Baron Olston paced back and forth in his office with heavy steps that made the floorboards creak. His long, thick fingers tangled in the blond hair that fell messily over his forehead.
(It has been a month since my son died. A month and that damned brat is still alive, breathing, laughing surely while my heir lies beneath the ground.)
His gray eyes, cold as stainless steel, fixed on the door each time he passed in front of it, hoping something would change, that someone would arrive with news that it had all been a nightmare.
The butler, an elderly man with graying mustaches and a perfect posture even after decades of service, stood motionless by the fireplace. His hands rested one on top of the other on the ebony cane he barely needed to walk, but used out of tradition.
"I have made a decision," announced the baron, stopping dead. His eyes burned with barely contained fury. "I am going to hire the best assassin in existence."
The butler raised a white eyebrow with a slowness that bordered on theatrical.
"Do you mean... hiring someone from the underworld, my lord?"
"Do you know any other kind of assassin?" snapped the baron, spinning on his heels to face him. "I don't want any street thug. I want the best. The one who never fails. The one who makes his targets disappear as if they never existed."
The butler had served the Olston family for forty-two years. He had seen the current baron born, seen him married, seen him widowed, and now saw him consumed by hatred. He knew well the dangers of the underworld, the rumors that circulated about those dark places where the law had no jurisdiction.
"My lord," he began cautiously, "I must warn you that hiring the best... well, the best charge a fortune. I am talking about amounts that could feed a small army for a year."
The baron let out a bitter, hollow laugh.
"Do you think I care about money? Do you think there is anything in this world I care about more than avenging my son?" His voice rose to a roar. "I WOULD SELL MY SOUL AND EVERY ONE OF MY LANDS IF NECESSARY!"
The butler bowed his head respectfully.
"Then I will proceed to prepare the journey. We will need a guide. The underworld is not a place one can enter without knowing the ways."
"Get the best," ordered the baron, adjusting his shirt collar with trembling fingers. "I want to be there tonight itself."
"Yes, my lord."
◇◇◇
Night fell over the capital like a mantle of black velvet, and the streets that during the day buzzed with honest commerce were now filled with shadows and whispers. Baron Olston, dressed in dark clothes to hide his presence, followed his butler and the guide they had hired: a thin man, his face pockmarked by smallpox, with a smile that never reached his brown eyes.
"This is madness," murmured the butler as they entered an alley that smelled of dampness and urine. "With all due respect, my lord, the underworld..."
"Shut up," cut off the baron. "I am already here. I am not turning back."
The guide stopped in front of an apparently normal stone wall. He raised his hand and knocked three times, with pauses of exactly two seconds between each knock. Then, five knocks with one-second pauses. Finally, two knocks with a three-second pause.
The wall moved.
It did not open like a door, but slid to the side with a metallic screech that made the hairs on the baron's neck stand on end. Behind it, a dark hallway stretched into the bowels of the earth. The air that came out was cold and smelled of smoke, dried blood, and something else the baron could not identify but that made him shudder.
"This way," said the guide, lighting a small lantern that cast a greenish, sickly light. "Do not separate from me. And for your own good, do not speak to anyone unless I tell you that you can."
They walked in silence through the hallway, which soon widened into a kind of cavern. The natural stone walls showed tool marks, and in some places hung signs with symbols the baron did not recognize. Finally, a warm light appeared in the distance, and as they approached, the baron realized he was entering a place that surpassed his worst nightmares.
A person emerged from the shadows. No, it was not a person. It was something that wore black rags and had a metal mask covering the upper half of its face. In its hand, a crossbow pointed directly at the baron's heart.
"Who is it?" said the figure in a raspy voice, as if its throat were lined with sandpaper.
"A client," replied the guide quickly. "A client with money. He comes to do business."
The figure held its gaze for a long moment, then slowly lowered the crossbow and stepped aside.
"Come in. But any foolishness and I'll hang you from the ceilings as a warning."
The baron swallowed and continued walking.
(How terrifying, what kind of place have I gotten myself into?)
And then he saw it.
The underworld was not a simple cave or a grimy hideout. It was a city. An entire city built underground, with stone and wood buildings, cobblestone streets lit by gas lamps, and people — criminals, the baron supposed — walking back and forth as if they were in any square on the surface. There were shops, there were taverns, there was even what looked like a meat market with meat hanging from hooks. The air was thick, laden with smells that mixed into a suffocating cloud: tobacco, alcohol, sweat, blood, and something metallic that the baron associated with death.
