Catching the Assassin

Rashan sighed as he thought back.

He had done what he needed to do—see the killer and go back so he could save his brother.

He was certain it was tied to schemes—maybe a rival family, maybe the Dominion. Honestly, he didn't care.

The assassin had disguised himself as a servant. That much was clear. But thinking back, Rashan realized he hadn't even noticed the man until after Kamal was dead.

That needed to change.

If he could spot the man earlier, he could report him before the attack happened. He didn't need to fight—he was talented, yes, but he was still only eight. There were limits to what he could handle.

He got dressed early, letting his mind drift as he wrapped the familiar sash around his waist. The fabric was soft, worn from countless uses, a stark contrast to the formal clothes he'd have to wear later. He didn't bother fixing his hair—it would get ruined if things went the way he expected.

He went to find Saadia, who was still getting ready, her back to him as she adjusted her veil.

"I'm bored." He leaned against the doorway. "I think I'll walk around before things get started."

She barely spared him a glance, fixing the golden cuffs around her wrists. "Try not to get into trouble."

He left before she could press him for more details.

The estate was already buzzing with early preparations. Servants carried trays of spices, arranging dishes on long tables, while others adjusted the tapestries hanging from the open-air columns. Some of the younger nobles wandered about, stretching their legs before being forced to sit through long, tedious ceremonies.

He ignored all of it.

Instead, he found a vantage point—one where he could watch without standing out.

The assassin had fired from above, meaning they had to get up there somehow. That meant a path. An entry point. Somewhere that looked ordinary but allowed them to climb unseen.

So he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

This was the boring part.

Movies and stories always made things seem fast. A dramatic pause, a flicker of movement, and suddenly the hero spots the villain.

Reality was hours of watching absolutely nothing happen.

The sun climbed higher. The heat pressed against his skin, thick and dry. The scent of roasting spices drifted through the air as the cooks worked in the background. He absentmindedly popped a jujube into his mouth—the small red fruit was sweet, slightly tangy, the kind of thing that made his fingers sticky if he wasn't careful.

More waiting.

More mind-numbing waiting.

He shifted on his feet, rolling his shoulders. He could have been training right now. He could have been reading. Instead, he was here, watching nothing.

Then, finally—

Bingo.

A servant. The same face. The same disguise. Moving too deliberately, keeping his head down, blending just enough without drawing attention.

But no bow.

Rashan frowned. An accomplice?

That complicated things. But it didn't matter. He just needed to set his plan in motion.

He got up, dusted off his hands, and went to find his father.

That took longer than expected.

His father wasn't in the usual places—not in his private chambers, not in the war room, not in the shaded alcove where he sometimes took meetings. Rashan had to keep moving, ducking through the winding corridors of the estate, dodging servants and noble guests alike.

By the time he finally spotted him, his father was deep in conversation with important guests—other nobles, maybe military officials. Rashan didn't particularly care who they were.

Time to ruffle some feathers.

"Father."

His father kept talking.

"Father."

His father sighed, glancing down. "Hmm? Who is it?" Then, realizing, he offered a brief apology to the person he was speaking with.

Rashan kept his voice calm but serious. "It's very important that I speak to you. Privately."

He saw his father studying him, weighing whether this was worth his time. After a moment, he nodded. "Excuse me for a moment."

He led Rashan to a more secluded spot—a sign of respect. Rashan had earned some credibility. He trained hard, he followed the rules, and he never wasted time on nonsense. His father wouldn't dismiss him outright.

"What is it, my son?"

Rashan kept his tone measured. "I was eating fruit and watching the servants set up, and I noticed something… concerning."

His father's brow furrowed slightly. "Servants?" He sounded confused, almost skeptical. Why would you bother me with this?

Rashan pressed forward. "There's a man among them who does not belong."

His father's expression remained unreadable.

"He is an Imperial. He's disguised—his skin has been darkened to match ours. The work is exceptionally well done, but it is still a disguise."

There was a flicker of intrigue in his father's eyes now.

"How do you know this?"

Time to reveal some skills.

Rashan met his father's gaze evenly. "I remember everything."

His father's expression didn't change. "What do you mean?"

"Everything I see. Everything I read. Everything I hear. I remember it all."

His father was silent, studying him.

Rashan went in for the kill. "Would you like me to tell you what the documents on your table said the day I asked to learn magic and tested my martial skills? You accidentally set them down in a way that I could see the writing."

His father's expression shifted—subtle, but it was there. Rashan knew he had his attention now.

