PROLOGUE

The moon was already high in the sky, but its light was stifled by a brighter, reddish glow – a city in flames could be a thing of beauty, if only for those not caught in its fire.

Only corpses had stayed to see the sight. Not even twelve hours ago, a revolt had finally toppled the despot who had ruled over these lands, and the price to pay was the blood that now drenched the courtyard and town square. Most of those who had been fortunate enough to survive the city's destruction had fled by now. All that remained now were ghosts and ruins – and one man, carrying a smaller, lifeless body in his arms.

He paid no attention to the destruction around him, not even as he stepped on splinters of wood that used to be door frames, or shards of broken glass. He crossed the empty street with purpose and turned a corner, clutching the body closer to his chest. He then rapped on the door of a small house with the tip of his boot.

"Doctor Baldwin," he called out in a hoarse voice. "I am here."

He had to wait an eternity before the door was finally pulled open. Leopold Baldwin, who had once served with honor as physician to the Royal Family, ushered him impatiently, rubbing at the back of his head. Perhaps on some level, he was still thinking about how close he had come to losing it today.

"Quickly, Sir Fontaine. Inside."

Fontaine followed him into an old, dusty living room littered with crates and chests. Some of them had been left open, and were filled mostly with medical instruments. But he could also see several books whose titles he recognized – they had been banned for the last four years.

"I did expect you earlier," the doctor mumbled as he led them through a small dining room. "Make no mistake, I am grateful that you saved my life today, and it is only right that I grant you this favor in return. But we do not have much time."

"My apologies. I was not aware you were going to leave so soon," Fontaine said.

The doctor threw him a meaningful glance. "That is not what I meant."

Fontaine gritted his teeth, and pulled the young lady in his arms closer to his chest.

Leopold finally stopped walking as soon as they were in the middle of the kitchen. He pulled back a filthy rug to reveal a trap door, and grabbed an oil lamp from the wooden counter. "Careful," he warned, before heading down the stairs.

Fontaine pulled the young lady's head to rest onto his shoulder, and stepped down gingerly. He did not want to hurt her any more than he already had.

"Did you give her that potion as I prescribed?"

"Yes." Fontaine hesitated. "I did it as soon as I could find a place to hide. The bleeding seems to have stopped."

"But it will not keep her alive for long."

The doctor held the lamp in front of him as he guided the knight through the underground passage. The stones in the walls looked as though they must have been thousands of years old. Grime covered the jagged surfaces enough to make them glisten in the dark. The air in the passage was stale and smelled of earth, and he found the passage to be impossibly cold – not unlike the young lady in his arms.

Fontaine pushed that morbid thought away. He would save her. He would.

"We are almost there." Leopold paused for only a moment, and turned around to throw a brief glance his way. "Step lively, Sir Fontaine, or we shall not make it in time."

When they finally emerged from the passage, Fontaine had to squint to adjust to the sudden brightness. Dozens of white candles had been lit, arranged in a large circle on the floor. From the sizes of the puddles of wax around them, it looked as though they had been burning for at least an hour.

They were in a vault with a high, arched ceiling. A hooded figure was waiting for them in the center of the room, behind a raised platform covered by red cloth.

Fontaine recognized those carvings on the wall immediately: they resembled the royal coat of arms, and he had hung up his shield enough nights to have those images seared into his memory. "This is – "

"The castle, yes," Leopold finished for him. He set the lantern down onto the ground. "Do not worry, we are still underground. There is no-one else here, and there never will be."

"What do you mean," Fontaine started, still holding the young man close, "no-one is here?"

Leopold's expression shifted, and sadness flickered over his features. "The people have all left, Sir Fontaine, and if they are wise they will not return. The destruction has taken its toll." He sighed. "I would advise you to leave as well, as soon as this task is done."

"Task?" Fontaine kept holding onto the young lady, noticing how cold she still felt, and how light she was in his arms. "I am not leaving without her," he said firmly.

