The Descent

From high atop his perch, sixteen year old Veneni Sitis surveyed the dismal scene with morbid curiosity. Below him, a large procession of black-clad figures were slowly making their way down the long, winding path leading from the private boarding school that served as his reclusive home to the distant streets covering the Mistralian mountainside. The wrought iron fence that circled the institution was like the bars of a prison cell, designed to keep its occupants in just as much as it was meant to keep malicious commoners out.



His fellow schoolmates – or cellmates, depending on his mood – appeared to be in a dour state, and he thought he understood why. One amongst them had been discovered the other day, face down in a ditch with their throat slit in Mistral’s crowded slums, far away from the safety of their school. A distressing situation, he presumed, made worse with the knowledge that this was likely only the first of many. The unfortunate was amongst several to have gone missing in recent months.



He knew should be down there with his peers, mourning the loss of a fellow classmate. Veneni had known the boy well, after all. May have even considered him a friend. Unfortunately, the Autumn afternoon had been particularly cold today, so he had made an excuse to skip the service. The only reason he was standing out here, atop the school roof with its unpleasant, biting winds, was so that he could see how many people actually turned up to the boy’s funeral procession. Everybody, it appeared.



Or not quite everybody,  Veneni thought as the sound of a rusty-hinged door opening behind him notified the presence of another. He hoped it wasn’t a teacher, otherwise he might have some explaining to do. Instinctively, he brushed a single misaligned hair above his eye back into position.



 Straightening the tie that completed his dark green suit, Veneni turned to confront the newcomer, already thinking up a myriad of excuses for why he was loitering in a forbidden area during the procession. He needn’t have bothered, however, for instead of a disapproving teacher he found himself face-to-face with a teenager around his age, studying him like a lab mouse with cold, inquisitive eyes. Immediately, Veneni’s neutral mood began to sour.



Standing before him was like the antithesis of his own being. Where Veneni was perfectly prim and proper with his faultless uniform, the boy opposite was clad in the school’s bare minimum, with scuffed dress shoes, dusty black trousers, an untucked white shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a short, loosened tie. Everything about the boy made Veneni want to hate him. Especially the way he appeared to be measuring him up, the same way a gambler examined a horse before the grand derby.



“Can I help you with something?” Veneni asked in a polite but firm voice. He recognised the boy – a visiting student, apparently looking to transfer. No doubt another rich kid with parents who couldn’t be bothered to deal with him. There was no shortage of those types here.



The question seemed to snap the newcomer out of his thoughts, and he smiled.



<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Oh, nothing,” he said in a silvery voice, stepping out of the doorway towards him. “Pleasure to meet you, Veneni,” he greeted, extending a hand with an air of daunting formality Veneni had not expected. After a moment of well-concealed hesitation he shook the boy’s hand, noting the unnatural strength he felt in his grip.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“You know me?” Veneni asked uncertainly, watching the boy as he released his hand and strolled over to the rooftop railing where Veneni had been standing.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Sure do,” the stranger told him. “Veneni Sitis. Third Year. Prefect. Captain of the tennis team, and founder of the gardening society, if I recall correctly...” He flashed his companion a sparkly grin at the sight of his surprised expression. “Don’t worry...the principal told me during the tour. I’m not a spy. Promise.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Such a shame, isn’t it?” he continued, looking down at the retreating figures below whilst leaning against the railing. “Six disappearances in two months…”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Yes, I suppose it is,” Veneni replied coolly, not liking the newcomer’s extensive knowledge of the school’s situation or his personal profile. Slowly, the raggedy teen turned his gaze towards him.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Not going to correct me?” he asked, the question catching Veneni off guard.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Correct you on what?” he said with annoyed confusion, before realising the mistake he had made. From the new smile that suddenly appeared on his companion’s face, he knew the stranger had picked up on it too.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“I said six people disappeared, but only five disappearances have been reported. I’d have thought the school prefect would know that.”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Veneni froze at the boy’s words. He’d made a stupid mistake, not paying attention...