"This is... incredible," murmured the baron, unable to hide his astonishment. "I never imagined something like this existed."
"Few from the surface know of it," said the guide with a smile showing yellowed teeth. "And those who know... well, they usually don't live to tell the tale. This way, sir. The place you are looking for is near."
They walked through the crowd, and the baron felt dozens of eyes fixed on him. Eyes that evaluated, that measured, that decided whether it was worth robbing him or simply killing him for fun. The butler walked glued to him, his face pale as wax and his hands trembling. The guide, on the other hand, moved with the confidence of someone who had walked those streets hundreds of times.
"Here we are," announced the guide, stopping in front of a dark wooden door.
Above it, carved into the wood, was a symbol: a snake coiled around a dagger, its jaws open showing sharp fangs. The baron felt a shiver run down his back as the guide pushed the door open and entered.
The interior was exactly what the baron expected. A dark tavern, with grimy wooden tables, benches worn from use, and a long counter at the back where a tall, bald man was cleaning a glass with a rag that looked dirtier than the glass itself. The place stank of cheap tobacco and adulterated alcohol, an aroma that stuck to clothes and skin like a layer of grease. At the tables, men and women with hard faces and empty eyes drank in silence or spoke in whispers that were lost in the echo of the place.
The baron approached the counter with an unsteady step. The butler and the guide stayed behind, their faces reflecting a fear the baron chose to ignore.
"I am looking for an assassin," whispered the baron, leaning toward the bartender.
The bald man stopped cleaning the glass and smiled. A wide, almost friendly smile that did not reach his coal-black eyes.
"An assassin?" he repeated in a normal voice, as if talking about the weather. "Friend, this place is an assassins' bar. Everyone here —" he made a wide gesture with his hand "— belongs to different guilds. If you want one... well, you just have to raise your voice and you'll have a dozen offering themselves."
The baron felt the blood drain from his face.
(They are all assassins? Everyone sitting at those tables, drinking those drinks, laughing quietly... they all kill for money?)
But his surprise quickly turned into joy. A dark, twisted joy that made him smile in a way the bartender noted with a raised eyebrow.
"Then I want the best," said the baron in a firm voice. "The best assassin that exists. I want someone who has never failed. Someone who guarantees the death of his target regardless of the circumstances."
Silence fell over the tavern like a knife.
It was not a gradual silence. There were no murmurs dying out or conversations slowly fading. It was instantaneous. Everyone present, without exception, stopped talking at the same time, as if an invisible hand had pressed a pause button on the world. Even the bartender, who was still smiling, stood still, with the glass raised and the rag hanging from his fingers.
The baron felt forty or fifty pairs of eyes boring into him. Some curious, others threatening, others simply evaluating.
(What did I say? Why did everyone go quiet like that?)
Sweat began to break out on his forehead, and he felt a drop slide down his temple until it fell on the collar of his shirt.
The bartender slowly lowered the glass and placed both hands on the counter. His smile had become... different. More calculating.
"Are you sure, friend?" he asked in a low, almost intimate voice. "Are you sure you want the best?"
The baron swallowed. His sweaty hands gripped the edge of the counter.
"Why... why do you say that?"
"Because the best guild has only one member here," replied the bartender, leaning toward him. "The others... well, the others don't need to come to places like this. But he is here because he likes to see his clients' faces. He always demands a hefty payment. And if you try to cancel the deal... or if you don't pay him..." The bartender made a deliberate pause. "You will end up dead. You don't mess with them."
The baron felt his knees weaken, but forced himself to stay firm.
"That is not a problem," he said, and his voice sounded more confident than he felt. "I have money. I have lands. I have everything he could ask for. I just want someone dead."
The bartender watched him for a long moment, then straightened up and nodded.
"As you wish. Follow me."
He began to walk toward a wooden staircase that led to the upper floor, and the baron followed with trembling steps. He looked back and saw that the butler and the guide had stayed below, their faces pale in the dim light.
(Cowards. But perhaps they are right to be afraid. Perhaps I should be too.)
The upper floor was different. Darker, quieter, with a single hallway stretching before them flanked by closed doors. The bartender walked to the end, where the darkness was denser, and stopped in front of an ajar door.
"He is in there," he said in a low voice. "Go in. I'll leave."
"Are you not staying?" asked the baron, feeling panic begin to gnaw at his stomach.