Leopold met his eyes, and then shook his head. "You are stubborn. But that is not for you to decide."

"I came here because you said you could save her. Can you? Or was that just a lie?"

"I cannot," Leopold shook his head. "To undo what has been done is beyond my reach." The doctor looked down and gestured towards the young lady in the knight's arms, "And beyond that of any mortal."

He stepped back. Fontaine saw the hooded figure raise its head, but it was not enough for him to make out a face. As his eyes eventually adjusted to the candlelight though, he thought he might have caught a glimpse of a soft jawline, and pale lips.

"Who are you?" he called out.

"I have been given many names, Sir Eric de Fontaine," came the reply. The voice was unmistakably that of a female, but possessed an ethereal quality that made her whisper sound as though it were echoing from the very walls. "And yes, I do know who you are. I have watched you fight valiantly to defend these lands I love. Because of your bravery, and that of your comrades, these lands were not razed to ashes today. For that, I thank you."

"Then will you help me? Please?"

The woman paused, before the hood finally moved, ever so slightly, from an otherwise imperceptible nod. For a second, before she lowered her head once more, he thought he could have glimpsed tendrils of spun gold, and eyes that might have been pale, pale blue.

She was not human, Fontaine realized. Was she a spirit? A witch?

It did not matter either way. He shifted the young lady in his grasp so that she would not touch the floor as he sank down onto one knee. "Please… help me," he repeated. "I will offer you any compensation that you require."

"Compensation is not needed," the woman said. "Your heart is pure. And as I have told you, you have my gratitude." She walked over to him with her long robes trailing behind her, and when she touched his cheek, somehow this put him at ease. "I only wish for you to know is that this will require immense sacrifice, as well as time."

"Time?"

"I can grant her her life back, but not all at once. My powers do not extend that far. Instead, what I offer you is this: she shall sleep until a thousand winters, summers and springs have passed. Until this very castle is nothing but rubble, and the knights and kings who walked these grounds are spoken of only in legends."

"Then…" Fontaine felt his heart sink. "I shall never see her again?"

The woman's lips turned up in the slightest hint of a smile. "You think like a true mortal. Take heart, Sir Fontaine – your wish shall be granted, so long as the price is paid."

The more he mulled over those words, the more it began to dawn on him that perhaps this had been a mistake. He pressed the young lady's head against his shoulder, and moved a tiny step back.

"Eric." The doctor called him by the name his mother had given him, and spoke in a solemn tone. "There is no other way."

Leopold's words reminded him of the ugly alternative, and after slowly rising to his feet, Eric walked a short distance over to the platform. Once he was there, he lowered the young lady gingerly onto its surface.

The woman stepped forward, took the young lady's hands into her own, and placed them so that they were folded atop her bosom. As she pulled away, Fontaine could see the young lady's tattoos – identical, twin imprints of carnations in bloom, one each on the back of the hand. His throat tightened.

"Your heart's desire involves walking in the realm of the gods," she whispered. "The sacrifice required will be great – a price that no lesser man can ever pay."

"I will do whatever it takes."

"No."

Fontaine drew back, the harsh coldness of the woman's tone having felt like a slap. "What? But you said…" He trailed off, eyebrows knotting. "I do not understand."

"And that is how it must be." The woman nodded towards Leopold, and told him in a quiet voice, "Take the good knight outside."

Fontaine's heart sank further, and fear grappled inside his chest. He shook his head. He was not ready; there still had to be some time left. "Wait... at least let me say goodbye!"

But Leopold was already pushing him out, insistently. By the time they were both out of the chamber, and just before the door shut, Fontaine could see the flames lighting the candles beginning to die out, one by one.

"Katrina...!"

I'm not a very popular writer but I would appreciate some feedback from you guys reading because I want to improve.


I

The breeze was cool, the night sky was clear, and a tall man in black was running away from gunfire.

