The blackest nights breed the darkest deeds.  And the darkest deeds require the most shadowed hearts.  These were the words foremost on the mind of the one who clung spider-like upon the wall of the great city.

For indeed the night was black.  The twin moons’ silver and golden bows, and the stars’ fiery pinpoints, hidden behind ocher clouds that threatened the city with such a storm as its eldest of eldest had never seen.  The keen eyes of the shadow-clad being were rumored to pierce the most pitch of lightless planes, yet even it was forced to strain its sight this night.

A pleasant omen.

With less effort than a child might show at lifting a feather, the figure continued its high climb.  There was sparse need for speed, young as the night were, yet swift it rose upon the weathered stone blocks, till at last it found itself peering with great caution over the beaten and gray stones.  The hidden one listened against the gently wind, and was rewarded for its caution.

The wall had many guards, and as one of them stepped lightly from the nearby shelter house, the climber was forced to give a grudging respect to the People of the Heights.  Armored and armed well, the man who strode softly past the one’s hidden handholds made little noise as to rival the most skilled of the Forest Walkers in full hunt.

And though respect is armor not against the blade of the Shadow Hearted, necessity is.  Killing the man would rouse suspicion, and many hours should past between now and the completion of the hider’s task.  Thus was the man spared from the fate he would not see, hear, smell, or touch.

Springing over the low barrier to the well-trod granite of the walk, the shadow effortless showed itself the superior of the People of the Heights and the Forest Walkers, moving without haste or whisper of sound to slide over the wall opposite its entry.  Clinging there, its supple gloves of Arachnid’s Leave and hooked barbs of Nightsteel granting it perfect purchase on the chilled, lifeless stones.  In scarcely the time it takes a Flametouched One to tame iron, the stalker found its feet touching feathered grass.  It turned, and beheld the city.

Many names this great city held, many names through many lands and tongues.  But to its people, it had one name: Atlai Aram, the Exalted Height.  For it was from the highest of heights that the People sprang forth, in the ancient days long lost to lore and legend.  The true Aram rose, dagger-like, at the farthest reaches of the seeker’s vision, unadorned yet formed of natural marble that--even in this darkest of nights--shone.  Before its radiance, the city seemed dull, its lamps merest embers escaped from the greater fire.

The hider pulled its tightly hanging cloak off in one motion.  Gray it was, as the stone of the walls that rose behind the night-walker.  And yet in instants it lay wrapped about the tall shoulders of the stalker, black as the night above, and dull as to trap all light unfortunate enough to find it.  Satisfied, the shadow one strode on.

Across the great, green expanse between the wall and the city it passed, silent and unseen.  No footprints it left, the grass unbroken beneath its whispering feet.  Thus had it been taught to walk.  Thus it did, till at last it stood beneath the eaves of the first of buildings.  And waited.

Long was its wait, for the other hider knew it was there.  But for good reason had this task been assigned this bearer.  For not even another Shadow Hearted could stand before it in skill.  And as the darkened figure stole from its arch, the watcher smiled grimly and let loose the Waves of its Senka.  The other had only a fraction of warning before it was struck and caught.  Flailing purposefully, it loosed its own Itzal upon the striker’s Wave, yet it failed, and shortly did the struggles stop.  Only then did the hunter leave its watchful location, and enter the city proper.

Wary from its encounter with another if its kind, the stalker took to the rooftops, glancing to the sky briefly to judge the hope of the clouds staying.  Onward ran the figure, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, with nary a sound made from its passing.  In this way did half the great city flow beneath its slippered feet.

Crouching low beside the darkened brick of a smokeless chimney, the hunter felt the breath of its enemy’s Senka long before the actual Wave.  It dropped over the edge, evading the strike with ease and concealed itself within the wrappings of its Senka.  But it knew it could not afford such a wait as the other had given.  Time was deceptive in the darkest night, and daybreak could not find the stalker within the city.  And thus does risk be made.

With speed born of the wind, the shadow moved through the alleyways.  Through twists and turns, over obstacles living and unliving, it moved.  Reaching a wide square, the hunted became the hunter, striking swift as a biting snake with its Senka for the waiting one across the way.  The counter Wave scattered the stalker’s Senka and tore the hood from its head, letting her black hair stream in the sudden wind.  Her delicately aged face exposed to the night air, the woman dashed to close the distance between her and the other, who struck again with its own Senka.  Brushing the deadly touch aside with her Wave, the woman thrust up, a stiletto forming in her hand and into the chest of her enemy.  The woman allowed the other to drop as the stiletto faded away, then continued on.

Little time found the woman again clinging to walls of stone.  Up the house she strove with some effort, the Waves of her Senka beginning their wear.  At last, she hung beside a small window, and inwards peered.  For there--sleeping innocent--was he whom she had come for.

He was young, having seen perhaps five summers, with a head of dark hair and eyes that were closed in peaceful sleep.  Foretold was his reign, on the lips and tongues of the Wind Whispers, who’s Breath all the lands listened for.  Had he been awake, those eyes would the world see through crystal blue glass.

Yet he did not wake, not as the woman silently through the window stole.  Nor did he wake as she stood beside.  While the shadow stiletto formed in her hand, his breathing was easy, his rest untroubled.  And as the blade found the boy’s heart, so did a tear his cheek.

For there is, as they say, no darker deed than for a mother to slay her own child.