Page 79 of A Sword of Shadow and Deceit

“This is a simple job,” Ophelia continues. “I chose this specifically for your first time.”

I look up at her from beneath my hooded cloak. The night clouds above our heads swarm with darkness—little shadows dancing across them as they shift to cover the moon. The street lanterns are dim, flickering in low pulses as the flames inside sway to and fro.

By this time of the month, the God Lord of this territory has yet to replace the gas within them to keep them going and there are more snuffed out due to lack of fuel than there are those that remain lit. That’s why she chose tonight of all nights, I’d wager. It’s darker, and therefore, it will be harder for anyone to identify me if I make a mistake and am somehow caught.

She’s risking a lot too, I remind myself. Though it doesn’t truly feel like she’s risking anything, not from the way she acts as if nothing can touch her. Not even the Gods.

Ophelia’s head tilts slightly to the side, her chin lifting an inch as if she’s listening for something. I’m left to stare up at the sharp underside of her jaw that, despite her decades of experience within the Underworld, holds not a single scar or wrinkle. Her equally black hair is braided back into twin tails down the sides of her head, disappearing into her cloak. The more I learn of the world outside of the Hinterlands, the more I realize how strange it is for a woman of such beauty to have such a position as head of an assassin Guild.

“Come.” Ophelia offers her hand as she gazes across the street. Knowing I have little choice, I slip my fingers against hers—the paleness of my skin shining like the moon against the midnight sky of hers.

Unlike her face and neck, Ophelia’s hands are where I see the evidence of her humanity. They are littered with tiny little scars. Nicks and cuts. Along the inside of her right wrist, too, there sits the deepest one. Even now, when it’s long since healed, the ragged line where a blade had once cut so deep as to have left a mark on her skin forevermore is a slightly lighter shade than the rest of her skin. I’ve often wondered who could have caused such a wound, but to ask an assassin about their battle scars is to ask them to reveal their secrets and vulnerabilities—an impossibility.

So, I tuck the curiosity away into the back of my mind and cross the road as the first droplets of the night rain begin to fall over us. The wafting aromas of cooking meat filter out of someone’s chimney and my stomach rumbles with hunger. Ophelia ignores the sound and so do I. If I fail my duty tonight then I’ll have more to worry about than an empty stomach.

Together, the two of us hurry down a small pathway and then around a series of small houses, lined up one by one in a row. They’re peasant houses, each of them sharing a wall between them to offer the individual families some sense of privacy.

It’s such a strange idea to me when once I’d only known the single-room hut deep within the Hinterlands that I shared with my dad. With each passing day, week, month, and year … I miss it and all that it represented then and represents for me now.

Freedom.

A thing I will not have if I don’t learn to take up the blade of an assassin and make this first kill.

Ophelia’s footsteps slow to a stop and mine along with her. There, sitting at the top of the hill, far beyond these rows of compressed houses, is a much larger dwelling. The manor of our target. My throat works as I shoot a quick glance to her face and back again.

“The documents said it was a man, right?” I ask, proud of the way my voice doesn’t shake despite my insides doing just that.

“And a woman,” Ophelia replies. “A couple. You will have to kill one and then the other, so I suggest you make your first kill as silent as possible so as not to awaken your second target. If you fail and are captured by the Gods’ authorities…”

She doesn’t need to finish her sentence for her words to take effect. I pull my hand from hers and cross my arms around my stomach as if I can protect it. The not-so-distant memory of brands being pressed into the sensitive flesh of my abdomen and arms and thighs and legs returns. I blink hard as I reject the tears that burn at the backs of my eyes.

A shiver overtakes me. “I won’t fail.”

As much as I don’t want to do this … I can’t afford to fail.

It’s them or me, I remind myself. Them … or me.

Regis’ words of warning return to me as I stare up at the double-storied dwelling atop that hill. Always choose yourself in the worst-case scenario, he told me. That’s what everyone else will do too. You can’t trust them. So, trust the one person you can—yourself. Be selfish.

