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[NOT Malorn]

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“Kill her.” Out rung Cear’s voice in a flat, unmoved tone. A smirk crossed Malorn’s lips, playing there for a moment until he delivered his response.

“It is already done.”

…

He walked quickly along the roads of Sanctus, keeping to the forest, just barely out of sight. Travelers passed, and animals evaded, as he stepped coolly through the underbrush.

Arriving in Sanctus, he removed a robe from his pack. Into it, he slipped, making his way from the foliage, and cover. Darting down an ally, four familiar figures came into view. The Umbrans quickly departed, leaving him unobstructed. Quickly he poured his new poison over the weapon, and spread the coating equally. The last point of business, would simply be to walk through the doorjamb, up the stairs.

It was all too perfect, every piece in the rightful position. He made sure all were on the roof… She was alone, and grieved to the point of shock. Quietly stepping up behind her, he pulled his carefully concealed dagger from his robes. The moment had come, as he tightened his grip about the blade. He was ready to strike.

A noise itched his ear, as the stairs echoed with footfalls. Quickly, he tucked his dagger away and looked to the disturbance. Every bone in his body quaked with frustration; and hope, that it would not be the King. He ceased his senseless shivering as a weak-looking man in a jester’s jacket stepped through the doorway.

The Queen, in that instant, turned about. He looked to her with an awkward attempt at condolence, before glancing once more to the man. The jester's attention was averted.

Malorn shifted his staff, and in the same instance drew his dagger. He fell it into her stomach, carefully, placing a non-lethal blow. Striking her on the head with the pommel, he turned towards the man.

“Murderer!” His voice echoed through the house.

Malorn hesitated, the thought of ending the jester crossing his mind.

Instead, his mark in a pool, he sheathed his dagger and ran from the building before any upstairs could respond.

He ducked into the caves and shed his robe. The poison and blood was wiped clean of his weapon and sheath, before he donned his new outfit.

…

It went off without a hitch. He began along the road, the long trek towards Umbra.

Slinking into the shadows, a thought was conceived. The fruits of his labor were realized.

“By morn, I’ll be ne'er a distant memory."