"I'm not that stupid," replied the bartender with a smile. "Good luck, friend. You're going to need it."
He turned and disappeared down the stairs, leaving the baron alone in front of the door.
(You are here for your son. To avenge him. You cannot be afraid now.)
He pushed the door with his fingertips and entered.
The room was small, barely a cubicle with a table in the center and a chair on the other side. There were no windows, of course, but a solitary candle flickered on the table, casting dancing shadows on the walls. At the back, barely visible in the dimness, the baron made out a seated figure.
A low table in front of him, and on the table... a pair of legs. Long legs, the baron thought in confusion, covered in dark stockings, with high boots up to the knee. They were propped on the table as if nothing, and a rhythmic sound filled the silence: the sound of a coin rolling on the wood, spinning on itself, falling, spinning again.
Click, click, click, click...
The baron swallowed and approached. The legs did not move. The coin kept rolling.
"Sit down," said a voice.
But it was not a normal voice. It was a distorted voice, as if the speaker were using a magical device to hide their real tone. It could be a man, it could be a woman, it could be anything. The baron obeyed and sat in the chair facing the table, placing himself right in front of those legs that now reached the height of his chest.
"What do you want?" asked the distorted voice.
The baron cleared his throat.
"I want... I want to kill someone."
There was a silence. Then the coin stopped rolling. The sound ceased abruptly, and in its absence, the silence became deafening. Then the legs moved. They uncrossed, came down from the table, and the figure leaned forward, entering the circle of candlelight.
The baron saw him then.
He wore a mask. A cat mask, black with silver details, covering the upper half of his face, leaving only his lips and chin visible. But what the baron noticed first, what captured his attention before anything else, was what the mask did not cover. The upper part of his clothing, a black jacket open to reveal his bare abdomen. A toned, muscular abdomen, with a line of leanness running down from his navel. And higher up... breasts. Female breasts, covered only by a piece of cloth that seemed more decorative than functional.
(It is a woman. The best assassin of the underworld... is a woman.)
The figure tilted its head, and when it spoke again, its voice had changed. It was no longer distorted. It was a clear, feminine voice, with a hint of amusement that chilled the baron's blood.
"Kill someone," she repeated, and her lips curved into a smile. "That is not a problem. But it will cost you a fortune. So tell me... how do you want him dead?"
◇◇◇
In a local bar, a certain group of people were sharing information about their search.
The knights Zack and Gilbert had gone out to look for information on the Phantom Troupe to help Cyril.
As soon as they arrived in the city, they started looking for clues with him, they found nothing, but by spending time together they developed a strong bond of camaraderie.
Cyril exhaled a puff of smoke and watched it dissipate in the cold morning air.
(We have made no progress. Absolutely none.)
Zack and Gilbert remained seated at the table, with expressions ranging from frustration to boredom.
"I don't understand why we keep looking," said Zack, resting his head on one hand while tapping the table with the other. "If Cyril says we won't find anything, then we surely won't find anything. It's not that I'm being pessimistic, but..."
"He's being realistic," Gilbert interrupted him, his flat voice and his eyes fixed on the empty cup in front of him. "The Phantom Troupe is not just any band of mercenaries. If they don't want to be found, no one will find them."
Cyril stubbed out his cigarette against the bar's outer wall and came back in, sitting down next to his companions. His brown hair fell messily over his forehead, and his dull brown eyes reflected the same fatigue he felt in his bones.
"There really is no point in looking for them," he said, in his calm, measured voice. "They leave no traces. Only the people they want to see them will know them. The rest of the world could spend years looking for them and never find a single clue to their existence."
Zack sighed and leaned back in his seat. His orange hair was tied in a low ponytail, and his eyes, with an almost feline gleam, showed his discontent with the situation.
"So, what do we do? Just sit around waiting for them to appear by magic?"
"Under that argument," said Cyril, standing up, "we can do nothing."
He headed for the door of the bar. He needed another cigarette. He needed air. He needed to be alone for a moment.
(It's frustrating. Having a goal without a clear path to reach it. Even worse, knowing that any path you take is probably wrong.)
He went outside and leaned against the brick wall, pulling a cigarette from his inner pocket. The morning sun was just beginning to warm the streets, and people hurried to their jobs. Normal people. People who knew nothing of the Phantom Troupe, of those who moved in the shadows.
(Perhaps they are happier that way, not knowing who lurks in the shadows.)
And then he saw him.