“Are you coming with me?” I ask as I unwrap my arms from my waist and reach down to double-check that my blades are in place. My hands tremble against the handles, but it’s fine. I’ve done this before … in theory. I’ve trained for this. I’ve fought with Regis and many others. I’ve been taught where each and every weak point is. Every artery and blood vessel that could be used to drain a man or woman of their blood. This is simply putting my lessons into practice. That’s all this is … practice.

Inside my chest, my heart hammers away, driving strange piercing sensations through my body. Like the sharp ends of a carpenter’s nails. Over and over again, it stabs into me until I swear if I reached down and felt across my rib cage that it’d be leaking blood instead of rainwater, and the remains of those nails would be protruding from my flesh, jutting out from even my clothes. Evidence of my heart’s fear.

“I will wait here,” Ophelia answers me. She glances down and though she doesn’t spend long looking me over, I know she’s seen all she needs to. Every tremble in my limbs, though I try to hide them. Every nervous tic that I haven’t yet managed to find and exterminate. She sees all and if I hadn’t seen her bleed myself on the rare occasions she was wounded in practice and watched with careful eyes to see just how long it took those minor cuts to heal, I might think she was more Mortal God than I am. Sometimes, it feels as if she is more than that—like some Goddess whose soul was accidentally placed in the body of a mortal and not a Divine Being.

Ophelia is never afraid. Always confident. Cruel, but not without reason. I could have been purchased by far worse mortals or … I could have been sent to the Gods themselves. I shudder to think of that. Even if they are afforded more luxuries, being unable to walk the streets with others, breathe air in the Hinterlands, or even recall my dad’s face. Those are all priceless to me and worth every bit of pain in my current life. That’s why I need to make this choice. If I ever want to get the peaceful life I remember in the Hinterlands back, I need to be able to survive.

“There is a time limit to this,” Ophelia continues after a brief pause as she assesses me. “You have until sunrise to complete your task. Kill the couple and come back here before the first stretches of gold have reached the sky and your training will be complete.”

I pause at that. I knew this was like some final test, but I wasn’t aware that this singular act would mark the end of my time as an assassin’s apprentice. “Does…” I hesitate to ask it for fear that I already know the answer, but the desire to be sure swells within me, giving me no relief until I have the answer. “Does this mean I’ll be free to leave the Guild?” I ask. “That if I kill these people, I won’t have to sleep in the cells anymore? That I can go out on my own?”

Ophelia’s dark gaze settles on me once more. Her full lips purse together, the edges tipping slightly down as she assesses me … or so I assume. It’s so difficult to tell with her enigmatic expressions. Unlike me, she’s already mastered the act of outward apathy. It’s as if nothing fazes her. No question too bold. No act too repulsive.

“You will never be free, Kiera,” she says. “Not until your debt to the Underworld has been paid in full. But with this, you will have proven that you are capable of taking your place amongst the other assassins in our Guild. You will be given jobs and paid for those jobs. You’ve completed your instructions on what you are to do should your lineage be revealed.” My body tightens all over once more at that reminder. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you again that this is a different matter. Once you’ve taken your first blood, your destruction along with the Underworld’s will be mutually assured. You will become an assassin of the Guild and you will cease to be Kiera, the nomad. So, yes, if you are so concerned with sleeping in the cells—after this night, should you complete your mission to satisfaction, you will be permitted more liberties.”

She bends slightly, arching over me as I tip my head back and stare up into her half-concealed gaze. Though I can see her eyes, pick out the individual strands of brown and red and gold within her irises, I can’t see the true intentions behind her words. In fact, it feels as if she’s hiding something. As if she has always been veiling whatever it is that lays dormant within her.

“Do not, however, mistake what might very well be your newfound liberties for freedom, Kiera,” she warns me. “True freedom comes when you are able to make any and all choices on your own without anyone else’s command or influence. Do your duty well tonight and you will be rewarded. Fail … and you shall understand why there are no failed assassins in existence.”

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