This was the first time I had ever made a mistake while killing someone—or rather, assassinating someone. And it wasn't a simple mistake like making a small noise or leaving a trace of evidence. No, I almost exposed my face. If someone had recognized me, I'd be dead by now.

To explain a little: I was hired to take out the leader of the biggest trade group in the city, a job ordered by his rival. I was certain I could complete the mission; after all, I'm one of the most skilled and notorious assassins in the kingdom. The risk was high, and so was the reward—there was no way I was letting this mission slip through my fingers.

After two weeks of careful research, I finally crafted a plan. I knew exactly when the target would be alone at home. That night, I slipped into his house through an open window—a window his wife constantly nagged him to keep shut. She was a cautious woman and might have saved him if she hadn't been away, mourning her brother's death.

I tiptoed through the house, reaching his library where I saw an oil lamp burning on the table. The room appeared empty, but then a dark figure emerged in the doorway. I quickly hid behind a shelf, holding my breath. He must have sensed something; I could hear his footsteps approaching. Gripping my metal stick, I prepared to strike. My original plan was to make it look like a suicide, but plans can change in an instant.

As he stepped into view, I lunged, ready to grab his throat. But he wasn't as naive as I'd thought. He held a shiny blade, and in a flash, he was about to stab me. I reacted instinctively, grabbing his arm and kicking him in the stomach, sending him crashing to the floor. I twisted his arm behind his back, the knife clattering to the floor as he groaned in pain.

"Who are you?!" he screamed, his voice filled with a mix of fear and fury.

"Ever heard the name Vespera?" I whispered into his ear, causing him to shiver and his eyes to widen in fear.

"Why me?!" he screamed, his voice shaking with terror.

"You weren't on my list," I said coldly, "but your rival insists you must die."

"I can offer you a fortune!" he begged, writhing in an attempt to escape my hold.

I tightened my grip, forcing him to groan in pain."10,000 Zephs!" he screamed, his voice trembling with fear.

I leaned in close, my breath brushing against his ear as I whispered, "That's a tempting offer, but it just so happens that's exactly what I've been paid to kill you."

I twisted his arm sharply, the sickening crack echoed through the room as he groaned in agony. "15,000 Zephs!" he gasped, desperation dripping from his words.

A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips. "You really think you can buy your way out of this?" I mocked, tightening my grip. "Throwing around numbers like that only proves how little you value your life."

His eyes darted around the room, wild and panicked. "How much do you want?" he spat, trying to mask his fear with bravado.

I sighed, shaking my head. "I might've considered a deal," I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "but you've seen my face. That changes everything."

His expression twisted with rage, his eyes burning with fury. "So you never planned to let me live, you bitch!" he snarled, attempting to spit at me. I dodged effortlessly, my smirk never fading.

"I just wanted to see how much your life was worth to you," I replied, my tone cold and detached. "Turns out, you're even greedier than I thought."

The smile vanished from my face, replaced by a chilling darkness that seeped into my voice. I twisted his arm once more, and the bone snapped with a nauseating crack. His scream was muffled by my hand, which I clamped over his mouth to silence him. The nearest houses weren't close, but a scream could still carry in the dead of night.

He struggled violently, shoving me back with a burst of adrenaline. I stumbled, landing hard on the floor, but I quickly spotted him reaching for a knife. I kicked it away just in time, sending it skidding across the room.

Our eyes locked, and I saw the hatred burning in his gaze. I rose to my feet, my movements swift and deadly. I lashed out, kicking his left knee with enough force to shatter it. He collapsed to the ground, his body broken and defeated.

I moved in for the final blow, my hand closing around his throat. He gasped for air, the veins in his neck bulging under the pressure. I raised the metal stick, ready to end his life swiftly and cleanly, when suddenly, I heard the sound of footsteps rushing toward us.

The door burst open, and in the doorway stood the smith's son, an oil lamp casting flickering shadows across his terrified face.

But how? He was supposed to be away on a trade trip, not back until tomorrow evening!

"Dad!" he cried, rushing toward his father.