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“I must’ve misheard you,” he replied briskly, turning away as he began his retreat towards the rooftop exit. Over his shoulder, he heard the stranger continue.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Why aren’t you at the guy’s service? Your classmates told me you were good friends.”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Veneni paused momentarily in his tracks. He knew it would be wise to simply disregard this outsider and be on his way, but something about his questioning was too alarming to let go. There was a motive behind it – not quite sinister, but not quite pleasant either.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Funerals make me nauseous,” he told him dismissively. Behind him, he heard the teen step away from the railing.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Pretty tight security here too,” he commented, his voice morphing from inquisitive to factual. “Hard to believe it’s a kidnapper’s handiwork. If I had to guess, I’d say the students followed their killer voluntarily.” He took a grounded stance in the middle of the rooftop, as if readying himself for something. “Must have been somebody they trusted.”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Veneni came to a halt just before the doorway leading down into the bowels of the school, just as the stranger’s main question hit him.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“They’re all dead, aren’t they?”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">There it was – the moment Veneni had been waiting for. The gig was up, and with it, any reason to continue pretending otherwise. With a small sigh, mixed with irritation and relief, the immaculate prefect closed the rusty rooftop door and, taking a key out of the pocket of his blazer, locked it tight.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“You’re not the first to have figured it out,” he muttered under his breath, making sure the door was firmly shut before turning to face his interrogator. “My ‘friend’ down there did too, unfortunately for him.”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“So you admit it? You killed your schoolmates? Why?” the stranger asked. His voice carried no hint of fear or disgust. If anything, he seemed curious. Maybe even a tad impressed.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">In response to his question, Veneni merely shrugged indifferently. “My brother said I was too emotionless. Said I needed to express  myself more. Well, here I am, expressing myself.”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“ By killing people?” the inquisitive boy said, pale-blue eyes narrowing. “Ever think about getting a hobby ? Art, maybe? ”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left"> V eneni shook his head, growing annoyed with the interloper ’s lack of understanding. “ This isn’t art, this is a means to an end! They were a cancer on the school, so I cut them out. And let me tell you...” He ran his hands through his well-combed hair, leaving a mess of wavy green locks in their wake. Slowly, he began to walk towards the boy, h is thin line of a mouth widen ing into a horrific grin. “ Killing them… was very  satisfying! ”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Veneni’s pace quickened as he approached, his target immediately beginning backing away in response – his reluctance only making the smiling killer’s amusement grow.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“I like to relish this moment,” Veneni told him, a sliver of silver appearing in his hand. “I like to take my time.” He began slowly twirling his knife, displaying how brightly the pale blade seemed to glow, almost as if the fractured moon’s light had been infused with the metal at the time of its forging. “But I think I’ll take your advice. What kind of art do you want to be?”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Suddenly, Veneni was lunging forward, razor flashing through the air. A loud tearing sound could be heard as the blade sliced a long cut down the boy’s shirt, opening it from shoulder to hip. Grimacing, he danced away before Veneni’s second swipe could open his jugular.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Anything besides abstract,” the stranger quipped, before ducking as Veneni’s knife cut through the air above him.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“I don’t know...” Veneni replied, reaching down to clamp a hand around his victim’s throat, raising him until their eyes were level. He grinned as he matched the boy’s surprised gaze with one of unsuppressed wickedness. “I was thinking splatter painting would be more appropriate.”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Raising his opponent into the air, Veneni turned and carried him over to the roof’s edge, easily hoisting him over the low barrier that attempted to prevent such an act. Smiling in anticipation, Veneni watched his victim’s legs dangle in empty space – his grip the only thing keeping the boy from plummeting five stories to the ground.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“So… you’re gonna… kill me…?” the stranger managed to cough, struggling to speak with a hand around his throat. “… make it… look like a… suicide…?”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Not my preferred method, but I’m improvising,” Veneni replied, pocketing his razor now that it had served its purpose. For a moment, his smile melt into a frown. “You brought this on yourself, you know. I don’t appreciate strangers getting in the way of my work.”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">The boy’s eyes widened slightly at Veneni’s words; his mouth silent and unmoving in the seconds where his life balanced upon the knife’s edge between life and death. Then, slowly, he inclined his head in a small nod.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Oh...OK...” the stranger told Veneni in a flat voice, earning a confused look from the corrupted prefect, before his wrist suddenly exploded in agony. Gasping, Veneni instinctively released his grip as he felt the bones in his forearm crack beneath the boy’s fingers. As Veneni was yanked against the railing by his target’s weight, the white-haired teen used his attempted killer’s arm as a rope to hoist himself back up – vaulting the crude metal barrier with a gymnast's grace. Whirling around, the boy slapped the knife out of Veneni’s hand as he moved to draw it and sent the murderer crashing to the ground with a short, powerful punch to the face.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Cursing in a pain-fuelled rage, Veneni could only clutch his fractured arm as his opponent stood over him – seemingly content to allow his would-be killer to writhe in the pain he had already inflicted. As soon as his blurred vision returned to him, Veneni looked up at the boy with glare of vengeance and hatred.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“What do you want from me?!” he roared, hissing as the movement brought fresh waves of sharp pain. For the longest while the stranger just looked at him, expression unreadable. Finally, he took a deep breath and turned his gaze eastward.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Look at this,” he said with a wave of his hand, and despite himself Veneni looked. In the distance, far below the hilltop academy, lay a sprawling network of city streets nestled comfortably around the mountain’s base. At first it appeared peaceful – picturesque, almost, as the rising sun’s light spilt over the jagged horizon. But as Veneni looked further afield he began to make out the countless dark, winding alleyways and twisted, degenerative thoroughfares that made up Mistral’s crueller, more ominous districts. The ones that gave the city its shameful reputation.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“I had heard that, before the Great War, this was once a great city. A gleaming beacon of humanity’s success – the centre of art and culture in our world.”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">The young man shook his head, almost in grief, as he leant against the wrought iron fence, fingers curling around the cold, sturdy metal. When he raised his head against, he grimaced. “Now look at it.”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Veneni didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know why, but even after the strength returned to his legs, and the pain started to retreat from his burning wrist, he remained seated beside the stranger. Eventually, his companion continued.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“What do I want?” he asked in a cold voice. “I would like to see Mistral restored to its former glory. I would like to see towers and temples of gleaming white. I would like to see children making school runs, not begging and starving in the streets! I would like to see every alley of every street, every suburb of every district in this besotted, miserable city turned to the service and the well-being of our people!”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">The stranger’s voice raised in volume as he spoke, and Veneni noticed the layered metal beneath the boy’s fingers begin to groan and warp under some indescribable pressure. He was so fixated by the strange sight before him that he was surprised when the perpetrator started speaking again, this time with a somewhat calmer, more controlled tone.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“But to see my dreams fulfilled, first I must cleanse this city of these damnable mafias and mercenaries and politicians and… and tyrants.” 

