[ WP ] A medieval prince is also the serial killer his father , the King , is looking for .

Some would not have had believe it, but here he was, in the middle of night, under a heavy dark grey cloak, skulking about in the dark streets of Acheros. Most people had seem to forgot that he was an outstanding warrior before duty bound him to the confines of courtroom and banquet hall. Strange, that, since everyone knew how it was a tradition that every male children of the King must serve in the military before they are deemed worthy to be named a Prince of the Realm. 
 
 Granted, to some kings it was little more than formality, that their sons were above such menial task of soldiering. Thus their'service' in the military usually comprised of a couple of months learning to ride with the 1st Cavalry, which was little more than a gentleman's club for the nobles and their heirs, that were more interested in looking good in their gold-and-silver gilded armors than to learn the actual art of war. But King Stephan, fortunately, had not been such a monarch. A great general himself, he had demanded his sons to be well versed and well acquainted in the business of warfare, for he had believed the subjects they would command into battle deserve no less. And thus, one prince-to-be teenager named Caleb had found himself under the tutelage of some of the fiercest warriors of the realm. One of those warriors had been an arms master in the Order of Black Dagger, one arm of the King's Army which produced its finest scouts and spies, which gave Caleb the shady skills he needed for the purpose of this midnight excursion. 
 
 A clatter drew his attention, and he saw a flash of dark red crossing the streets a couple of dozens yards from where he perched himself, on a rooftop of an old tavern. His sharp eye recognized the common attire of a street prostitute working for one of the big mistresses. The hunt is on. 
 
 He followed the street prostitute silently, leaping from rooftop to rooftop with cat-like grace, his eyes and ears sharp and alert. A couple of time he had to circle a little wherever he found lights from some of the higher buildings lit his path, but he never lost his target. After what seemed like forever, the prostitute turned into a quieter part of the city. 
 
 Almost! He thought. Unless she broke her habit, this particular prostitute would take a a short cut through an alleyway, fifty yards ahead. She knew it was safe, it had always been safe. It was a part of the city under the control of her mistress, where common criminals might try to find a victim only at their own peril. But there would not be a common crime here tonight. 
 
 There! His target turned into the alleyway. He let his target disappear around the corner before he dropped down lightly to the street below, helped by a dead lamp pole. He then hurriedly follow his target into the alley, always staying in the shadow. 
 
 It was a rather long back alley, with a couple of turns which would leave a stretch of the alley invisible from both its ends. A perfect scene of a crime. And the prostitute just turned into it. 
 
 She sensed something, apparently, for halfway through it she hesitated. Her steps faltered while she kept looking back, then quicken and a moment later turned into a run. She had seen her predator. 
 
 Caleb drew his dagger and broke into a run. His soft soles a mere whisper against the clacking of shoes on the cobblestone. He lined up his aim and threw the dagger as the prostitute almost cleared the corner. His target staggered and fell as his dagger bit deep into the calf. Caleb slowed down his pace and approach with another drawn dagger. His target, not acknowledging defeat tried to get up and drew a hunter's dagger, only to drop it as a stiletto licked the back of his hand and then moved to rest its sharp point on his neck, forcing him to settle back. The prostitute who wielded it smiled coldly to the dark figure lying at her feet. Without taking her eyes off the defeated murderer, she nodded acknowledgement to Caleb. 
 
 `` Your majesty,'' she said with a melodious high accent that seemed strange coming out of the mouth of a street whore, but perfectly natural coming from Lady Amelitha of Castoral, one of the best spies in the realm, and a young protege of King Caleb of Achernum, once Blademaster Caleb of the Black Dagger. 
 
 Caleb nodded. `` Good work, child,'' he said warmly. `` Now, let's see who this murderous bastard is,'' he continued, a little less warmly. Amelitha nodded, kicked the Butcher of Atheros squarely on the stomach, and flipped him belly-down. She manacled the man none to gently and lifted him up to his knee. She then stood in front of the prisoner and yanked the mask covering his face. Suddenly, her cold look turned into that of shock and she staggered backward a couple of step, her face visibly paled in the dim light. Caleb frowned, and asked, `` What is the matter, child?'' 
 
 Amelitha looked back at him, not answering, with eyes that shows horror mingled with.. pity? Caleb, confused and impatient, grabbed the man's shoulder and turned him around, and turned pale himself. 
 
 `` Father...,'' the Butcher of Acheros said, with a voice so familiar and utterly foreign to Caleb's ear. How? How in the world had it come to this? He had known, despite wishing otherwise, that his son was not the best of man. But this? 
 
 Amidst this horror, his mind reeled. He wanted nothing but to run away, and some dark part of him wished he could just set the man in front of him free. He would be a fugitive and forsaken forever, but free, for he knows what justice demands. The public trials, the blood torture the families of the victims would surely demand, the dead man's walk from the prison into the Field of Justice, and finally the drawn-and-quartering. No father would bear to see his child treated so, no matter how evil the child might be. But he was not just a father. And so he must let Justice prevail. And Justice was coming, as even in the turmoil of his mind he could vaguely hear the approaching heavy boots of the city guards, summoned by another of his protege, a third man of this God forsaken operation. 
 
 A father's love. A king's duty. 
 
 Eyes glazed with barely held back tears, he knelt in front of his son, drew him into his embrace. His voice was heavy, as he said his goodbye. `` I'm sorry, child. I love you.'' 
 
 His hands flashed.The dagger glinted briefly under the pale moonlight before it pierced the heart with the ease of practice.
