The medicine was useless. I had tried almost every flower I knew, every remedy that held even the slightest promise, but nothing seemed to work. It was as if the disease she carried was beyond nature's healing touch. I didn't even know what kind of sickness it was—no healer I consulted had seen anything like it before.
Now, I was out of money. The pouch that once held enough to buy any herb or potion was empty, and with it, our hopes of survival dwindled. Assassination jobs, which had once been my lifeline, were now nearly impossible to come by. The royal guards had increased their patrols, tightening their grip on the city, and even the most desperate of clients were too afraid to risk hiring an assassin.
I knelt on the hillside, surrounded by the flowers I had picked, each one a symbol of my futile attempts. I placed them carefully into the basket, the weight of my failure heavy on my shoulders. Standing up, I looked out over the landscape, wondering how much longer we could hold on before the darkness fully consumed us.
I walked back to our small cottage, my steps steady despite the weight of our troubles, the familiar creak of the wooden door sounding as I approached. But something unusual caught my eye—the letterbox was open. It had been nearly a decade and a half since we last received a letter. Not a single note had arrived since the day my father died.
A sense of unease washed over me as I approached. I hesitated for a moment before peeking inside and finding a small piece of paper tucked within. My heart quickened as I reached in, pulling out the folded note with trembling fingers.
The paper felt worn, as though it had been handled many times before reaching me. I carefully unfolded it, my breath catching in my throat as I began to read the faded ink.