He didn't need the comprehensive instructions being fed to him from his spotter's voice, over his earpiece. He'd simply picked a direction where the gunshots hadn't been coming from, and began running for his life. He wished he weren't running uphill. He wished he didn't have all of this gear under his jacket weighing him down.

He wished for a lot of things.

"That's not the escape route we planned, Fenrir! What the hell are you doing?"

That was a very good question. A gunshot smashed a rock that was just inches from his right foot, so he kept going, even as his calves ached in protest.

43 minutes ago, he'd killed a retired underboss who had been laying low in his secluded cottage in rural Scotland, waiting out a bit of heat. All it had taken was a single bullet to the back of his head. It should have been an uneventful, easy job.

But it wasn't. A last-minute change in plans due to his mark's increasing paranoia had meant there were more bodyguards than they'd anticipated. And the problem with this place was that there was nowhere to hide.

He didn't like running away. Among his colleagues, he'd always been known as the 'tracker' of the group. As such, he would always be infinitely more comfortable on the other side of the chase, but there wasn't much he could do about that now.

Going up the hill had its advantages, though: the gunshots were getting less frequent now. He wondered how much longer this would take.

"Where are you going, Fenrir?"

"I don't know," he ground out. He finally reached in through his open jacket, pulled out his gun and returned fire. "Can you send a chopper?"

"Not for another half-hour. By then, it won't matter."

"Right. Right." The tracker took a deep breath, ducked as he heard another series of shots, and fired back two of his own. The sudden, frantic spray of bullets echoing from behind informed him that at least one of those had been put to good use. That was slightly comforting.

The sky really was dark now, and if he looked up he could see the stars overhead, a blanket of blinking dots spreading out above him. The air grew colder the higher he climbed, and the mist gradually thickened.

But the gunshots from his pursuers were now few and far in between, and quite a significant distance away. He was beginning to see the end of his climb now, too: the incline was gentler now, and he thought he could see something in the distance.

"There's a forest on the other side of that hill you're on – "

"Wait," he interrupted. "I was told that this whole hill was just empty grassland."

His spotter sounded confused. "But it is."

The tracker frowned. "…I see."

He didn't comment, then, on what he saw here: ruins of what once must have been a grand structure, a palace or castle of some kind. Its walls blackened and charred, it stretched out before him like a huge skeleton with its bones put out to proud display. Tattered cloth from remnants of curtains or flags dangled behind dusty, rounded windows on the few walls that had somehow remained standing.

There was no gate standing in his way. Nor did any signs hint at these grounds being guarded under some historical preservation effort.

From afar, he heard another gunshot. Maybe his mark's bodyguards hadn't quite given up on the chase after all.

"Fenrir, report! What's going on over there?"

The tracker took a deep breath, taking in the ruins again. "There's…" He paused, wondering if his spotter would believe him if he described the ruins to her. Maybe now wouldn't be the best time for that, he decided. "I think I've found a hiding place," he said instead. "I'll try to wait this out."

"Good idea. I'll see what I can do to get you out of there. Keep us posted."

He pulled his jacket closed, and jogged forward.

*Carnations - a type of flower like the rose � often used to depict love.

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Following

While the tracker sought refuge in the ruins, an assembly of men dressed in white met in a huge hall, on the other side of the world.

They stood gathered around a huge, round table of heavy marble, with golden embellishments all around its circumference, depicting carnations in bloom. The table's surface was smooth enough to be almost perfectly reflective, and atop it lay a ceremonial sword with a gold handle. Intricate carvings ran up the length of the ivory scabbard, stopping only at the elaborate, golden lock which ensured that this sword would never drink another man's blood.

The men had their eyes closed as though in prayer, and each wore a fresh white carnation on his breast pocket. They clasped their hands together and sang:

"Glory to our King, to he who stopped all sin.
Glory to he who fell, but shall rise to power again."

Silence befell the room as the North-facing door opened, and a man in a white robe walked in bearing a length of worn parchment. He moved to the center of the room, and the rest of the men made way for him as he approached the table.

