Chapter 3 : Revien

My blade connected with one of our assassins, and we circled each other in silence, calculating the next move. He lunged, aiming for a clean slash, but I moved too quickly. Sliding low against the ground, I ducked under his blade and spun around, slashing his hind legs.

He let out a guttural groan, and I couldn't help the smile that crept across my face.

Struggling, he used his sword as a crutch to push himself upright, his hands braced on his knees. I stepped forward, my grip on my blade tightening. Two swift slashes created an X across his chest. He staggered, and without hesitation, I drove my sword through his neck, twisting it for good measure before pulling it free.

His body collapsed with a loud thud. Bystanders, well-practiced in the routine, quickly hauled the body away.

"Azazil," a voice called from behind me.

I tilted my head slightly but didn't turn around. "Shavon."

"Mikha'il Ra Gual has summoned you."

I handed my sword to a servant, wiping my hands on my black tunic, and made my way to my father's chambers.

Knocking lightly, I waited for his deep voice to grant permission. "Come in."

I entered, my shoulders tense, arms folded across my chest. "Father."

"Son." His gaze was as sharp as ever. "I have a mission for you."

My ears perked up, and I felt the corners of my lips twitch.

"Don't look too pleased," he warned, his voice hard. "This is your last chance. You've defied me too many times, doing things your way. If you stray from the plan again, there will be consequences."

He didn't need to elaborate. I knew he meant death.

In any other world, the idea of a twelve-year-old assassin might seem absurd. But in our world—within the Guild of Assassins—it was expected. My father, Mikha'il Ra Gual, was the leader, and I was his prince. He had raised me to be a killer, training me alongside the best.

I could end a man in fifty different ways, but each kill chipped away at the remnants of my humanity. I didn't mind. In fact, I enjoyed it. The thrill of the kill made my blood sing. But that same thrill was a constant source of disappointment for my father.

The Guild operated under a strict code: save the many over the few. We weren't heroes, but we weren't senseless murderers either. To my father, killing was a tool, not a game. To me, it was both.

"Where am I going?" I asked, my voice unnaturally chipper as I rocked on my heels.

My father's frown deepened, clearly unimpressed by my enthusiasm. "China."

"China," I repeated, rolling the word over my tongue.

"You'll take Shavon with you. He'll ensure you stay in line."

I clenched my jaw, the muscles tightening with suppressed anger. "And what if I kill him?"

My father's expression darkened, and for a moment, I thought he might strike me. But he didn't. He wouldn't. I was his heir, and though he tried to bury it, I knew he loved me.

Love—a foolish emotion. It was his weakness, not mine.

Shavon was lucky. Despite my threats, I had no intention of killing him. He was thirty, an ex-military man who had been pulled into the Guild by my father. He found my antics amusing, which made him tolerable company.

"Fine," I muttered.

My father waved me off, signaling the end of the conversation.

We boarded a private plane and were en route to China within the hour. As we flew, I flipped through a folder containing a picture of my target: a diplomat. His bland features stared back at me, and I couldn't suppress a smirk.

"Find his location," I ordered.

The tech team worked quickly, their fingers flying over their keyboards like frantic rats. Their efficiency irritated me. Where was the fun in being so robotic?

It took an entire day to reach China. Our headquarters, hidden deep in the mountains, was entirely off the grid—impossible for any government or group to locate.

The next morning, I got to work.

I positioned myself along the path my target jogged daily. Sitting on the ground, I wailed like a lost child, tears streaking my dirt-smeared cheeks. Sure enough, my target stopped, glancing around cautiously before crouching down in front of me.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice gentle.

"I lost my mommy," I sobbed, clutching my knees.

"Hmm," he murmured, his eyes scanning the area. "Let's find her." He took my hand.

We walked toward the black van waiting at the edge of the street. As soon as we reached it, my men sprang into action, grabbing him and pulling him inside. I climbed into the van as Shavon knocked the diplomat unconscious.

"Drive," I ordered, settling into my seat as the vehicle sped toward the outskirts of the country.

The diplomat stirred, his eyes wide with fear as he realized he was bound and gagged. I smirked.

"Don't piss yourself," I said casually. "You're lucky, really. I'm just supposed to kill you. No torture this time."

He screamed against the tape covering his mouth, his muffled cries filling the van.

When we reached the burial site, my men dug a deep hole. I patted the diplomat on the back before they dragged him out and tossed him into the pit. His terrified eyes met mine as I stood above him.

"Goodbye," I said simply, pulling the trigger.

The gunshot echoed across the barren landscape. I handed Shavon his gun and turned away.

"Bury him and meet us at the airstrip," I ordered.

The men nodded, and Shavon followed me to the waiting car.

As we drove back into the city, the car came to an abrupt stop.

"What the hell?" I muttered, stepping out to investigate.

There, sitting on the ground, was a girl. She looked younger than me, her black hair cascading around her frail body like a blanket. But it was her eyes that caught my attention—eyes that mirrored my own darkness.

She didn't look afraid. In fact, she glared at me, defiant despite her pitiful state.

I felt a smile tug at my lips. For reasons I couldn't explain, I held out my hand.

"Do you need help?" I asked.