The clang of steel on steel echoed through the halls of the Babylonian palace. Shafts of moonlight pierced the high, vaulted windows, illuminating sprawling murals of conquests and deities. Cassara moved swiftly, her vermilion combat robe flowing like liquid fire behind her. The air was thick with tension, the kind that crackles before a storm. Blood already stained her dagger, the heavy ruby in its hilt catching the faint glow of torchlight.
The guards lay crumpled in her wake, their armor dented, their cries silenced. She paused at the gilded door before her, catching her breath. Her mahogany hair, braided tightly for battle, gleamed like molten bronze under the pale light. Her outfit — though centuries removed from modern fashion — was imbued with the same striking vibrancy. The robe, dyed with rare vermilion pigments, was cinched at the waist with a belt of onyx and gold. Beneath it, hints of midnight black peeked from her tunic and fitted leggings, enhancing the bold color of her outerwear. Across her chest, a sash embroidered with obsidian threads shimmered subtly, depicting the constellations of forgotten gods.
Taking no chances, she pressed her ear to the cool bronze of the double doors. From within, the sound of muttered voices and the soft melody of a lyre teased her senses. One was his voice — the man she had sworn to kill.
Her grip tightened on the dagger, and the memories she had buried clawed their way back. She had knelt before him once, as innocent as the summer rains over the Euphrates. She had trusted his promises of protection, loyalty, and love. But betrayal had come swiftly, as it always does among those whose ambitions are taller than the ziggurats that pierced the heavens. He had cast her family to ruin, her father executed, her mother sold as a slave to faraway lands. Cassara had escaped the massacre in nothing but her underdress, her tears leaving streaks of dirt on her once-rosy cheeks as she fled into the wilderness.
She clenched her jaw and shoved those memories down deep. Now was not the time for reminiscing. Time had transformed her from a scared girl of sixteen into the deadly specter she was tonight. Six years of training among the shadow warriors in the Assyrian foothills had shaped her body into a weapon, her mind into a steel trap. Revenge had driven her every move, and tonight, it would finally come to completion.
With a swift kick, she splintered the gilded door, its metallic hinges groaning in protest as it crashed inward. The opulent chamber silenced at her entrance. Gold glinted everywhere — from the lyre in the corner to the goblet in the betrayer’s hand. King Asharku sat lounging on a throne carved from alabaster, his jet-black beard immaculately oiled, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the figure before him.
“Cassara?” His voice carried disbelief, tinged with the faintest trace of fear.
“You remember my name,” she said with venom, stepping forward. Each movement was deliberate, predatory. Her robes whispered against the marble floor. “I thought you’d forgotten, considering how easily you destroyed my family.”
He smirked, setting the goblet down. “Your father was a fool who dabbled in treason. You should thank me for sparing your life.”
The heat of rage surged through her limbs, but she stayed controlled. “You didn’t spare my life. You delayed your death.”
A flick of her wrist, and the dagger glinted menacingly in her hand. The guards around Asharku sprang to action, drawing their swords. Cassara leapt forward, a phoenix in crimson, her movements too fast to follow. The first guard fell before he had fully unsheathed his blade, his throat painted in a dark arc of red. The second swung wildly, but Cassara ducked low, sweeping his legs out from under him before driving her dagger into his chest. She rose, the robe swirling around her like fire engulfing its prey.
Within moments, the guards lay lifeless. Asharku rose from his throne, slow and deliberate, his gaze assessing her. “You always did underestimate me,” she said breathlessly, her voice tinged with bitter triumph.
“Perhaps I did,” he admitted, moving toward a jewel-encrusted sword mounted on the wall. “But you underestimate me now.”
“Asharku,” she spat, her voice rising. “The ancestors in the stars demand justice.” She lunged, and the blade in his hands barely met hers in time. Sparks flew, the clash reverberating through the chamber. They circled each other, predator and prey, though it was difficult to see who was which. Sweat beaded on her brow, trickling against skin that still bore the softness of youth, though her movements were sharp and unrelenting. Her strikes were precise, her rage-controlled ferocity driven by years of honing her skills.
Finally, with a feint and a pivot, Cassara found her opening. Her dagger buried itself in Asharku’s abdomen, his lips parting in a stunned gasp. She pressed closer, whispering as his knees buckled, “For my family. For everything you destroyed.”
He fell, his lifeblood staining the gleaming marble floor. Cassara stood over him, chest heaving, her robe catching the light of flickering torches. But as the king’s life faded, the weight of what she had longed for felt heavier than she anticipated. The room was silent now, save for her steady breaths and the faint crackle of flames in the distant hearth.
Cassara turned, her crimson-clad figure disappearing into the shadows, the vengeance that had once fueled her steps now mingling with the faint traces of a hollow kind of victory. The echoes of her journey lingered behind her as she disappeared into the Babylonian night — a lone figure draped in red, a ghost of her own making.
The story had ended for one villain. But for Cassara, the journey had only begun.
The Source…check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Vermilion Blazer with Black Camisole and Pencil Skirt: Bold Urban Chic Style Inspired by Contemporary Elegance
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