The summons arrived with the dawn, delivered not by the sun, but by the violent, rhythmic bruising of a fist against my iron door. It was the kind of sound that didn't just wake you; it warned you.
Minutes later, I was back in the "Throne Room." Califer's office always felt like a tomb—over-furnished, smelling of stale tobacco and expensive ink, and utterly suffocating. But today, the air felt heavier.
Standing by the window was a silhouette that carved a sharp, jagged hole in the gray morning light. He stood with a stillness that was more terrifying than Jak's loudest outbursts.
Kaelen.
In the Hive, they called him the "Silent Dirge." To Kaelen, murder wasn't a passion or a necessity; it was a mathematical equation that always ended in zero. He was the only person whose kill count mirrored my own, and the only man in this city who made my pulse quicken with a genuine sense of self-preservation.
"Reaper. Dirge," Califer barked, his boots pacing a frantic rhythm behind his mahogany desk. "Since our 'Black Reaper' encountered a... complication at the Dresvan estate, I've decided to recalibrate. We are putting the Dresvan contract on ice for seventy-two hours while our scouts pull the city apart for this golden-eyed ghost."
I stiffened, my fingers twitching toward the hilt of my blade. "I don't need a shadow, Califer. I need to finish the job."
"You need to follow orders," Califer snapped, leaning into the light. His eyes were bloodshot and frantic. "While the scouts dig, I have another cancer to excise. A merchant in the lower docks has been skimming from our shipments. He's bold—hired a private militia to guard his warehouse. Go remind him that the Hive's reach is longer than his purse."
Kaelen didn't blink. He simply inclined his head, a single, mechanical nod. "Consider it done."
The docks were a symphony of fog and filth. Kaelen and I moved like twin ghosts through the haze, a pair of wraiths born from the same nightmare.
It was a masterclass in efficiency. Kaelen moved with surgical precision, dismantling the militia guards before they could even draw breath to scream. I handled the merchant. It was over in less than an hour—clean, professional, and utterly hollow. As the merchant's life faded into the floorboards, I felt nothing but a nagging, intrusive memory of a different blade and a pair of golden eyes.
As we slipped away from the blood-stained docks, Kaelen's voice cut through the sound of the lapping tide. It was a dry, grating sound, like gravel grinding in a jar.
"You were distracted tonight."
I didn't turn my head. "The target is dead. That's all that matters to the ledger."
"The target is dead because I intercepted the three guards you over-extended for," he retorted calmly. He stopped in the mouth of a narrow alley, his gaze chillingly neutral. "Whatever happened at the estate... don't let it happen again. If you become a liability, Reaper, I won't hesitate to do what Califer pays me for."
He stepped backward into the darkness and simply vanished, leaving me alone with the rising moon.
I told myself I was going home. I told myself I needed to sharpen my blades and scrub the salt from my skin. But my feet moved with a treasonous will of their own.
I found myself back at the Dresvan estate, perched on the same thick oak branch overlooking the gardens. The grass below was still trampled from our struggle—a messy, violent scar on a perfect landscape.
Who are you?
The question was a physical ache. He had called me "worthless," yet he had looked at me with a shock that felt like a bridge being built. There was a nobility in his stance that didn't match the hired muscle of the Royal Guard. He didn't fight like a soldier; he fought like a storm.
I adjusted my mask, the porcelain cold against my skin. I knew the risks. If Califer found me here, it was treason. If Kaelen found me, it was a death sentence. But I wasn't here as the Black Reaper tonight. I was here as a girl named Lysia, looking for the only person who had ever truly seen her.
I dropped from the branch, landing with a soft thud on the stone wall. Scaling the ivy toward the upper balcony was effortless, my muscles burning with a strange, frantic energy.
I reached the balustrade of the master suite and vaulted over. The French doors were cracked open, letting a sliver of candlelight bleed onto the stone. I pressed myself against the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Inside, the room was silent, save for the crackle of a dying fire. And then, a voice—low, melodic, and dangerously close.
"I expected you'd return, little shadow. But I didn't think you'd be foolish enough to come back so soon."
I froze. Standing by the fireplace, his back to me, was the stranger. He wasn't wearing his armor now; just a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. He turned slowly, and the firelight caught those eyes—molten gold, piercing through the dimness.
"Tell me," he said, stepping into the center of the room, "does your master know you've come to play, or are you acting on a whim of your own?"
I drew my shortest dagger, not to strike, but to feel the weight of it. "I don't have a master," I lied, my voice steady despite the chaos in my chest. "I have questions."
He laughed, a short, dark sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "Questions? From a girl who tries to murder princesses in their sleep? Very well. Ask one. But know this—for every answer I give, I require one from you. And I want the truth, Lysia."
The sound of my name on his lips felt like a physical blow. I hadn't told him my name. No one in this city knew that name.
"How do you know who I am?" I hissed, stepping into the light.
The stranger tilted his head, a small, predatory smile playing on his lips. "My turn. Why does the most feared assassin in the Hive have eyes that look like they've spent the last ten years weeping?"