Chapter Text
Two assassins are perched above Clavering Boulevard watching as the guardsmen below patrol the streets, on high alert after the highest ranking man in the Abbey was tossed onto the streets. One moment his hand was wrapped around Dunwall’s throat, the next he was cast aside, forgotten. The first to arrive admires his work, taking more than a small amount of satisfaction in branding Campbell, while the ghost of a hot iron still burns on his chest.
The second watches him from several stories up, crouched on top of a chimney, observing. Mystery shrouds him like a thick fog, and Daud won’t be able to rest until he can decipher who this new player is, and what he means for the future of the city. Thoughts of him fill his head, as they have since those words broadcasted throughout Dunwall. Corvo Attano, the assassin and one-time Royal Protector, has escaped from confinement and is at large within the city. Daud felt something akin to relief settle within him, despite the certainty that every breath could be his last. His story had its ending, he could put the pen down now.
Until Burrows hired him, Daud hadn’t given much thought to the Royal Protector. He knew his name, and that he was highly regarded for his swordsmanship, climbing up from nothing to hold one of the most important positions in the empire. Serkonos was often mentioned in overheard conversations, so Daud must have known that they shared a birthplace, somewhere in the back of his mind. And he heard gossip, as did the rest of the city, that he was screwing the Empress.
But it wasn’t until he met his amber eyes, his blade wet with her blood, that he understood anything about Corvo Attano, the man, not the figure that held the position of Royal Protector. A man that Daud was never supposed to meet, to know.
He wrote three lines in his notebook that night, his unwanted realizations about Corvo Attano:
He loved the Empress and you killed her.
Emily Kaldwin is his daughter.
As long as he lives, your days are numbered.
His pen struck through the last line reflexively, and with every repetition, the more frantic his strokes became. The page left jagged edges in his notebook when he ripped it out; crumpled at the bottom of the waste bin, he dropped a match and watched it burn.
Something changed that day, like a cosmic shift in the universe, where the air tasted different on his tongue, the wails of plague victims deafened his ears, the rain fell heavier on his shoulders. Daud was unfamiliar with guilt. He suspected it felt something like this.
He could picture the Outsider draped on a crumbling rock in the void, a cruel smile on his lips.
Movement draws his eye. Corvo transverses from one balcony to another, to the pavement a few paces behind a guard, and within seconds returns to the balcony to lay his unconscious body against the railing. For someone notoriously skilled with a blade, Daud hasn’t seen him use it. He wields it, always at the ready if necessary - but it never is.
Lurk is waiting for him. Another job, another puzzle. He’s late, yet Daud finds himself captivated watching Corvo move through the streets like a reaper, with no corpses in his wake. Six months in Coldridge is enough to break hardened criminals, and here he stands, as if he had been on a beach in Serkonos for six months instead. Daud pulls out his notebook and makes a note about his use of the Void. He tries to remain objective, but he frowns and writes: New recruits have more discipline and control, his range and accuracy have much room for improvement.
He stalks his prey, a lower watch guardsman who whistles as he patrols, oblivious to the threat that follows him.
The bodyguard is focused on the target before him - the angle is wrong, he doesn’t see the officer coming from the alley around the corner. In an instant Daud sees it play out. The officer comes around the corner, sees Corvo with his arms around the guard’s throat, and fires his pistol. Guards come running at the sound. He knows there is only one mark Corvo could be moving in on in this district. The Pendeltons. Last he saw of the Lords Morgan and Custis, they were corralling young lady Emily into their carriage, her screams and cursing muffled when Custis stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth.
If Corvo loses the surprise, they’ll move her.
Seconds later, the world is gray. The dull colors of the city drain away and blood rushes in Daud’s ears as he leaps from the rooftop, sailing into freefall until he has a clear path, and he clenches his fist, transversing to the pavement inches behind the officer. He is frozen in place, as the Knife carves through time itself. The watch officer’s hand is at his hip, fingers outstretched, but not yet touching the pistol. Farther down the street, Corvo and his target are motionless, tangled together, posed like a sculpture in a gallery.
Daud slips a poisoned dart from his belt and stabs it into the officer’s neck. The rush of blood in his ears surges like a wave, ready to crash. He can’t hold it for much longer. He slings the body over his shoulder, and releases his grip on time. Color seeps back into the world. Daud transverses into the alley out of sight and he frowns as he tosses the snoring man into a dumpster; it deepens into a scowl as he returns to his original vantage.
Daud doesn’t dare to think about his actions, he focuses instead on Corvo, watching for signs that he can feel the manipulations of time yet.
Corvo places his target on the balcony with the first, and shows no sign of awareness of his efforts and Daud exhales shakily. He feels a trickle, and reaches his hand up to his nose. Blood stains the leather of his glove.
Daud writes a quick note, Oblivious, and closes his notebook, tucking it in his inside pocket. Lurk will come looking for him if he doesn’t join her soon. He rubs the tension that’s collected at the base of his neck and grimaces at the knot forming there.
This isn’t his game, he shouldn’t get involved while he still has a choice. Daud watches the masked man for a moment longer, digging through the pockets of the guardsmen, and shakes his head. There is real work to be done. He transverses across the rooftops, his toes barely touching the tiles, and heads towards the Legal District.