Razel was walking calmly along the streets. He wore simple, almost modest clothing.
Razel saw him and stopped.
"Oh? You're Avenger, right?" he said in a neutral tone, as if running into him in the middle of the street was the most normal thing in the world. "What a coincidence to find you here."
Razel had found out that he would come along with Zack and Gilbert through Sharon; all he knew about him was that he had helped Iris and Liddy escape when they encountered the Phantom Troupe, being a member himself as well.
But since he had no information, he couldn't help them much.
"Yes, but my real name is Cyril," replied Cyril, nodding. "Nice day for shopping."
Razel took a few steps closer, and Cyril noticed that his black eyes were examining him with subtle interest. "Tell me, could you help me with some shopping? I'm also going to buy for all of you, so it would be faster with two pairs of hands."
Cyril blinked.
(Is he asking me for help? Me. The one who arrived just a few days ago and is a complete stranger. Doesn't he have anyone else to ask?)
"Sure," he replied, stubbing out the cigarette he had barely lit. "I have nothing better to do anyway."
◇◇◇
They walked in silence at first, going in and out of shops, carrying bags that kept piling up in their arms. Razel shopped efficiently: he went in, asked for what he needed, paid, and left. No haggling, no hesitation, as if each coin was already spent before entering.
As they walked, Razel watched him out of the corner of his eye.
(I know nothing about Cyril. I don't know where he comes from, I don't know what he wants, I don't know why he joined that group of criminals, the Phantom Troupe. But he has a face similar to mine. Not identical, but similar. Enough to make him seem... pleasant. And after spending days talking with that pair of idiots, I need a normal conversation.)
"Can I ask you something?" said Cyril, breaking the silence.
"Ask."
"Why are you looking for the Phantom Troupe?"
Razel stopped dead. His black eyes fixed on Cyril with an intensity that would have made anyone else back down.
"How do you know I'm looking for them?"
Cyril held his gaze without flinching.
"The queen told me some details. And from your story..." he paused, choosing his words carefully. "From your story, I deduce that you must have come out to look for them. For someone like you, for someone who did not hesitate to face them, it makes no logical sense to be here just by chance. You are looking for something. And that something is the Phantom Troupe."
"I was also told that you rescued the princesses at the fortress that was attacked recently. Was it a coincidence that you were there... or did you know they would attack? Just kidding."
Razel watched him for a long moment.
(He is evaluating me. He is measuring me. He thinks I am a mastermind, that I used the situation of the fortress and all the other things for my own benefit. He doesn't know I am here for other reasons. He knows nothing about me. But... I will let him believe it. It feels nice to be treated like that.)
He smiled slightly.
"Keep walking. We haven't finished shopping."
Cyril nodded and followed him, adding more bags to those they were already carrying.
◇◇◇
They ended up in a bar, but not a dive like the ones Cyril frequented. It was a quiet place, with polished wooden tables and red velvet curtains that filtered the sunlight. Razel ordered juice. Only juice.
"You don't drink alcohol?" asked Cyril, raising an eyebrow.
"I can't tolerate it," replied Razel simply. "My body rejects it. So just juice."
Cyril ordered a beer and leaned back in his seat, watching Razel drink his juice with a calmness that bordered on unnatural.
(This man is a mystery. A strange mystery. But... there is something about him that makes me want to trust. Perhaps it's his face. But anyone who is an enemy of the Phantom Troupe...)
"Let me ask you a question now," said Cyril. "Why are you looking for the Phantom Troupe instead of running away?"
Razel looked at him over his glass.
"I could ask you the same thing. Why did you join them?"
Cyril smiled, but it was a bitter smile, without joy.
"I am looking for someone. The murderer of my son."
The atmosphere changed. The noise of the bar, the conversations at other tables, the clinking of glasses... everything became distant, as if they were inside a bubble of silence.
"One of the group's members," Cyril continued, "recruited me. They said they were short on staff. But the real reason... the real reason is that someone from the Phantom Troupe, years ago, killed my son. And one of the group's informants said that the killer carried a katana. A katana similar to mine."
Razel silently observed the katana he carried in a leather bag, confirming his story.
"My son had a katana that I gave him on a business trip; there were two similar ones. The killer stole a katana and the same thing now," said Cyril, and his voice trembled slightly. "I gave it to my son when he came of age. And that bastard used it to kill him."
