drawing in aura as she did so. In mere seconds, thick brown aura shrouded her entire body. Belphegor swung his blade downwards, trying to deliver a finishing blow to her skull, but he hit a mound of sand instead. Confused, He wrenched his sword out of the mound and swung his blade around, twisting his body as he did so. Rheta caught the strike easily with the rusty sword, absorbing the recoil from his weapon with ease. Swinging her sword upwards, she forced him to stumble back, gritting his teeth in irritation.

"Come on, demon," Rheta taunted, waving Tizona in the air. "Don't disappoint your master."

Belphegor glared at her, infuriated, but tense at the same time. His eyes flickered to the sword briefly, fear sparking ever so slightly behind his hollow glare. Shutting his eyes, he sighed.

"We will not spare this city any longer," he said, sheathing his sword. "In seven days, we will march on this city and raze it down."

Rheta shrugged, looking down at the sword in her hands. "Seven days, huh." She brought her gaze back up to Belphegor and grinned. "Do your worst."

The demon snarled, before snapping his fingers and vanishing into thin air.

Without realizing it, Rashim let out a breath he had been holding since the pair in front of him had clashed swords. His entire body, rooted to the spot out of fear, finally responded to him as he brought a hand to his face, wiping off sweat.

"Hope you enjoyed the show," Rheta said, walking towards him.

He tried to respond, but his voice seemed to have left with the demon that had infiltrated their city. His eyes were fixed on her sword, his brief terror crawling back into his body as the sword came closer to him. Frowning, Rheta followed his gaze to her sword and realized why he had suddenly gone mute. With a flick of her wrist, the sword vanished into thin air, freeing Rashim from its trance.

"What the hell?" he managed to squeeze out, dropping his hands to his knees.

"The city is in danger, boy," she shrugged, patting his back. "Best we get to the middle of the city and relay everything to his Majesty."