The man unrolled his parchment, and began to read.

"…And so on that day the kingdom fell to ruins, and with time all traces of the great King Magnus faded away. He was betrayed by some of his most trusted knights who had sworn to serve him, and by foolish subjects who craved only chaos and death."

The others muttered harsh words to themselves under their breaths. The man in the robe raised his hands, and silence returned.

"But we, his faithful followers, know it is our duty to preserve what is left of his legacy. We must wait and prepare. For we declare that our King will return. Soon, his most loyal knight, the only one who stood by his side until the very end, will awaken once more. After that, it will not be long…"

He spoke in a solemn voice that grew louder as he finished reading the prophecy. The other men listened attentively, and when he finished, the whole room erupted in cheers and applause.

thanks for the mention jare.. following no time

Opening yet another door in the castle, the tracker found himself in a world of dust and decay: spider webs hung down from remnants of the ceiling, and the further inside he went, the more nature had re-conquered what had been lost. Beetles crept along the surface of a very old table in one of the rooms, and he heard other critters skittering about elsewhere.

Thin beams of light fell in from the moon outside, revealing the dirty floors and the vestiges of what must have once been a splendid hall. Rusty suits of armor guarded these dead corridors, wielding swords and shields that seemed less ravaged by battle than by sheer time.

He must have been on the run for about an hour now, and he'd been out of contact with his spotter for about as long. For some reason, his earpiece wasn't working in here.

He could no longer hear gunshots, but he knew that assuming the danger was over now would be foolish. Sighing, the man in black stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and didn't bother to tread lightly, kicking up dust with every step.

He eventually found one chamber that still seemed to be intact, for whatever that was worth. Short, half-melted remains of candles stood fused to the floor, cold, and he counted more than 50 before stopping. Several jars lined the walls, made of porcelain that had long since either cracked or dulled. Two of them were empty, but one of them held long, withered-up sticks – incense, perhaps, in another lifetime.

The last urn was half-filled with small coins: not copper, but not gold either, they seemed to be made of an alloy that resembled both and yet neither. The man reached in and picked up one, examining it against the feeble light. He couldn't make out the writing, or the carving on the coin's face.

Maybe his brother would appreciate the souvenirs, he thought, and pocketed a few of the coins anyway. It was then that he noticed the huge stone slab standing in the middle of the room.

He didn't know for sure what exactly about this piqued his curiosity. Maybe it was the exhaustion of having spent most of his night running from gunfire, or maybe it was something else entirely, but he found himself walking towards the slab before he could help it. Just like the candles that had burnt out centuries ago, the slab showed its age clearly, with long cracks on its surface revealing glimpses of what used to be its original, pristine color.

The tracker traced his fingers over the surface, noticing how cool it was. He looked up, and saw only the candles and urns bearing witness. His curiosity grew.

Bending forward, he placed his hands at the corners of the lid and started to push.

It took a while before the slab even budged, and by then sweat was already running down his back. It took every ounce of strength he possessed before the slab fully yielded, and he finally heard a thud. Pausing to catch his breath, he waited for a few seconds, before lifting his head to see what was underneath.

The man had expected a skeleton, perhaps with an ancient sword or some other kind of memorabilia buried beside it, or held to its breast. His blood froze when his eyes came to rest instead upon the face of a sleeping young lady. There was a splash of freckles on and around her button nose, but they were hard to make out because of the light rose of her complexion. The tracker would think it odd, later, that the first real thought he formed after seeing the young lady here was to wonder how it was possible, that he could have been buried like this for God-knew how long and not be as pale as a ghost.

That was another thing: who knew how long this young lady had been here? It surely must not have been for very long, because he was still clearly very much alive. He could see the rise and fall of her bosom, and when he moved close enough, he could hear the young lady breathing.