Razel opened his mouth to ask about the katana, about its details, about anything that might help him understand. But he stopped. Cyril's eyes, those dull brown eyes that always showed serenity, now shone with a pain so deep that Razel felt a knot in his chest.
(This is not the time to ask.)
"Then," said Razel, changing his tone to a softer one, "let us make an effort. Looking for the Phantom Troupe in order to destroy it."
Cyril looked at him in disbelief.
"Do you mean that? Other people would be scared just hearing their name. The Phantom Troupe is not just any group. You talk about destroying them as if they were a band of street thieves."
Razel took a sip of his juice.
"I lost my fear a long time ago."
(Not entirely true. He still feels fear. Fear of not finding answers. Fear that everything he has done has been in vain. Fear that in the end, they might achieve their goal and therefore he must stop them.)
After that, they talked about unimportant things. The weather, the food, the city streets. Cyril talked about the days when his son was little, how he used to run through his house's gardens with a wooden sword, how he dreamed of being a great warrior. Razel listened without interrupting, nodding at the right moments, asking just enough for Cyril to continue.
They did not notice that, at the table behind them, a hooded figure was slowly drinking from a steaming cup. They did not notice that her ears, hidden under the hood, were attentive to every word they said. They did not notice that, when they left the bar, the figure followed them with her gaze until they disappeared into the crowd.
◇◇◇
A woman named Leonora walked through the tunnels of the underworld with the confidence of someone who had walked them thousands of times. Her dark blue hair, cut in an asymmetric bob with bangs that partially covered her left eye, moved gently with each step. Her eyes, the same deep blue as her hair, looked ahead without really seeing anything.
(Another day. Another mission. Another life to take. Always the same.)
It had been that way for as long as she could remember, or at least since the guild had found her. She was an orphan, of course. All the assassins of the Serpents of Chaos guild were orphans. That made them easier to mold, easier to control. Without family, without friends, without anyone to claim them. Only the guild. Only the mission. Only death.
Killing her victims was not a problem.
(Ask any of the people walking on the surface if they could kill another human being. Most would say no. Some would say yes, but only in self-defense. Very few would admit they could do it in cold blood, for money, without any remorse. I am one of those few. I stopped feeling anything a long time ago.)
It had not always been that way. There was a time, when she was a child, when she cried after every mission. She would lock herself in her room and cover her ears with her hands, trying to drown out the screams of her victims that echoed in her head. But the years passed, and the screams grew weaker, until one day they simply... disappeared.
Now she only felt the void.
The void and the satisfaction of a job well done.
She came out of an alley and headed to a specific place, the girls' academy.
The academy was divided into three sectors.
The central building where classes were held was called Alvinella, the twin towers served as residence for students and teachers, named Zophia and Gloriana.
All those names were based on the late sisters of Marquis Redford.
The academy was easy to infiltrate. Too easy, thought Leonora as she slipped through the dark hallways in the middle of the night. Guards who didn't notice her existence, doors without locks, windows that opened from outside.
(People on the surface trust too much in their walls and their laws. They don't understand that for someone like me, those barriers don't exist.)
She found Razel's room without difficulty. A top floor, at the end of the hallway, with a normal wooden door that yielded to her lockpicks in less than ten seconds. She entered silently, closing the door behind her, and stopped beside the bed.
Razel was sleeping.
(He is young.)
Leonora thought as she observed his face lit by the faint moonlight coming through a hole.
(He doesn't look like a dangerous target. But I have learned that appearances are deceiving.)
She took a small glass vial from her pocket. It contained a colorless, odorless poison, the most expensive the guild could offer. A few drops on the victim's lips were enough, and within minutes, the heart would stop beating. Without pain. Without suffering. Quick and clean.
(That's how I like it. There's no need to make them suffer. Death is punishment enough.)
She leaned over Razel, uncapped the vial, and let three perfectly measured drops fall onto his slightly parted lips. Then she put the vial away, stepped back, and watched.
"Goodbye," she whispered. "I killed you without pain. I wish everyone could have your same luck."
She turned and left the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She went down the stairs, left through the window she had used to enter, and disappeared into the shadows of the night.
◇◇◇
The next morning, Leonora was sitting in the Serpent bar, drinking a bitter drink while waiting for confirmation of her success. Her boss appeared beside her with a paler face than usual.
"He is still alive."
Leonora almost choked on her drink.
"What?"
"That boy. The target. He is still alive. One of our informants saw him having breakfast as if nothing had happened. The poison didn't work."