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">The stranger suddenly whirled around. Though his voice was measured, his eyes were wild.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“And to do that, I need people willing to get their hands dirty. People who are capable of doing whatever it takes to expunge this filth from our doorstep. Too long have I suffered under the hands of the corrupt and the incompetent. Too long have I sat idly by, waiting for a hero to save us from this wretched system! It’s time I took matters into my own hands.”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">As if a demon had taken hold of the previously well-composed teenager, he marched over to where Veneni’s razor had fallen and scooped it off of the ground. Immediately, Veneni tried to rise, but a new bout of pain and dizziness suddenly sapped him of his strength and he collapsed back to the ground.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“So tell me, Veneni. Is it possible for one man to stand against the wave of corruption that had engulfed us? To save us from the inevitable fate that awaits people like us? Or will I be like a lamb to the slaughter?”

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">With slow, terrible strides, the zealot towered over Veneni’s crippled figure, holding his grandfather’s prized razor in a white-knuckled grip. For the briefest moment, a cold fist clamped hard around the killer’s blackened heart. A strange, foreign emotion he had never before experienced.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 100%;" align="left">No, that’s not quite right,  Veneni thought distantly. There are two here.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Fear. That was the first. Pure, unbridled terror. Not at the prospect of his death – to that, he had little attachment. No… it was to the mere concept of his existence – the idea of every crime he had committed here – being so small and insignificant to the world around him. Every tragedy he inflicted was momentary. Every emotion, fleeting.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Pointless.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">But here, he saw something new. Something memorable. Something the school that served as his personal playground could never compare to. Mistral – a menagerie of countless tiny lives, all milling about, waiting for his harvest. And it would be in that time of reaping that he would finally find himself. Who he truly was.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“I’ve prepared myself for this fight, Veneni,” the killer could hear the stranger say, drawing his consciousness back from his musings to the harsh reality around him. He found the boy kneeling in front of him – the point of his silver knife hovering over Veneni’s heart. His pale eyes were as cold as ice in that moment, but as Veneni stared into them he saw them begin to thaw into something… human.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“But I don’t want to do it alone,” he finished in a low voice, and suddenly the handle of Veneni’s knife was being pressed into his hand by the stranger. Taken aback, he began turning the blade over and over again, slowly realising what that other emotion had been.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Admiration.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">Smiling to himself at the revelation and contemplating everything he longed to experience, Veneni stopped playing with his knife and returned it to its sheath beneath his sleeve. Pain still radiated from his fractured wrist, but for now at least it felt dull and distant.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Alright then,” he finally agreed, raising his uninjured arm. With a firm grip, the stranger pulled the fallen prefect to his feet and nodded his appreciation. Dusting off his uniform as best he could, Veneni finally decided to ask the question that had been bothering him since this whole ordeal began.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“So… you mind telling me your name?” he enquired wearily.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">In response to the young man’s words, the stranger laughed. Flicking back strands of black-dyed hair that fell over his pale blue eyes, he looked at Veneni will a bemused expression.

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<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; font-style: normal; line-height: 100%;" align="left">“Oh, where are my manners? The name’s Decadere Diaboli,” the aspiring crime lord told him with a wide, shining smile. “But you can call be Decade.”

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