There was no time to hesitate. I drove the metal stick into the smith's neck and bolted for the door. The son knelt by his father, his face contorting in grief, but he quickly abandoned him to chase after me, screaming, "HELP! HELP! It's a thief!"

Thief? The insult stung, but I had no time to dwell on it. I just prayed he hadn't seen my face.

I dashed through the library, my heart pounding in my chest. The shelves loomed above me, and with a leap, I grabbed hold and began to climb. By some miracle, they didn't collapse under my weight. The trader had built them strong, perhaps expecting a confrontation like this.

I reached the top, my fingers fumbling as I pushed open the small window. Cold night air rushed in, and I squeezed through the opening, vanishing into the shadows.

"Mom, did you eat your breakfast and drink the smoothie I gave you?" I called from the kitchen, my hands busy scrubbing the dishes.

My mom appeared beside me, quietly placing her empty plate into the sink. "Yes, darling," she replied softly, "Now, let me do the dishes." She reached for the cloth in my hands, but I held it tight, turning around to continue wiping the plate.

"You know you're not well, Mom. You need to rest," I insisted, giving her a firm look.

She sighed, her frail body betraying her strength as she pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. "But it breaks my heart to see you doing all the work while I'm of no use," she murmured, staring down at her thin, pale hands.

My heart clenched with guilt. I hated seeing her like this, feeling like a burden. I put down the cloth and turned to her, taking her hand in mine. "Mom," I said gently, "If you push yourself too hard, you'll only get worse, and I can't let that happen. Not when I'm so close to curing you."

I turned away for a moment, wiping away the tears that threatened to spill from the corner of my eye. I couldn't let her see me cry—not now. I forced a smile as I turned back to her. "So, how was the food?" I asked, placing a hand on my hip, trying to lighten the mood.

"Delicious as always," she said with a faint smile. "You're a wonderful chef, just like your dad."

"Really? Then that's a compliment!" I beamed, the warmth of my mother's words filling my heart. But a faint voice from outside caught my attention, and through the window, I saw an old man standing there, looking frail.

I turned to my mom and smiled. "Looks like Mr. Waylon needs my help."

She nodded, her eyes gentle. "It seems so. Go on, honey."

Wiping my wet hands on my apron, I set it aside and opened the door. Mr. Waylon's face lit up as soon as he saw me.

"Oh, my child! You look as happy and healthy as always. How are you doing?" he asked, his voice warm but tired.

"I'm doing well, Mr. Waylon, but what about you? Is everything alright?" I asked, a bit concerned.

"Oh, I'm just fine! Your medicine works wonders, but I'm out of it now. Could you please get me another bottle?" he requested with a hopeful smile.

"Of course," I replied, nodding as I headed back into the house. I searched the kitchen cabinets, noticing that my mom had retreated to her room to rest. Her frail body needed more rest than the average person. I found the bottle Mr. Waylon needed, and just beside it, another bottle caught my eye. Suddenly, I remembered that I had to deliver this one to Mrs. Shamwel as well.

I took both bottles and returned outside, handing one to Mr. Waylon. He thanked me with a grateful smile, and after a brief exchange of goodbyes, I made my way toward the other side of the city.

Within five minutes, I reached the city—a place that had been the talk of everyone after the brutal murder of the trader yesterday by Vespera. I quickly delivered the medicine to Mrs. Shamwel and decided to take a different route back, one that passed by the Smith's house.

As I approached, I saw a crowd gathered, people mourning, and royal guards standing by, investigating the case. My heart raced as I was about to move ahead, but then, Smith's son looked up, and our eyes locked.

Panic surged through me. Had he recognized me? If he told the guards, it would be over. Who would take care of my mom then? This was the second mistake I'd made in a row. First, not gathering enough information and taking too long to kill the merchant, and now, passing by his house so soon after the assassination.

Our eye contact lasted only three seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Then, he looked down again, his body wracked with sobs as he held his head in his hands. The raw pain in his eyes was a feeling I wasn't used to. I never revisited the scene of a kill—especially not the next day.

My heart pounded with fear and guilt as I forced myself to move forward, not daring to look back.