"That's impossible," said Leonora, putting the glass down harder than necessary. "That poison has never failed. Never."
"Well, it has failed this time," replied her boss, in a tone that brooked no reply. "You will have to try again. But this time... this time use a more direct method."
Leonora clenched her fists under the table.
(How is it possible? How can someone survive the Poison of the Reaper? That poison is made from plant extracts that grow in the depths of the forest where infernal bears live, plants that kill a tiger in seconds. What happened?)
◇◇◇
That night, Razel woke up and frowned.
"My tongue... it's numb," he murmured, running his hand over his lips. "What did I eat last night?"
He got up, washed his face with cold water, and decided not to pay it any mind.
(Probably something I ate. Or maybe it's stress. I haven't been sleeping well lately.)
◇◇◇
Leonora returned to the academy two nights later, this time with a different plan. She carried a small jar with a hairy-legged tarantula, one of the most venomous in the known world. A single bite, and the victim would first experience total paralysis, then a burning pain that would run through every fiber of their body, and finally death amid spasms and convulsions.
(This... this is cruel indeed. But the boss ordered me to kill him no matter the cost. And if the poison didn't work, maybe the spider's venom will.)
She entered the room with the same stealth as always. Razel slept in the same position, as if he hadn't moved at all in the last two days. Leonora approached the bed, uncapped the jar, and let the tarantula climb up the pillow until it reached the sleeper's face.
"You will suffer a little," she whispered, "but you will not wake up."
The tarantula stopped by Razel's neck, raised its front legs, and prepared to bite.
Leonora held her breath.
But Razel moved.
It was a minimal movement, almost imperceptible. A hand that emerged from under the blanket and caught the tarantula between its fingers with the precision of someone who had practiced that gesture thousands of times. The spider kicked in the air before ending up in his hands, uselessly, while Razel opened his eyes and looked directly at the spider.
"A spider," he said in a sleepy voice. "How ugly." And he crushed it.
Leonora had hidden quickly, her blue eyes wide open.
(Did he see me? Does he know I'm here? No, it's impossible! I've been doing this for years, I've never been discovered...)
But Razel had already closed his eyes and turned over, as if nothing had happened. Leonora stood there, paralyzed, for a long minute. Then, her heart pounding, she left the room and fled the academy.
The next morning, as she ate breakfast at the bar, her boss approached with the same pale face as last time.
"He is still alive."
"I know," replied Leonora in an empty voice. "I saw him."
"You saw him?"
"The tarantula. He caught it with his hand. He killed it. As if it were nothing. And then... then he turned over and went back to sleep."
Her boss watched her for a long moment.
"Try again."
And Leonora obeyed.
◇◇◇
Days passed. One week. Two weeks.
Leonora tried everything. Poisons in the food, but Razel seemed immune to everything. Traps on the floor, but Razel dodged them while asleep. A poisoned knife, but Razel moved aside at the last second and Leonora ended up sticking the weapon in the wall.
Every night, Leonora sneaked into Razel's room.
Every night, her attempts failed.
And every morning, her boss said the same words to her: "He is still alive. Try again."
(What is this man? Is he human? How can he survive everything I throw at him? I have killed dozens of people, some much more powerful than him, and I have never, never failed this much. What does he have that makes him different?)
◇◇◇
Finally, she was summoned by her boss.
Not at the bar, but in the depths of the guild, in a black stone room lit by torches casting dancing shadows. Her boss was sitting on an improvised throne, surrounded by other guild members who watched her with mocking smiles.
"Leonora," said her boss, a thin man with a scar on his cheek, in a voice that chilled the blood. "You have failed. Not once. Not twice. Seven times. Seven failed attempts to kill a single man."
"He is not a normal man," replied Leonora, holding her head high. "He is... he is different. There is something strange about him."
"Different?" One of her companions, a bald man with tattoos on his skull, burst out laughing. "Is that all you have to say? That he's different? You sound like a novice, Leonora. You sound like someone who has lost their touch."
"Shut up," said Leonora, and her voice was a thread of ice. "You don't know anything. You have only killed politicians and merchants. You have never faced anyone like him."
"Someone like him?" Another companion, a red-haired woman, sneered. "Listen to her. The best assassin of the guild, the one who never failed, now says her target is special. Could it be that you have simply aged? That your reflexes are not what they used to be?"
Leonora clenched her fists, but did not respond.
Her boss raised a hand, and silence fell over the room.
