Chadwick Rye

Chasing moonlight across the rooftops of Ravencourt, I pause at the edge of an ancient belltower. Below, the nobility’s quarter sleeps in ignorant luxury, unaware of the death that perches above them like a patient gargoyle. My contract tonight is simple: the Merchant Prince who’s been funding the Duke’s secret army will not see tomorrow’s sunrise.

The night air carries the scent of jasmine from courtyard gardens, mingling with the ever-present undertones of the sea. I inhale deeply, centering myself in this moment of perfect solitude.

Three objects. That’s what occupies my thoughts as I calculate the distance to the Merchant Prince’s balcony. In my line of work, possessions are liabilities—weights that can drag you down when you need to disappear. Yet there are three shadows I carry always, three extensions of myself I’d sooner lose a limb than surrender.

First, my curved dagger, Whisper.

I slide it partially from its sheath now, letting starlight dance along its edge. The blade is Moonforge steel, a metal so rare that kingdoms have fallen for less precious treasures. It curves like a crescent moon, the perfect shape for slipping between ribs or severing arteries with surgical precision. The handle bears no adornment save a single groove worn by my thumb through fifteen years of use.

Whisper’s history runs deeper than most realize. This was my mother’s blade before mine, and her mother’s before that—eight generations of throat-cutters and royal assassins, each adding their own silent kills to its legacy. I’ve cleaned the blood of thirty-seven targets from its surface, each name memorized and carried like stones in my conscience.

When I was twelve, training in the shadows of the Onyx Brotherhood, Master Sho placed Whisper in my hands for the first time. “This blade will never lie to you,” he said. “It makes no promises it cannot keep. Remember that when men offer you their vows.”

Second, the vial of Midnight Tears poison.

My fingers brush the obsidian container nestled against my heart. Barely larger than a thimble, it contains six drops of the most versatile death in my arsenal. Distilled from the tears of executed murderers collected at the moment of death, combined with essence of nightshade and the crushed petals of ghost orchids that bloom only during lunar eclipses.

The Brotherhood’s alchemist, blind Mistress Vega, spent seventeen months teaching me its preparation. “Poison is patience made liquid,” she would whisper as we worked by candlelight. “It trusts time to complete what it begins.”

One drop in wine brings a peaceful death that mimics heart failure. Two drops cause hallucinations so vivid the target claws their own eyes out. Three drops—well, I’ve only used three drops once, on the Tyrant of Westmarch. The chamber servants who found him still wake screaming.

The vial itself is my constant reminder that death comes in many forms, not all of them requiring proximity or strength. When all other paths close, a single drop ensures I’ll never be taken alive.

Finally, my most treasured possession: the Nightingale Locket.

I withdraw it from beneath my assassin’s leathers—a tarnished silver oval bearing the etching of a bird in flight. Inside rests a curl of sun-gold hair, so at odds with my world of darkness and shadow. My daughter’s hair, cut on her fifth birthday before I left her with the sisters at the Sanctuary of Dawn. The only person alive who knows my true name.

She believes her mother is a merchant sailor, crossing distant seas. A necessary deception—the Brotherhood forbids such attachments, viewing them as vulnerabilities to be exploited. If my masters discovered her existence, neither the Sanctuary’s hallowed walls nor my reputation would protect her.

The locket reminds me that beyond the blood and shadow, beyond contracts and coin, there exists another possible life. A horizon I work toward with each throat cut, each corrupt noble removed from the world’s chessboard.

I replace the locket against my skin, feeling its familiar weight settle over my heart. Below, a candle flickers to life in the Merchant Prince’s chamber—my cue to move. I calculate angles, identify handholds, commit the guard rotations to memory.

Three objects—a blade that never lies, a poison that never fails, a promise I refuse to break. These are the shadows I carry, the extensions of myself in a world where attachment means death.

With practiced silence, I drop from the belltower, becoming one with the darkness below. Tonight, Whisper will speak again, adding another name to its legacy.

And tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll be one kill closer to leaving this life behind.

But can an assassin ever truly escape the shadows? Comment your answer.

If you like this little story please consider subscribing to my blog so that you don’t miss any new ones. Also you can check out other stories that I have written and are currently writing like Forbidden Bond, a tale about a human falling in love with a Half goblin while being hunted down by fallen angels and evil nobles. Or you can check out Chronicles of the Giantess and follow Valorie the Giantess as she adventures across the land of Calladan. Please feel free to leave me a comment. I would love to know what you think about any of the stories.