I bolted upright, my lungs burning as if I had been clawing my way through miles of deep, suffocating water.
Sweat slicked my skin, turning my thin nightclothes into a cold, damp shroud that clung to my shivering frame. The nightmare had been a familiar predator—a blurred kaleidoscope of roaring fire, the iron tang of blood, and the wide, accusing eyes of the people I hadn't been fast enough to save. It didn't matter how many "bad men" I put in the ground to balance the scales; the ghosts of my own past were the only hunters who knew exactly where I was weakest.
I pushed back the heavy covers and crossed the room, my bare feet navigating the floorboards with a silence born of instinct rather than intent. My room in the Hive was a place of shadows and sharp edges, but tonight, it felt like a tomb. I needed air. I needed to feel something—anything—other than the suffocating weight of a memory that refused to stay buried.
The balcony door creaked, a soft groan that sounded like a plea, as I stepped out into the biting night. A silver moon hung high over the kingdom, pale and indifferent to the girl shivering beneath its light. I gripped the stone railing until the rough edges bit into my palms, staring toward the dark horizon where the High-Valleys once stood.
This was the hidden tax of being the Black Reaper. By day, I was a masterpiece of lethal precision—a weapon forged in the Hive's furnace. But by night, the forge went cold, and I was just a hollow shell echoing with the screams of a life I had been forced to leave behind.
To quiet the cacophony in my head, I did the one thing the Hive could never train out of me. I began to hum.
The sound was fragile at first, a mere vibration against my teeth, until it bloomed into the lyrics of the only relic I still possessed: my mother's voice, preserved in a melody.
"Wandering child of the earth... Do you know just how much you're worth? You have walked this path since your birth... You were destined for more..."
My voice trembled as it drifted into the frost-nipped air. The song was a lullaby designed for a child who was safe, cherished, and tucked behind heavy, locked doors. Singing it now, with a dagger under my pillow and a kill-list in my head, felt like a sacrilege. Yet, I couldn't stop. The music was the only thread left connecting Lysia to the Reaper.
"There are those who'll tell you you're wrong, They will try to silence your song... But right here is where you belong, So don't search anymore."
As the notes spilled out, the dam finally broke. Tears traced hot, clean paths through the faint, dried splatters of blood on my cheek—remnants of tonight's work that I hadn't quite been able to scrub away. I sang of masterpieces and new dawns, my gaze falling to my hands—hands that had snuffed out a life just hours before.
I reached the final verse, the melody hanging in the air like a ghost hesitant to leave.
"Soon you'll finally find your own way..."
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, a jagged, choked sob escaping my throat. "I'm sorry, Mama. Papa... I've failed you," I whispered to the wind.
Out here, stripped of my porcelain mask, I was just Lysia. Without the frozen, smiling face of the Reaper, I was a raw nerve—a girl who loathed the taste of copper and the sound of men bargaining with death. The world imagined I killed for sport, that I was a creature of the void who drank in the darkness for pleasure. It wasn't a pleasure. It was a heavy, rotting mantle I dragged through the mud every single day. I wanted to scream the truth to the rooftops, to show them the girl who sang lullabies to the moon, but fear was a more effective muzzle than any mask.
If the world knew the Reaper had a heart, they would find a way to drive a stake through it.
A floorboard groaned behind me.
I didn't turn; I didn't have to. The air changed, growing heavy with the scent of pine and something metallic. My hand instinctively dropped to the small blade tucked into the waistband of my silks.
"I didn't think the Reaper knew how to cry," a voice drawled from the shadows of the doorway.
It was Jak. He was leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over a chest scarred by a hundred brawls. His eyes, usually full of malice, were narrowed in something that looked dangerously like curiosity.
"Get out, Jak," I said, my voice returning to its usual icy flatline. I wiped the last of the moisture from my face, turning to meet his gaze. The vulnerability of the song was gone, tucked back into the dark corner of my soul where it belonged.
"Califer wants to see you," Jak said, ignoring my dismissal. He stepped into the moonlight, his grin widening to reveal a chipped tooth. "He heard about your little 'performance' at the docks. He thinks you're getting soft. Maybe he's right. Maybe you're starting to remember you're human, and in this house, that's a death sentence."
I stepped toward him, the distance between us vanishing in a heartbeat. I didn't draw my knife, but the look in my eyes made him flinch—just a fraction.
"I am whatever Califer needs me to be to get the job done," I hissed. "And if you ever breathe a word about what you heard on this balcony, I'll make sure the last thing you hear is that song while I'm opening your throat."
Jak's grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine unease. He knew I meant it. He stepped back into the hallway, gesturing for me to follow.
"Save the threats for the contracts, Reaper. The boss is waiting."
I followed him through the winding, torch-lit corridors of the Hive, the lullaby still echoing faintly in my mind. I pulled the mental mask back on, feeling the coldness settle over my skin like armor. Lysia was gone again, buried under the weight of the Black Reaper.
But as we approached Califer's heavy oak doors, I felt a strange, new spark of defiance. Silas had seen my face. He had known my name. And if a stranger could find the girl beneath the mask, perhaps she wasn't as dead as I had hoped.