"Leonora," he said, "you are the best assassin we have. Or at least you were. But these last few days you have shown that perhaps... perhaps your achievements were pure lies. Pure luck. Or is that not the case?"
Leonora felt the blood rush to her face.
(Lies. Every one of my missions was real. Every one of my victims died by my hand. It was not luck. It was skill. It was training. It was... it was...)
"I will give you one last chance," continued her boss, leaning forward. "One more chance. If you fail... well, you know what happens to assassins who fail more than seven times."
Leonora nodded slowly.
"I know."
"Then go. And this time... do not fail."
◇◇◇
That night, Leonora sneaked into Razel's room for the eighth time.
This time she used no poisons. No traps. No knives or spiders or anything of the sort.
She used threads.
Dragon cartilage threads, fine as hair but strong as steel, that could cut flesh and break bones with a simple pull. She positioned herself in the corner of the room, extended the threads toward the bed, and wrapped them around Razel's neck.
(This time there will be no escape. The threads will tighten, cut off his breath, and in less than a minute he will be dead. No poisons that might fail. No spiders he can catch. Just the pressure of my hands and the strength of my threads.)
She tightened the threads around his neck.
Razel opened his eyes.
"Again?" he murmured, and his hands instinctively went to his neck, catching the threads between his fingers. "Lately I felt someone sneaking into my room. But I thought it was my imagination."
Leonora tightened the threads harder, but Razel did not flinch. His fingers, wrapped in the threads, began to pull toward himself. Leonora felt Razel's strength overpower hers, as if she were facing a giant instead of an academy student.
"You have tired me," said Razel, and his voice was cold, dangerous. "I will show no mercy to strangers."
With a tug, Leonora flew out of her hiding place. The threads tightened to the maximum, but Razel let go at the right moment and Leonora shot backward, hitting the door with a crack of splintering wood.
Razel got out of bed with the slowness of someone in no hurry. His violet eyes glowed in the dim light with a brilliance that froze Leonora's blood.
"You," he said. "You are the one who has been trying to kill me all these nights."
Leonora tried to get up, but before she could move, Razel was already on her. One hand grabbed her wrist, twisting it until the threads fell to the floor. The other hand struck her head against the wall with a dull thud, and Leonora's world went black.
◇◇◇
When she woke up, she was tied to a chair.
Not with ropes, but with the very strands of thread she had used to try to kill him. Her cat mask had disappeared, leaving her face exposed. She looked around and recognized the room: it was the same one she had tried to violate night after night. The same bed. The same opening. The same Razel sitting in front of her, watching her with a calmness that was terrifying.
"Who are you," said Razel. It was not a question. It was an order.
Leonora pressed her lips together and did not answer.
Razel sighed and approached her. With one hand, he lifted her chin to examine her face.
"Pretty," he said, as if commenting on the weather. "I didn't expect an assassin to be so pretty."
Leonora felt heat rise to her cheeks.
(What am I feeling? Shame? Anger? Fear? I haven't felt any of that for years. Why does this man make me feel things?)
"You don't need to know who I am," she replied in a firm voice. "I am just an assassin. And I failed. Kill me and be done with it."
"An assassin," repeated Razel, releasing her chin and returning to his chair. "And she sent you... Baron Olston, right?"
Leonora could barely hide her surprise, but it was enough. Razel nodded, as if confirming something he already knew.
"I knew this would happen," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "The fat man is not one to sit idly by. He wants revenge for his son. Understandable, I suppose."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You are going to tell me everything you know. About the baron, about who sent you. Or I will be cruel to you."
Leonora let out a bitter laugh.
"It doesn't matter. In my organization, assassins who fail more than seven times... never see the light of day again. I am already dead. I don't care what you do to me."
Razel raised an eyebrow.
"They will kill you for not killing me?"
"That's right."
"Then..." Razel leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Why not tell me what you know? If you are going to die anyway, what does it matter?"
Leonora looked him in the eyes.
"Because... because I don't know. I don't know anything about the baron. Only that he paid. And that he wants you dead. That's all. The guild does not give us details about clients. We don't care."
Razel watched her for a long moment, then stood up and began to untie her bindings. Leonora watched him in confusion as the strips fell to the floor.
"What are you doing?"
"Thinking," replied Razel, turning his back to her. "I need to think."
Leonora saw her opportunity.
