Maralat had just taken their two children to sleep, and she was now seated across from her husband in a leather seat, reading to herself a book of bread recipes. Peering over the top of the book, she threw a glance at her husband before letting out a sigh. He was sat on his usual bench, rubbing his pointed chin and staring at her; but his stare was blank, vacant and lost in thought, and Maralat knew what, or who, he was thinking about.

“This rivalry will get you killed if you keep it up, my love. The last time was a call too close for my comfort.”

Her words of warning awoke Anemas from his thoughts, bringing a wearied frown to his lips.

“My heart, if I do not bring Turos from his seat, this town will never see freedom again. If I do not act against him, nobody will.”

Maralat sighed again and returned to her book, her eyes skimming pages of ingredients but her troubled mind registering none of them.

“I worry for you, my love. I do not wish to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

Anemas had excused himself from his wife’s presence. He cherished her dearly but now he did not need her worries. She had never supported his feud with Turos, and never would. Anemas entered his children’s bedroom silently keen not to awaken them. Maralat had struggled to get them to sleep that night, as they had been restless and refused to close their eyes. Anemas loved his children greatly; as much as he loved his training. His youngest daughter stirred in the bed, and the paladin lowered his hand to her, stroking her long, blonde hair fondly. She reminded him so much of his wife. His son had inherited Maralat’s eyes and mouth, but his daughter was almost a spitting image of her in her earlier years. There was little doubt, at least in Anemas’ eyes, that his daughter would have no difficulty finding a husband; and Anemas intended to make sure she found a loving, caring man. His ambitions for his son were the same he had for himself; to stay true to the teachings of Torm and to become a powerful fighter, strong and able in times of combat.

Smiling warmly, Anemas left the room, pushing the door to as he did so. Filled now with a sense of peace found from the sight of his sleeping children, the paladin returned to the lower chambers to be with his wife. She needed soothing, he realized. He had not told her how much he cared about her and that she should not worry about his mind and time-consuming problems with Turos.

Entering the living quarters, an odd sight met Anemas’ eyes, causing his hand to move subconsciously for the sword that was not in his belt. Maralat had stood now from her seat, the book she had been reading dropped and forgotten from her hands. Her eyes were locked on him, wide in shock and surprise, and Anemas’ noticed that something had startled her.

“An… An…”

She was trying to say his name, he realized, but he did not understand what had dazed her into this state. The answer became obvious to him however, as he suddenly felt a cold, sharpened blade pressing into his throat. A gasp escaped his lips, but even his agility could not match the speed of the blade as it cut open his throat. Maralat could only watch in horror as her husband of twelve years fell dead before her, his robes quickly becoming no more than blood-soaked cloth clinging to his limp flesh. Even the sound of an awoken baby girl crying from the upstairs chambers did not awaken her from her state of paralyzed terror, her horrified stare ever remaining on the bloodied, twitching form of her husband.

The smile on Di’thang’s lips was cold with the satisfaction of the kill, his dark golden eyes burning intensely into Maralat’s. He stood as still as stone, his dagger dripping paladin blood. A smirk crossed his lips slowly as he flicked the dagger into his sleeve, not bothering to clean it of the thick, red fluid.

“Your daughter has awoken…”

Maralat could not fight the tears, a single drop rolling down each cheek as she raised her damp eyes to look at the moon elf killer… but he was no longer there; taken from the scene by the shadows that had bought him.