Chadwick Rye

The vial gleamed in the candlelight, its contents shifting between emerald and midnight as I rotated it between my fingers. Distilled from the rare moonbloom flower that grows only on cliffs touched by both sunset and moonrise simultaneously, the toxin had cost me three months’ earnings and a favor I would rather not have owed. Yet as I prepared for tonight’s task, I considered it perhaps the wisest investment of my career.

They call me Vex in the shadows of Crow’s Harbor. Other names have been whispered over the years, the Silent Blade, the Gray Ghost, occasionally the King of Spiders when certain nobles wish to frighten their children. Twenty-two years in this profession have taught me that names, like lives, are transient things. Only reputation endures.

And reputation, in my line of work, is built on immaculate execution.

I tucked the vial into the specialized pocket sewn within my doublet, positioned precisely over my heart. An irony not lost on me, death’s instrument protected by the very organ whose beating it was designed to stop. My chambers within the abandoned clocktower remained sparse by design: a narrow bed seldom used, a writing desk with correspondence I would burn before departure, a wall of specialized tools disguised as the collection of an eccentric scholar.

From its resting place came my signature garrote, braided silver wire with obsidian handles, crafted by a master weaponsmith who believed he was creating an astronomical measurement device. The wire caught the muted lamplight as I coiled it carefully into its hidden compartment within my left sleeve. I would not need it tonight, if all went as planned. But twenty-two years had also taught me that plans rarely survive first contact with their targets.

The night air carried the scent of salt and pending rain as I moved across the rooftops of the merchant district. The full moon had not yet risen, leaving the city cloaked in perfect shadow. Below, the occasional patrol of city guards moved with predictable patterns, oblivious to my passage overhead. Their lanterns created pools of visibility that any professional would avoid with contemptuous ease.

My destination loomed ahead, the sprawling estate of Lord Harrow Blackthorne, Master of Coin to the region’s governor and architect of the taxation scheme that had crushed three neighboring villages into starvation. Though my client’s identity remained anonymous, as required by the Guild’s protocols, their motivation was evident in the detailed brief. Blackthorne’s removal would be celebrated by thousands who would never know the hand that delivered their justice.

I had spent seventeen days observing his household. Seventeen days of cataloging guard rotations, servant schedules, and the lord’s personal habits. Most assassins would consider such extensive surveillance excessive. Most assassins also met premature ends at the executor’s block.

Blackthorne’s security appeared immaculate, personal tasters, rotating guard patterns, protective wards renewed weekly by the court magister. His reputation for paranoia was well-earned and, under normal circumstances, justified. But circumstances had aligned to create a singular vulnerability, a moment of perfect opportunity that required perfect timing.

And a risk I had never before contemplated.

The southwestern balcony appeared exactly as my intelligence had promised, unguarded during the transitional minutes between patrol shifts, its doors ajar to capture the evening breeze. Blackthorne’s taster had retired with a headache, courtesy of the mild irritant I had introduced to his afternoon wine. Not enough to raise suspicions, just enough to ensure the lord would dine alone tonight.

I slipped inside, my footfalls silent against marble floors that had been purchased with the tears of those Blackthorne had systematically impoverished. The dining chamber lay ahead, fragrant with roasted meats and spiced wine. From the corridor, I could see him seated alone at the massive table meant for twenty, hunched over documents even as he mechanically conveyed food from plate to mouth.

The risk I had chosen crystallized before me. Traditional methods, blade, wire, or conventional poisons, would trigger immediate investigative responses. The Guild would be implicated; retribution would fall on operatives throughout the region. Blackthorne’s death needed to appear natural, yet all natural causes would be questioned given his position. Unless…

I withdrew the vial of moonbloom extract. Unlike standard toxins, this rare substance didn’t kill through conventional means. When ingested, it replicated the conditions of a failing heart with such precision that even court physicians with magical assistance could detect no foul play. The victim simply… ceased, as though their allotted heartbeats had finally exhausted themselves.

The risk lay not in its application but in its acquisition. The alchemist who had provided it, a hunched figure known only as Mordath, operated outside Guild-sanctioned channels. Engaging with him meant placing myself at the mercy of an unvetted individual who now possessed knowledge of my methods and intentions. In the careful calculus of assassination, such exposure represented an unacceptable vulnerability.