He glanced up and around. The rest of the entire chamber was in clear disrepair, and the thick coat of dust on the floor, several years in the making at the very least, had been left undisturbed by any footprints except for his own.

This didn't make any sense.

He thought that perhaps he was finally starting to lose it, and that he would wake up from this strange dream soon enough. Perhaps those men chasing him had caught up with him after all, and he was already dead: this was some kind of limbo, then, and the young lady in the coffin would be the first of many oddities to come for an eternity.

Still, he felt that he should probably back away soon, and leave this place.

'Wait for me...'

Something in his head pulsed. Groaning, the tracker clutched at his temple, wondering if he'd been hit by shrapnel or some stray bullet an hour ago, and only noticed it now. This certainly wouldn't have been the first time.

But his hand came away dry.

He hesitated, and reached down into the coffin. He'd been intending to feel for a pulse, but for some reason his fingers came to brush against the young lady's cheek, and lingered there.

'And then, come back to me once and forevermore.'

The tracker felt a jolt run up his arm. The young lady sucked in her breath, shuddered, and let out a soft groan.

And then she opened her eyes.

The tracker stopped breathing.

'Thank you for freeing me.'

The young lady smiled when she saw him. Her eyes were a brilliant green, framed by curls of mercury red hair that had fallen over her forehead. "Eric," she whispered, and leaned into the tracker's touch. Her cheek felt warm to the touch.

The tracker shivered. But he didn't withdraw, despite himself.

He could count on both hands the number of people who knew his real name. And now, in a ruined castle that was a whole ocean away from the city he called home, here was this this young lady whom he'd never seen before in his life, speaking it softly and fondly as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"How... do you know my name?" he said in a low voice.

The young lady's smile widened, her eyes lighting up with affection. He chuckled softly. "But of course I know your name." He reached for Eric's hand. "You are my mentor, my friend, and my…"

She shifted and tried to sit up, pulling the hand towards his face and kissing the knuckles. Eric just stood there, stunned.

But he still had the presence of mind to catch the young lady as he faltered and swayed.

Eric rested the young lady's head on his shoulder, confused. Her hair smelled familiar, and he was impossibly warm. Eric himself felt dizzy now – as though he were wandering through a dream.

"Eric," the young lady whispered again, "I would never forget the name… of the man I…" But she never managed to finish his sentence, slumping forward into Eric's embrace.

thanks for the mention dear.
so far so good you are doing a good job your commination and writing skill is superb.

Harsh wind whipped at his face, and rain had started to fall almost as soon as he'd gotten halfway down the hill. But Eric prevailed, moving forward with all the dead weight of the young lady from the castle ruins wrapped up in his coat, and nestled quite comfortably against his back.

Soaked to the skin and with no protection from the rain, a persistent doubt assaulted his mind. Why had he taken this stranger out of that coffin, and why was he carrying her towards the inn now? Nothing could be gained from this all, other than trouble. But just as he'd processed that thought, he found himself already standing in front of the sign post for the inn up ahead.

Despite the wind blasting hair into his face, he caught a glimpse of the medium-sized wooden house resting at the foot of the hill, surrounded by grassy fields spreading throughout the valley. The hills shielded them from both forest and sea, and the inn itself was as remote and far away from civilization as any spot could be.

Maybe that was precisely why his employer had chosen it.

His earpiece crackled, startling him after almost two whole hours of radio silence. "Fenrir, finally! You still alive over there?"

Eric sighed, and hesitated. He had no idea how he was going to explain this, but he would try his best.

Following

II

The door to his room at the inn opened after five measured knocks, three fast ones and two slower ones, as they'd agreed upon hours ago.

When the door opened, Eric was greeted by the sight of his 16-year-old brother standing at the threshold, already dressed in his pajamas. His dark brown hair was long enough so that the tips in front of his face flickered when he blinked. He did so several times now, impassive and bored for all of a split second, before his expression gradually shifted to shock.

"Eric? Who is… that?"

