The castle corridors were a maze of arrogance—golden sconces lining stone walls, tapestries depicting battles long past, and polished floors slick with the illusion of power. Kaelen moved through it all like a shadow slipping between cracks, silent and invisible despite the blood drying on her knuckles.
Arrogance breeds carelessness.
She'd learned that the hard way.
The target's chamber was exactly where her informant said it would be—top floor, west wing, guarded by men who looked more like decorations than soldiers. They leaned lazily on spears, distracted, soft from too many days without real threats. Kaelen studied them from the darkened stairwell, her expression cold.
Two guards.
Too easy.
She didn't hesitate.
Moving with the precision of someone who'd done this a hundred times, she stepped into the open. The first guard barely had time to register her presence before her dagger found the soft spot beneath his chin, sliding upward with surgical precision. His body crumpled soundlessly. The second reached for his weapon, but Kaelen was already on him, her movements fluid and brutal—a knee to the gut, an elbow to the temple, and he collapsed in a heap of useless armor.
Pathetic.
She pushed the door open without ceremony. No need for stealth now.
Inside, the room smelled of rich oils and stale wine. Velvet curtains hung heavy over tall windows, and the flicker of firelight danced across the polished surface of a massive oak desk. Behind it sat her target—Lord Garran Veylor—a man whose greed had cost dozens their lives.
Including someone Kaelen used to care about.
"You're late," Garran drawled, swirling wine in an ornate goblet, utterly unfazed by the blood dripping from Kaelen's blade. "I expected my guards to at least slow you down."
Kaelen's lip curled. "They tried. They failed."
He chuckled, setting the goblet down with an exaggerated sigh. "You know, we could've worked together. A woman with your… talents… deserves more than petty contracts and revenge." His eyes flicked over her form, lingering too long.
Wrong move.
Kaelen crossed the room in three strides. Before Garran could rise, she slammed him back into his chair, her dagger pressed against his throat.
"You think I kill for coin?" she whispered, her voice a low, venomous rasp. "No. I kill because people like you deserve to die."
His bravado faded, replaced by fear. She saw it in the twitch of his jaw, the widening of his pupils. That flicker of terror—that was her payment.
She could've ended it right there. Quick. Clean.
But Garran Veylor hadn't earned a merciful death.
Kaelen's dagger found its mark, slow and deliberate, her face emotionless as he gurgled and choked on his own blood. She didn't flinch. Didn't blink. When it was over, she wiped the blade on his expensive silk robes, leaving a crimson smear across gold embroidery.
A fitting signature.
She turned to leave, her heart as steady as her steps.
No remorse.
No hesitation.
But as she stepped into the corridor, she felt it—a prickle at the back of her neck, a tension in the air she couldn't explain.
She wasn't alone.
Kaelen spun, blade raised, but there was no one there. Only shadows stretching long in the flickering torchlight.
Strange.
She dismissed the feeling, slipping into the darkness once more.
Unaware that fate was already moving, pulling invisible strings toward something far more dangerous than revenge.