Assassin Princess

 

Her very existence depended on her ability to conceal. The nature of her job required clandestine living and a life-long attachment to secrecy. With each sickening clash of flesh and blade, with each stifled voice and twisted neck, her demand grew, and she was drawn into the world of stealth and cruelty again and again. It was thrilling, but she found it haunting.

Even after storing the knives and throwing her black clothes into the furnace, she couldn’t forget. Her nights were plagued by images and recurring memories of those she had stolen life from. Eyes of deep red, begging her mercy, eyes that never saw her blades slitting their throats; these were the eyes she found looking at her everytime she close hers. Even though she held nothing against them, they wouldn’t let her rest. They wouldn’t let her sleep.

What she hated the most was lying about this to the man of her life, a great man of deep thoughts, Leon Seneca was the one reason she sheathed the assassin's blades. Although she knew he wouldn’t love her any less, she feared he would see her in a different light, and that was the only risk she was afraid to take so far. Her secret life – her undisclosed former life – would remain hidden from him. It seemed better this way. Although she knew that one day the past would catch up to her, she didn’t think that the first disaster to strike her home would directly involve her husband.

Spilled spices. Broken Jars. A smashed window and an unhinged door. Evidence of a rough break-in, nothing seemed to have been stolen but one, significant thing. Leon Seneca was not in the scene. 

There was no blood, but she saw signs of struggle. Her mind raced. She imagined him in horrible scenarios. What would they want with him? She immediately knew. Upon entering her husband’s study, she saw books scattered everywhere and scrolls tossed aside. Sure enough, the most valuable book wasn’t there. But why would they drag him away too, why him?

A screech filled the air. This was the call of a messenger bird. The bright blue pigeon flew across the scene of chaos, in its legs, a parchment wrapped in a ribbon. Keira darted out of her ruined cottage and swiftly caught the parcel. In it was a note with the hurried scribble she knew so well.

Even after ten years, she remembered. The parchment reeked of herb, the famous Apoi leaf to be exact. Potion masters and alchemists added this ingredient to a concoction to create fire. When applied raw unto a piece of paper, it would burst into flames when in contact with skin too long.

Tavern. Seek out Shiela.

After hurriedly reading the note, she tossed it into the wind and watched it be engulfed in sudden flames. Then it was gone. And so was she.