"We shall talk about this talent of yours in more detail later," his father said, his expression unreadable. "Now, describe the man."

"Sure," Rashan said, voice steady. "And I can tell you where he went as well."

His father studied him for a moment, then nodded. Without another word, he turned, gesturing to his personal guard. "Stay here." Then he left, moving with the deliberate, controlled precision of a man who had given many such orders before.

Rashan exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he took in the courtyard.

The wedding preparations were still in full swing, the brief disturbance unnoticed by the majority of the estate.

He caught sight of Jalil, hauling a tray of silks with some of the other servants.

Rashan lifted a hand in a small wave.

Jalil, ever dutiful, quickly waved back before returning to his work.

Hmm. Maybe he should make him his personal servant. Not to actually serve him, of course, but to learn alongside him. Knowledge was power, and a sharp mind was as deadly as a sharp blade. If Jalil developed both, he could be something much greater than just another guard or retainer.

Something to consider.

Less than an hour later, one of his father's guards approached. "Your father requests your presence. Come."

Rashan followed without hesitation, moving through the quieter halls of the estate, past stone-carved archways and heavy, silk-draped corridors. The guard led him into a dimly lit back chamber—not quite a dungeon, but something close.

His father stood in the center of the room.

And in front of him, bound and barely breathing, was the assassin.

The man was tied to a chair, arms and legs twisted at unnatural angles, his breathing ragged, his chest barely rising with each shallow inhale. Blood stained his tunic, spreading across the fabric in dark patches, though from how still he was, Rashan wasn't sure if he even felt pain anymore.

His father glanced at him, his expression calm, almost pleased. "My son, you have done a great thing. This man is an assassin from the Dark Brotherhood. A very dangerous man."

There was no anger, no tension in his father's voice. Just a simple statement of fact.

"We lost three guards."

Rashan's gaze flickered back to the assassin. Now that he was looking closer, he saw the details—the swollen bruises, the deep fractures in his limbs.

His arms and legs had been broken.

Nice.

"What was his purpose, Father?"

His father smiled slightly, a sharp, knowing curve of his lips. "He will not tell us."

He gestured to the assassin's ruined body. "But I wanted to show you the good you have done."

Rashan exhaled, staring at the man, his mind drifting.

Dark Brotherhood.

A contract killing.

Looking at him, he couldn't help but think of Gogron gro-Bolmog, the Orc assassin from the Dark Brotherhood in Skyrim.

"For example, this one time I had a contract to kill a little Nord girl at her birthday party," Gogron had once said with a laugh. "She asked me if I was the jester! So I said to her, 'No, I am a messenger of death.' You should have seen the look on her face! Ha ha ha ha! Anyway, she won't be seeing age six!"

That memory had always unsettled him.

And now?

Standing here, looking at the broken assassin in front of him?

It felt too real.

This world was brutal.

Rashan focused his cursor on the man.

Tiberius Varro.

An Imperial name, clear as day. Just like the game.

Not that he would tell anyone.

He had done what he could. His brother was still alive—for now. That was all that mattered.

"What was he doing, Father? Did he have a weapon?"

His father nodded to one of the guards, who stepped forward and pulled a small object from his belt, holding it up for Rashan to see.

A dagger.

Not just any dagger.

Rashan's eyes narrowed.

Whoa.

That was definitely a Dark Brotherhood dagger. Same design. Same eerie black metal. Same serrated edges.

It sent a chill through him—not from fear, but from familiarity. He had seen this weapon before. He had used it before—in the game.

"Anything else?" Rashan asked.

His father shook his head. "Nothing of note."

Rashan frowned. Weird.

"Then why would he be in a vantage spot?"

His father's expression hardened. He turned slightly, looking at the bound man with renewed consideration.

Then it clicked.

His father snapped his fingers, calling a nearby guard. "I expect triple duty tonight. Constant patrols, roving rotations, and immediate reporting of anything unusual. I want everything tested by an alchemist."

Rashan realized it at the same time.

The food.

His father wanted it tested for poison.

"Patrols must be roving, and all vantage points secured," his father continued.

"Yes, Sire!" The guard saluted in the traditional Redguard fashion, fist over heart, before turning sharply and marching off to carry out his orders.

Rashan smirked to himself. Looks like there was still going to be a wedding after all.

He turned back to the assassin, eyes tracing the broken man's features.

Then—without hesitation—his father pulled out a dagger and stabbed him straight through the heart.

Dead.

Rashan grinned inwardly.

That's what you get for cutting my throat, asshole.