In an instant, her free hands found the available threads still hidden in her sleeves. She tensed them, wrapped them around the chair's arms, and with a quick movement, leaped forward, trying to wrap the threads around Razel's neck.
"This is my last chance!" she shouted. "I'm not going to waste it!"
The threads touched Razel's throat and tightened.
They broke.
The dragon cartilage threads, the same ones that could cut steel, the same ones that had never failed, broke as if they were simple sewing threads. Leonora fell to the floor with the broken ends in her hands, staring at the frayed fibers with an expression of total disbelief.
"Threads," said Razel, touching his neck where the threads had grazed it. "Now I understand why I couldn't see you well when I was half asleep. You use threads. They are thin, hard to detect."
Leonora watched as the veins on his neck glowed before losing their luster.
He turned and walked toward Leonora, who was still on the floor, paralyzed by shock.
She had lost all hope.
"You said those threads were made of dragon cartilage, didn't you?" asked Razel, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "I broke them. That means..."
"You are a monster," whispered Leonora. "No one can break dragon cartilage. No one. Not even the strongest warriors. What are you?"
Razel crouched in front of her, until their faces were at the same height.
"I am someone who has no time for annoying assassins," he said. "And since you have nowhere to go..." a slow smile spread across his lips, "I will make you my property."
Leonora felt the world stop.
"Property?"
"That's right. You said your organization will kill you if you fail. You said it doesn't matter what I do to you because you are already dead. So... why don't you stay with me? I will give you shelter, food, and a purpose. In return, you will be my maid. My personal assassin. Whatever you want."
Leonora opened her mouth to protest, but the words did not come out.
(What is happening? Is this man crazy? Is he... offering me a job? After I tried to kill him eight times?)
"My end has come," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "My greatest regret was not being able to leave that world. Not being able to escape the guild. But now... now I will be free. Even if it is as his property. Even if it is as his maid. I will be free."
She raised her eyes to Razel.
"I accept."
◇◇◇
The next morning, Leonora woke up in a comfortable bed, with clean sheets and a soft pillow under her head.
(Where am I? What happened last night?)
She blinked several times, trying to remember, and then the memory came back like a punch to the stomach.
(I tried to kill him. Eight times. I failed. He offered to make me his property. I accepted.)
She sat up in bed and saw the clothes someone had left on a nearby chair. She got up, dressed, and left the room with unsteady steps.
She found him in the main room. Razel, sitting in an armchair, a cup of steaming tea in his hand and an expression of satisfaction on his face. Beside him, a woman with wavy blond hair and blue eyes watched her with curiosity.
"Ah, you're awake," said Razel, pointing to the woman. "This is Iris. She brought you the uniform."
"Uniform?" asked Leonora, confused.
Iris smiled and handed her a leather bag with clothes inside. Leonora took it, unfolded it, and felt her cheeks burn with shame.
It was a maid's uniform. But not a normal one. It was... ridiculous. A short black dress with a white apron, stockings up to the thighs, and to top it off... cat ears and a tail. A tail that moved when she touched it, as if it had a life of its own.
"What is this?" asked Leonora, her voice trembling. "Why do I have to wear this?"
"Because I feel like it," replied Razel, taking a sip of tea. "You are my property. My maid. You will wear what I tell you."
"This is embarrassing!"
Razel got up from the armchair, approached her, and touched her rear. Leonora let out a stifled cry when she felt the tug, and Razel smiled while Iris averted her gaze.
"It would be a waste to kill you, and Iris also supported the idea of having you here," he said, "and since according to you your life is worthless, I will use you as a maid. Any complaints?"
Leonora clenched her fists, but said nothing.
(This man... this man is worse than the guild. At least there they let me wear my own clothes.)
At that moment, the door opened and Briana entered with a determined step. Her silver hair was tied in a high ponytail, and her amber eyes shone with an emotion Leonora could not identify.
"It is today," said Briana, looking directly at Razel.
"I've been looking everywhere for you."
Razel nodded slowly, remembering what she was talking about.
"That's right."
Iris, who had been watching the scene in silence, frowned.
"What is today? What are you talking about?"
Razel turned to her, and in his black eyes there was a spark of danger that made even Leonora shiver.
"Today is the day," he said, "where I will teach her not to be self-centered and not to underestimate me."
Briana smiled, a wide, fierce smile.
"I have been longing for this day," she said. "And I have the perfect place."
__________________
The fanservice for this occasion is for Jenna.
https://danbooru.donmai.us/posts/10904789