The enchanted wings carried the assassin atop the tower to the High Priest’s chambers. He climbed in through the stone window and saw the High Priest Fathion, leader of the followers of Malakai, asleep, wrapped in white linens and golden silk. Pathetic, thought the Warlock. The Asyrans preach of meekness and humility, but their leaders sleep the sleep of the wealthy all the same.
It was night and a priest of this high order would have the Victorian Guard outside his door. Better to do the deed somewhere else. He muttered a spell under his breath and a flash of blue engulfed them both. They teleported to a much smaller room, enclosed – a tavern in town. Downstairs, the music and patrons were loud. No one would hear them.
The High Priest fell out of the air and yelped, but the Warlock was already upon him. Even the most powerful mage, unequipped, un-enchanted, unprotected, was easy prey. The Warlock recited quickly and the room filled with burning light. The light condensed into a beam and struck the High Priest several times in the chest. The High Priest screamed and spat out a spell of his own, but the ray bounced off of the Warlock, rebounded through the air, and struck the High Priest again.
“I came prepared,” the Warlock spoke, and then thrust three more pillars of light down on the priest. The holy man was dead.
The Warlock teleported back to the High Priest’s room with the body. He laid the burnt corpse upon the sheets. To use only Holy spells had cost him significantly, but the illusion would work. He took a Staff of Asyra, stolen and kept secret for these last five years, and dropped it to the ground. Then he hit the priest one more time with a blast of light to alert the guards, brought back his enchanted wings, and jumped out the window.