Coming From the Shadows Series
Coming From the Shadows: Lydia
Peace Shattered
October 15th, 1905
London, Victoria
The fog hung thick and heavy, clinging to the street lamps like a damp shroud; it was a night for secrets and shadows – Samuel Forbes, a man consumed by a fanatical devotion, moved through the streets with a grim purpose; his patience had warned out – he and the Cult of the Hydra had warned the Imperium’s council for far too long about George’s lack of action regarding Cathryn Langdon, his inaction causing so much difficulty as Cathryn continued to work and interfere with the Imperium’s actions and activities – he was done now, they would deal with Cathryn themselves.
As they prepared themselves, Samuel heard a movement – a man he recognised came from the shadows, this was not just some random individual, he was a Cultists, or rather; he represented the Imperium’s council itself; Verne.
At first, Samuel believed Verne was here to stop him; only to end up having his support, he knew that the Imperium was now giving him permission to carry out his intention, regardless of George Smythe.
Once Verne turned to leave; Samuel gestured to make the move; the attack was swift, brutal; they smashed down the front door, their actions led by an almost religious fervour with a violent intent.
Forbes, a hulking figure wearing a dark cloak located Cathryn as she and her daughter turned to face him; then it clicked in place; her ‘daughter’ was right there, he wasn’t just attacking Cathryn that night – the small girl of Fifteen Years of age stared at him – he stared at her, he knew who Lydia was, he had seen her before; George’s daughter, he felt a cold shiver as he stared.
As his blood ran cold at the sight of Lydia; he knew he couldn’t stop now; the conflicting emotion was pushed aside; he made the move, he went first for Lydia, not Cathryn; the knife came out “I’ll start w-…”
He never managed to finish.
A whirlwind of motion erupted from beside Lydia; Cathryn, who had seemed so composed moments before, merely confused; now, she transformed into a force of nature – the years of training, of honing her body; all of that discipline was unleashed into a blinding fury – there was no hesitation, no fear; only the primal instinct to protect her daughter.
She intercepted Forbes with brutal efficiency; a lightning-fast kick slammed into his chest, it drove the air from his lungs, before he could recover – she was on him, a flurry of strikes that were precise, powerful and impossibly fast.
He stumbled back, tried raising his knife; but Cathryn disarmed him with a sharp twist – the weapon clattered pitifully to the wooden floor.
He soon found himself on the ground; pinned beneath her, her face, usually serene and composed; now a mask of barely controlled rage, he saw no mercy in her eyes, only a cold, unwavering determination “You will not touch my daughter” she hissed, her voice low and dangerous
Then, she struck; a series of calculated blows, each aimed at a pressure point, each designed to inflict the maximum amount of pain without causing immediate death; Forbes screamed, a raw, animalistic sound echoed through the house.
His body spasmed, his senses overloaded – he had faced death countless times, but this, this was different; this level of pain he had never imagined, inflicted by a woman he had underestimated.
Meanwhile in another part of the house a different battle raged.
The Monk as he was simply known; moved with an almost unnatural grace – he was a phantom in the dimly lit hallway, a blur of motion that left the Cultists sprawling on the floor, gasping for air – his movements were economical, precise and almost…, predictive.
He seemed to anticipate their attacks before they even launched them; deflecting blows with effortless ease, countering with blinding speed.
He fought with a calm detachments that bordered on indifference; he didn’t speak, didn’t grunt with exertion; barely even seemed to glance at his opponents – he simply moved, flowed and reacted.
He was a master of his art, honed over years of dedicated practise, a living embodiment of martial perfection.
One of the Cultists; a burly Scotsman came rushing towards him; raising a knife in preparation to land a strike; the Monk simply sidestepped that attack with a fluid motion, his hand darting out to pluck the weapon from the man’s grip.
With the flick of his wrist, he revered the weapon around, using the handle to deliver a precise and devasting blow to the man’s temple; the Cultist crumpled to the ground unconscious.
Another attempted to flee; desperate to escape the relentless onslaught; the Monk intercepted him with a casual grace, blocking his path with his outstretched arm – the Cultist panicked, swung wildly with a knife; the Monk caught his wrist in a vice-like grip, twisted sharply and relieved him of the weapon as it fell to the ground.
The Monk’s fighting style was unnerving, almost unsettling; it wasn’t just his skill – but the way he seemed to anticipate every move, every feint, every desperate attempt to escape.
It was as though he possessed some kind of precognition; some kind of sixth sense – a preternatural awareness.
The remaining Cultists, their bravado just shattered; they began whispering amongst themselves – their fear was palpable “He…, he knows what we’re going to do” one stammered
The Monk, seemingly oblivious to their fear, continued his relentless dance of destruction; he disarmed, disabled and neutralised his opponents with ruthless efficiency, never once breaking a sweat – never once betraying a flicker of emotion.
Finally, as the last Cultist fell; defeated and broken – the hallways fell silent, save the ragged breathing of the fallen, the Monk, stood amidst the carnage, his clothing unruffled, his expression serene – he might as well have been mediating in a peaceful garden rather than engaging in some kind of brutal fight for survival.
Turning, he calmly walked away, his hands moving behind his back; he walked towards the sound of Cathryn’s voice.
He found her kneeling with Lydia, embracing her in a gently hug – her eyes were still blazing with fury “They’re gone” the Monk said, his voice calm and reassuring “For now”
Cathryn nodded, her grip around her daughter holding her close.
“I do suggest that we leave though; we don’t know if there will be more; she isn’t safe if we remain here, I suggest we join Xian in Gibraltar”
Cathryn looked at the Monk carefully; she didn’t want to do that, but this attack – it was most likely just the first of many, Lydia had just escaped her father, now, the Imperium seemed to have followed her, even if Lydia had not been the target, it still followed – she wasn’t risking George coming in search of them, she finally nodded.
They would leave; they would leave to find Xian in Gibraltar.
Written By: Westley H.
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