The snow fell in slow, deliberate flakes, as if the world itself were trying to hush the night. In the Northern Reach, winter had a way of swallowing sound, muffling footsteps, and masking sins. It was why Ashen, known in underground community as the Silent Knife favored it for work like this.
He crouched atop the ridge overlooking the village of Brimewood, gloved fingers resting lightly on the snow dusted hilt of his curved dagger. Below, scattered lanterns cast trembling halos of gold onto the icy paths. The target lived in the manor at the far end. Baron Aldric Harrington, a petty tyrant with enough enemies to fill a ledger twice over. Ashen didn't care why the contract was issued. Motivation clouded judgment. Judgment got you killed.
He inhaled the frigid air. No smoke from the chimneys. No guards outside the manor walls. Too quiet.
A trap? Maybe. But he'd waded through worse.
Ashen descended the ridge without a sound, boots cutting clean tracks through the untouched snow. The wind picked up, flinging icy grains against his hooded cloak. Good. It would hide him.
Brimewood's narrow streets twisted like frozen veins. Ashen's breath fogged the air, but he moved with the certainty of a shadow given form. The townsfolk were inside, doors barred, windows shuttered. Strange for a settlement that usually welcomed travelers on winter nights.
He reached the manor gate. It hung open.
Ashen's pulse didn't quicken, but a prickle crawled down his spine, a bad feeling. He slipped through, stepping across a trail in the snow boot prints leading in, none leading out.
He followed them to the front doors. They were cracked, swaying in the wind.
Something was wrong.
He drew his dagger and slipped inside.
The entry hall was dim, lit only by the moonlight filtering through narrow windows. The chandelier above had collapsed, crystals scattered across the marble like glinting shards of ice. A streak of blood, thin but unmistakable ran along the floor toward the grand staircase.
Ashen tested the air. No footsteps. No whispers. Only the distant groan of old wood shifting in the cold.
He moved deeper, senses tuned to the slightest disturbance.
Halfway up the stairs, he heard it.
A sound that did not match the others.
A muffled sob.
He turned his head sharply. A door stood ajar at the end of the second-floor landing, warm orange light spilling through. He approached in silence, flattening himself against the wall before nudging the door open with the tip of his blade.
Inside was a lavish bedroom, though now in disarray. Drawers yanked open, sheets torn, curtains shredded. The fireplace still burned low, casting dark shadows across the room.
And in the corner, curled behind an overturned chair, was a child.
A girl. Six, maybe seven. Dark hair tangled, cheeks streaked with tears. She froze when she saw him, eyes wide as moons.
Ashen lowered his blade a fraction. Children complicated things.
"What happened here?" he asked quietly.
She didn't answer at first. She hugged her knees tighter, trembling.
Ashen scanned the room. Signs of a struggle. But not the kind he expected. Baron Thorn was many things, but he hired guards obsessively. There should've been bodies. Resistance. Something.
Instead there was silence.
"What's your name?" he asked.
The girl swallowed. "Lira."
"And where is the Baron?"
Her face twisted. "Gone."
"Taken?"
She shook her head.
"Dead?"
Her lips trembled. A nod.
Ashen exhaled slowly. His contract was fulfilled, though not by him. Someone else had beaten him here.
"Who killed him?" he asked.
Her gaze darted to the shadows near the wardrobe. "The man with the iron mask."
Ashen's jaw tightened. He knew that name, even if she didn't. Ironhand. A rival assassin. Brutal. Sloppy. And unpredictable. The worst kind.
If Ironhand was here, he had not come for the Baron alone.
"Why are you still alive?" Ashen asked.
Lira's eyes filled with tears. "I hid. And when he left, he said he'd come back for me."
Ashen went still.
Ironhand didn't leave witnesses.
Footsteps echoed from downstairs.
Lira whimpered.
Ashen moved instinctively. He sheathed his dagger, swept the girl into his arms, and extinguished the fire with a sharp kick of snow from the windowsill. The room plunged into darkness.
He slid behind a tapestry just as the door creaked open.
Heavy boots crossed the floor.
Ashen could practically feel the weight of Ironhand's presence. It was heavy, lumbering, confident in a way only a man who enjoyed killing could be. A metallic rasp followed each movement. The iron mask.
Ironhand sniffed the air. "Little mouse," he growled. "Come out."
Lira trembled in Ashen's arms. He tightened his hold gently.
Ironhand prowled closer to the tapestry. Ashen's muscles coiled. One wrong breath and they were found.
But Ironhand paused.
A shout echoed from outside. The guards, finally roused.
Ironhand cursed, then thundered out of the room.
Ashen waited three heartbeats, then two more, before slipping from hiding.
"Come," he whispered.
Lira clung to his cloak as he moved quickly back through the corridor. Ironhand would return once he dispatched the guards. And Ashen had no intention of being here when that happened.
He descended the servant's stairwell, boots barely touching the steps.
"Why are you helping me?" Lira asked, voice tiny.
Ashen didn't answer at first. He wasn't sure himself. Assassins were not meant to take strays. They delivered death, not salvation.
But something about the child's trembling voice, her small hands clutching him with desperate trust, cut deeper than any blade.
"Because he won't stop," Ashen said. "Not unless someone stops him first."
They reached the back exit. Snow drifted in, carried by a bitter wind.
Lira looked up at him. "Will you stop him?"
Ashen hesitated.
He had completed the contract. He could leave now. Disappear into the white wilderness.
But Ironhand had marked this child.
And Ashen knew the look of someone who had been hunted.
"Yes," he said finally. "But first, we get you somewhere safe."
He lifted her hood, shielding her from the cold.
Then the Silent Knife carried the child into the snowfall, vanishing into the night unaware that saving her would unravel everything he believed about himself.
And that this girl would become the only thing he could not walk away from.