He really should have thought through what he was going to say to Liam before getting here. "We'll find out when she wakes up. In the meantime, can you clear the space on my bed, please?"

"Wait a second." Liam narrowed his eyes. "Is she sleeping here? With us?" He still stood in front of the door, looking reluctant to even let Eric in. He asked again, "Who is she, some damsel in distress?"

Eric decided that coming up with a lie would take too much effort. "I found him in some ruins of an old castle near the top of the hill," he muttered. Gingerly, he sidestepped his brother in order to make his way into the room, and then through the open door into the adjoining one, which was his own. He kicked the mess of gloves, bullet clips and papers off the bed himself, careful not to wake the young lady on his back.

"She was all alone. And…" Eric faltered as he placed his cargo onto the bed. "She knew my name, somehow."

Liam squinted, having followed him inside. "Your codename? 'Fenrir'?"

"No." Eric left it at that and pulled a thick blanket over the young lady. He reached out to place a hand on her forehead.

But then his resolve faltered, and he pulled back. For most of his life, Eric had shied away from touch especially female. He didn't know whether it was the fact that anything physical with them seemed suffocating to him, or the fact that his nerves would go haywire every time he failed to react appropriately to a female reaching out to him. Whatever it was, it was something he wished to avoid as much as possible – not just touching and being touched by women, but getting too close to anybody, in more ways than one.

"Still, don't you think this is ridiculously irresponsible, Eric?" Liam's voice cut into his thoughts. "And it's not like you. You don't have to play the Good Samaritan just because she happened to get your name right."

"It's not that." Or was it? "I just… didn't want to leave her there. If someone else had found him in that coffin, who knows? They could have hurt her– "

"Then why," Liam interrupted, "didn't you just bring her to the hospital? How did you even get her all the way here without any problems?"

"The nearest hospital is at least 20 miles away." Eric pulled the earpiece out of his ear and placed it on top of the dresser next to his phone. It was probably only a matter of time before the latter would ring. "And the innkeeper wasn't at his post when I came in."

"Which makes everything all right."

"Look, I don't see what the big deal is. My boss bought out the whole inn, we're the only ones here. He won't be a bother to anyone else, and in the morning, I'll find a way to get him to people who can help. Until then, just bear with her, please?"

Liam rolled his eyes, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Whatever. I still don't understand why you had to bring her here." He moved towards his own bed now, on the other side of the adjoining door. When he flopped down onto the mattress, it protested with a loud crunch. "After all those years of begging you to bring me with you to one of your work trips abroad, you finally take me along just to dump me with some stupid druggie – "

Eric's eyes widened in alarm, and he pressed a finger against his lips, whispering, "Shhh!"

But by then it was already too late: the mattress of Eric's bed creaked as the young lady stirred. She let out a soft groan, shifting as she stretched her limbs, and her eyelids tensed before fluttering open. She looked around curiously, blinking away sleep, until she met Eric's gaze.

And when she did, a smile formed on her face, lighting up those very green eyes. She reached out her hand and whispered, "Hello, Eric."

following...

Over 3,000 miles away, trading had been closed for over two hours in New York. Still, the offices spanning the 30th floor of one of the Financial District's many skyscrapers remained fully-lit, and a woman in a power suit was frantically watching her computer screens, cursing every ten seconds or so.

"You're in over your head, Emma," the dark-haired, dark-eyed man beside her commented. He lit a cigarette set between his lips, despite the very clear 'No Smoking' signs posted every 20 feet or so. "Just tell him already."

Emma, the spotter who'd been assigned to watch over Fenrir throughout his mission tonight, knew that she was already damned either way. Tearing herself away from her computer for the first time in four hours, she began walking to the large corner office beside the elevator. She kept her headset on, though, because she never knew when Fenrir would need her.

