Chapter Text
Khalid is tired of the attempts on his life.
Half the time, when an assassin tries to pick him off in the dead of night or during one of his many excursions to the palace library, he at least gives them a few chances to kill him. Mostly out of boredom. The other half, he picks them off himself and goes on about his business. After living with assassins trying to kill him for the past twenty-four years, it’s no wonder he has gotten used to saving his own neck. No one else was going to do it for him. It should come as no surprise to him that his numerous siblings are gunning for his neck first.
He almost laughs at the thought; the youngest and the half-breed mongrel… shouldn’t be hard, right? He’s determined to show them he’s a lot harder to kill than the others.
Weaving his way through the palace halls, Khalid decides it might be time to silence some of the doubts about him. If they want to fight dirty, he will show them how he fights. It seems a few well-selected poisons and quiet deaths here and there aren’t enough for them to realize he’s not interested in their half-hearted attempts on his life. He’s not one step behind them, they’re one step behind him.
His feet carry him to the stables, despite his wish to peruse the library again.
(Perhaps that is why he is caught off guard later. He’d deviated from his routine, hoping to spend time with Shahnaz. He hadn’t been to see the wyvern in some time, he felt almost deprived just thinking about how he had neglected the poor beast. Any other time and it would have been fine.)
The white wyvern stares at him curiously, cooing excitedly upon his approach.
Smiling, he pats his wyvern’s nose, fishing around in his pocket for one of the pieces of jerky he’d been saving. “I’ve missed you, too, my friend,” he laughs. “I hope you’ve been behaving yourself.” Shahnaz responds by nudging his hand. “Yes, yes, you can have it. Greedy thing.” He tosses the jerky up, watching as the wyvern snaps it out of the air and shuffles its wings in its happiness. Khalid snorts.
Sighing, he turns and settles down in the hay. Shahnaz snorts and settles in beside him, great head resting close by his side. He appreciates the company his steed brings along with the solitude of being away from other people. But while being in the stables is possibly safer than the library—Shahnaz would sooner massacre the entire palace than let anything happen to Khalid—the Almyran prince knows he comes here more for the chance to avoid potential assassins than the company. After all, Shahnaz is no conversationalist.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there, one leg outstretched while the other is tucked up to his chest. He’s engrossed in a book he snatched on his detour to the library the night before, an entire account of Almyra’s history.
Or… the legends behind it, at least.
There’s far more mysticism than the reality, but he shouldn’t be surprised. A lot of Almyra’s tales are mystical in one way or another. Fódlan’s history is almost as mystical, but with less gods. There is only one goddess in Fódlan, and as far as Khalid is concerned, she was far from benevolent. From what he has heard during his father’s talks with his advisors, Seiros—Archbishop Rhea, as she had come to be known—was no goddess. She was a beast in hiding, using a fake religion to keep humanity under her control. He’s not sure he would have liked her.
But the book is fascinating all the same, which is why he doesn’t realize how late it is until he has finished more than half of it as the light fades. Shahnaz huffs, blinking sleepy red eyes open. Khalid smiles. “Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you awake.” The wyvern coos as he rises and brushes the hay from his clothes. “I’ll come by tomorrow, I promise.” Shahnaz’ eyes narrow almost threateningly. “Hey, I said I promise! I always keep those!” The wyvern snorts, but closes its eyes and makes no move to stop him from leaving. Smiling to himself, Khalid turns and heads out of the stables. He’s tired and hungry.
Did he eat today?
The grumbling of his stomach tells him no.
It is this thought, and the fact he had not stuck to his routine, that have distracted him enough for the assassin lurking in the shadows to jump out at him. He turns with enough time to parry a strike to his back with the knife he keeps on his belt, but he shouldn’t have let the attacker get so close in the first place.
It’s hard to tell which of his siblings this one had been hired by. Esfir, maybe? She would be more than happy to end his life. She’s said so on more than one occasion. Or perhaps it is Bahadur? Feroze would do it himself. Has done it himself more than once. And failed, twice, in both duels.
Whoever it was, Khalid was too distracted to notice and has lost whatever upper hand he would have had. Grimacing, he kicks his assailant in the shin before shoving them back. “And here I was, just trying to get something to eat before bed.” He can’t see his attacker well enough in the low light, and they are sticking to the shadows. He growls under his breath, glancing over his shoulder briefly when he hears steps behind him. He curses. There’s another one… he should have noticed them earlier.
Deciding to chastise himself later, Khalid takes a few steps to the right so he can make sure his back is not turned to them.
He feels like a child again, being caught off-guard like this. How old had he been then? Five? Younger? He shakes the memory away and ducks when the first assassin lunges for him. He drops to the floor completely as the second moves to cut him while he is avoiding the first. “Two on one hardly seems fair.” He rolls onto his back and grabs the first by the ankle; he slides out from under them, dragging the first to the floor as he turns and gets to his feet. “They must be pretty desperate if they’re sending more than one at a time now.”
He might’ve been able to laugh if he hadn’t heard the quiet patter of someone running toward him. Three?! He should have guessed they’d start upping their game like this, but three seems uncharacteristically cheap of them.
Cursing internally, Khalid turns and strikes out at the third assailant while the other two are scrambling to get up. The newest assassin blinks at him, frowning, but parries the blow easily enough. He frowns as he is shoved out of the way, disorienting him enough for the assailant to brush past him and swing the silver sword down on the closest assassin. Khalid stumbles back, frozen in his confusion as he watches the sword-wielding attacker take down the other assassin. He’s not sure if he’s seeing things because of his growing hunger or if what he’s witnessed truly happened. In the dim light, it’s hard to make them out. If they were an assassin, they were wearing the right kind of colors to keep themselves hidden.
Huffing—though clearly not out of breath—the stranger turns to glare at him.
Khalid flinches. He’s not sure what’s scarier; the fact this stranger has just taken down two assassins without breaking a sweat or that they are staring at him as if he’s done something completely foolish. He’s not sure if he’d be able to raise his blade to this person, he’s too impressed.
Something changes in their posture and they rush toward him, taking him by surprise. He raises his knife, but they are grabbing him by the shirt and practically throwing him. It is then that Khalid’s eyes adjust to the situation and he sees the knife plunging out of the darkness.
His eyes widen as he watches helplessly while the knife finds a spot in the stranger’s chest.
(He blames himself for being distracted, for deviating from his routine, for so many things he loses count. Most of all, he blames himself for never asking this stranger’s name.)