Zara's POV
The knife cuts into my palm before I even register the pain.
Blood drips onto the cold stone floor of the Architect's office, forming a small red pool between my knees. I don't flinch. I learned years ago that flinching gets you hurt worse.
"Again," the Architect's voice echoes from the shadows. I can't see their face—I never can. Just the outline of someone sitting behind a massive desk, watching me bleed. "Tell me what you are."
"A weapon." My voice is flat, emotionless. Just how they trained me.
"And what do weapons feel?"
"Nothing."
"Good." A folder slides across the desk toward me. "Then this assignment should be simple."
I pick up the folder with my bleeding hand, leaving red fingerprints on the cover. Inside is a photograph of a man with silver-white hair and sharp gray eyes. He looks younger than I expected. Powerful, though. I can tell by the way he holds himself in the picture—like he's never been afraid of anything.
"Kaelen Thorne," the Architect says. "Battle mage. War hero. The only reason Astoria hasn't fallen to Valdren's armies." A pause. "And your next target."
My heart should stay calm. It always does. But something about this mission feels different. Wrong. I stare at the photograph, and for just a second, I wonder what this man's voice sounds like. If he ever smiles. If he has people who love him.
Then I crush those thoughts. Weapons don't wonder. Weapons don't care.
"Three weeks," the Architect continues. "Infiltrate his fortress. Learn his patterns. Then kill him." Their chair creaks as they lean forward. "This is the most important mission the Crimson Veil has ever given you, Zara. Kingdoms will fall or rise based on your success."
I've killed forty-three people. Nobles. Merchants. Even a queen once. All without hesitation. But something about number forty-four makes my stomach twist.
"Do you understand your orders?" the Architect asks.
"Yes."
"And if you fail?"
My throat goes dry. I know the answer. Everyone in the Veil knows what happens to assassins who fail. Reconditioning. They strap you to a table and break your mind until there's nothing left but obedience. I've heard the screams echoing from the lower levels. I've seen operatives return as empty shells, their eyes blank and dead.
"I won't fail," I say.
"You've never failed me before." The Architect's voice softens, almost gentle. Almost kind. It's worse than when they yell. "You're my masterpiece, Zara. My perfect creation. Don't disappoint me now."
Something cold slides down my spine. Not fear—I'm not allowed to feel fear. But something close to it.
"You leave at dawn," the Architect says. "Commander Sevrin will provide your cover identity and supplies. Dismissed."
I stand, clutching the folder. My palm throbs where I cut it, but I don't bandage it. Pain keeps me focused. Pain reminds me I'm alive, even if I'm not supposed to feel alive.
I'm almost to the door when the Architect speaks again.
"Oh, and Zara?"
I stop but don't turn around.
"If you even think about running, about betraying the Veil..." They pause. "Well. We both know there's nowhere in this world you could hide from me. I made you. I can unmake you just as easily."
My hand tightens on the doorknob. "I understand."
"Good girl."
I walk out into the dark hallway, my boots silent on stone. The fortress is quiet this time of night. Most assassins are sleeping or out on missions. I'm alone with my thoughts, which is dangerous.
Because here's the truth I can never say out loud: I've been thinking about running for two years now.
Little rebellions. Letting a target's child escape. Sabotaging missions that would kill innocent people. Keeping a pressed flower hidden in my boot—something beautiful in a life of blood and death.
But I've never actually run. Because the Architect is right. There is nowhere to hide. The Crimson Veil has eyes everywhere. Informants in every city. Magic users who can track a single drop of blood across continents.
I'm trapped in a cage I can't even see.
I make it to my small room and lock the door. My hands shake as I open the folder again, studying Kaelen Thorne's face. The file says he's dangerous. Ruthless. Responsible for killing thousands of Valdren soldiers.
But his eyes don't look ruthless. They look... tired. Sad, even.
I shake my head. It doesn't matter what he looks like. He's a target. Number forty-four. After him, there will be forty-five, and forty-six, and I'll keep killing until the day I'm too slow and someone kills me instead.
That's the only ending assassins get.
I pull out my hidden flower, pressing it between my fingers. It's brown and brittle now, but I remember when it was purple and alive. Beautiful. I wonder if Kaelen Thorne has ever stopped to look at a flower. If he has things he keeps hidden. If he's trapped too, just in a different kind of cage.
Then I carefully put the flower away and begin packing my knives.
Because wondering doesn't change anything. In three weeks, Kaelen Thorne will be dead, and I'll move on to the next mission. That's what weapons do.
Even weapons that secretly wish they were something else.
I'm checking my blade supply when I notice something that makes my blood run cold.
There's a second photograph in the folder. Hidden beneath Kaelen's picture.
It's me.
Younger—maybe ten years old—standing next to a woman with kind eyes and dark hair like mine. We're both smiling. I don't recognize the woman. I don't recognize the child I used to be.
But written on the back in the Architect's handwriting are four words that make my whole world tilt:
"I know your mother."