The two large, open office spaces on either side of the hallway were filled with computers, a sparse few of which still had people operating them. Directions, instructions and warnings filled the room, spoken into headset microphones, in perfect tandem with settlement instructions negotiated with traders overseas. The whole 30th floor was the heart of Waltham and Sons, and the company's pulse was the thrum of activity that went on 24 hours a day, seven days a week. While traders and brokers made deals with just-opening Asian markets on the East side, the West was where organizational units overlooked and supported the assassins who were on the field.

It was their task to look out for Alexander Waltham's 'children', and Emma knew that Eric Macmillian, the tall and stoic man who went by 'Fenrir'when he was on the job, had run into some significant problems with his latest mission.

She walked over to Alexander's office and rapped on the door. After a gruff sound that vaguely approximated acknowledgment, she pushed her way inside.

A bear of a man, Alexander looked even larger since he'd taken off his dark suit jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. He was on the phone, fiddling with its hopelessly tangled cord when he glanced up, and motioned for her to come in.

"…Yes I know it's a huge potential payoff, but the amount of money you're asking for is just ludicrous!"

Emma closed the door behind her. Alexander's wall was covered with testaments to the colorful life the man had led: military awards and commendations up to 2004; two diplomas and a couple of honorary degrees from respected universities; framed pictures of him at various ages posing with army buddies and grateful clients with immediately recognizable faces, in addition to taped-up, hand-drawn pictures from his children, in crayon. Sometimes, at first glance, it was unclear what the man really did for a living, especially when he was yelling at a potential counterparty over the phone. But with a closer look, one could see the seams to the compartment in the wall behind which Alexander kept his collection of firearms, as well as the door marked 'Restricted Access' that was to remain permanently locked, except to the four 'children'.

"Come on, see, I have all these margin calls – no, you're the one who's being unreasonable!"

The man needed a cover for his company's real operations, after all. And somewhere along the line, he must have decided he didn't want to put that hard-earned M.B.A. to waste.

"You know what? I don't want to have this conversation anymore." Without further ado, he slammed the handset back onto the phone and rubbed at his temples, grumbling under his breath. "Talk to me, Emma," he ordered.

She walked over to Alexander's desk. It wrapped around the corner of his office in an L-shape, and one of the arms was dedicated to a computer system hooked up to three huge monitors. Their screens displayed a comprehensive tracking program overlooking all the active agents on the field. Tonight there was only one red dot, on a map representing Scotland. "Sir, I think I might… have some new developments to report, that is, in regards to Fenrir's X-202-alpha mission."

Alexander frowned, and drummed his fingers on the surface of his desk, staring at the red dot on the screen. "Is he still not responding? It's been, what, two hours since he's last made contact?"

"Oh, he has made contact." The dark-haired man from earlier had slipped into the room without a sound, and Emma jumped. He'd wisely put out his cigarette, and was now toying with a large Bowie knife, twirling it idly with one hand. "In a manner of speaking."

Alexander glared. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Eric is still alive, isn't he?"

"He is, he is, but… he said something about a castle," she stammered. "He said he was going to go in, and I said he should. After all, it was better than having him exposed to open gunfire…"

She trailed off. Alexander's eyebrows knotted, his gaze focusing on the red dot with marked intensity now. It still hadn't moved. "What the hell are you talking about? There's no fucking castle there… I specifically instructed my scouts to go over that whole area – "

"They must have overlooked it then. They were just ruins anyway, from what he said." The dark-haired man shrugged his shoulders, and sped up the twirling of his knife.

Emma edged away from him, eyeing the whirling blur of the blade warily. She chose her next words very carefully. "Fenrir also mentioned… that he'd found a young lady in the ruins. A civilian."

A tense beat passed.

"And?"

By the time Emma had told Alexander the rest of the story, he was cursing colorfully to high heavens.

"Get me a phone," he barked. "Bradley, stay here. You're on standby in case I need you."

The assassin tossed the knife one last time into the air. Catching it expertly by the hilt, he saluted once, before walking out of the office.

"Fine. But I need a smoke."