For twenty-two years, I had adhered to the Guild’s first principle: maintain absolute operational security. Never create witnesses. Never leave connections that could be traced. Never depend on resources outside our carefully cultivated network.

I had violated all three precepts in obtaining the moonbloom extract.

As Blackthorne reached for his wine goblet, I made my decision. With movements practiced to the point of instinct, I slipped from shadow to shadow until I stood behind his chair. The vial opened with a faint sigh, its contents disappearing into the wine while his attention remained fixed on financial ledgers that documented his methodical theft.

My exit followed the same careful path as my entrance, though I remained on the estate grounds longer than safety dictated. Concealed among the sculpted hedges of Blackthorne’s prized garden, I watched through the dining room windows as he drained his goblet. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Then, with a puzzled expression, he pressed one hand to his chest. Confusion transformed into comprehension, then fear, before he slumped forward onto his documents.

Only then did I depart, leaving no trace of my presence save the empty vial, which I buried beneath the roots of an imported silverleaf tree that would doubtless wither in soil to which it was ill-suited, a final irony to mark Blackthorne’s passing.

The Guild received confirmation of his death three days later. Heart failure, the official report stated. Unsurprising, given his indulgent lifestyle and advanced age. No investigation was launched. No suspicions raised. The contract was marked complete, my payment delivered through the usual channels. A perfect execution, by all measurable standards.

But the risk remained. Somewhere in the twilight markets of Crow’s Harbor, the alchemist Mordath continued his trade with knowledge that could destroy everything I had built. For weeks, I waited for blackmail demands or rumors to surface in the networks I monitored. None came.

Two months after Blackthorne’s death, I received an unexpected message, not a threat, but a request. A small village on the outskirts of the region sought the alchemist’s help with a wasting illness affecting their children. They could not pay his standard fee. Would I consider offsetting the cost, given that their suffering stemmed directly from Blackthorne’s policies?

I recognized the true message beneath the formal request. Mordath had not merely sold me a poison; he had made me a hidden partner in his own form of justice. The risk I had taken extended beyond Guild protocols into more dangerous territory, moral alignment with causes beyond contract fulfillment.

Against every protocol, I authorized the payment through an untraceable proxy. One month later, reports reached the capital of the village’s miraculous recovery. No connection to either myself or Mordath appeared in any intelligence I gathered.

Instead, I received a small wooden box containing a single dried moonbloom flower and a note bearing three words: “Debts fully settled.”

Years have passed since that contract. The risk I took, placing trust outside the Guild’s careful systems, exposing myself to potential compromise, violated everything my training had established as inviolable principle. Yet I cannot bring myself to regret it.

Blackthorne’s death brought more than payment. It restored life to communities he had systematically destroyed. The villages recovered. Fields that had lain fallow bloomed again. Children who might have starved instead thrived. And my unsanctioned alliance with Mordath evolved into an occasional exchange of information and resources that has proven valuable in ways Guild connections never could.

Some nights, when contracts bring me back to that region, I pass through those revitalized villages in disguise. I watch harvests being gathered by people who will never know my face or name. I see futures unfolding that would have been extinguished had I adhered strictly to Guild methodologies.

The risk remains active, Mordath still exists as a potential vulnerability. Our arrangement still violates fundamental protocols. Any Guild inquisitor would condemn me without hesitation for such continued exposure.

Yet as I move through shadows cast by moonlight, calculating angles of approach and methods of elimination with the precision that has kept me alive for twenty-two years, I carry that dried moonbloom flower in a hidden pocket next to instruments of death. A reminder that in a profession defined by endings, I once chose a beginning.

Some risks cannot be measured in conventional metrics of survival. Some gambles answer to calculations beyond simple preservation. I risked my reputation, my standing, perhaps my life itself by trusting someone outside the careful structures I had always operated within.

I would make the same choice again tomorrow, without hesitation or regret.

For what is the purpose of surviving if not, occasionally, to truly live with the consequences of choices that matter?

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