The roads were paved with ice and fresh snow, biting to the very touch. The few lamps that lit the way shone an eerily golden light, casting unearthly shadows upon the ground. The sun had fallen not too long ago, but already, the moon and stars had begun to dominate the sky, replacing the bright rays of the day with what seemed a more sinister hour. The good townspeople were asleep, tucked tightly into their beds, in hope that their dreams and wishes would not fall out.
He crept silently, his movements blended into his surroundings. The lumbering shadows of the great trees masked his darkly clad body. His boots stepped softly in the snow, each footprint buried under the pure, clean snow falling from the clouds overhead. The sharp knife he carried glinted under the moonlight for a second- not more. His craft was a quiet one, careful and calculating. The art was not for the weak or inadequate. It was for the bold, for those who made their own choices. It was for those who were lost, for those willing to defy virtue.
He was one of them.
The woman lay under her shields of warmth and comfort, unaware of the man watching from the front of the room. Her breaths were even, her chest rising up and down in a rhythmic fashion. As the blade met skin, he breathed in anticipation. There was nothing to it, simply force and will. It was quick, a fleeting moment. Not a scream, not even a cry pierced the air. As the blood continued to stain his arms, he gave a faint smile, and the night went on.