Valthor snapped awake in the darkness of his stone-walled room in the undercrypts of his father's mansion, and yanked the hidden dagger from the headboard of his bed. He slid out from under the covers, set his feet silently on the floor, and glided around the bed, placing himself beside the doorway to his study. He waited there, watching and listening, knowing that someone was in the room beyond.
After a moment he slipped through the door. His study was just as he'd left it, but there was a figure just inside the outer door, white-haired and robed. Mabda? Yes, almost certainly. He slipped up behind the wizard, who was doing her best to remain silent, then stabbed her in the kidney and twisted. She gasped, and he yanked open the door.
Fire scorched him, but then of course it would; Mabda's reaction to injury was a reflex so well-honed that it bordered on a natural law. He shoved her out into the hall, heedless of having been burned. A low growl sounded, built, filled the corridor outside. Mabda had raised her hand to punish Valthor, but she flinched away from that sound and turned to face its source.
Valthor swung the door shut, latched it, and then slid the bar into place. On the far side of the door, the growling grew louder and then the screaming began. Valthor shook his head and went back into his bedroom, wiping the dagger's blade with a cloth and then oiling it again. Then he placed it back in his headboard, crawled back under the covers, and slept.
Night would come again all too soon, and he'd need to be rested. And sleep was restorative; it would help heal his burns, as well as restore his energy and his strength.
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