Another attempt. He spoke again, this time with conviction. "The Greater Will don't care about you. They only care about control. But this? This is your chance to choose your own path."
The blade wavered, her grip loosening. He held his breath, waiting for her next move.
"Who are you?" he finally heard her voice—soft, raspy, and barely above a whisper.
Before He could respond, the assassin suddenly faltered, her knees buckling as her body gave way under the strain of her injuries. She collapsed to the floor with a quiet thud.
He rushed forward, instinctively placing his hand on her shoulder to steady her, feeling the coolness of her armor beneath his touch. She seemed to flinch at his proximity, but the sheer exhaustion kept her from resisting. He could feel her body trembling under the weight of what she had endured.
"Easy," He said, his voice softer now, almost comforting. He knelt beside her, offering support as she struggled to hold herself upright.
He kept his hand firmly on her shoulder. "I'm called Vyke."
She looked at him, and for a moment, there was something there—recognition, perhaps, or the faintest memory trying to surface. She stared at him, her brow furrowing as if trying to place the name, to remember something buried deep in her mind.
"Vyke…" she murmured under her breath, almost to herself. "I've heard that name before…"
But her eyes flickered in confusion. She tried to recall something, to piece together fragments of a past she could no longer reach, but the strain of her mind was too much.
"I... I can't…" She winced, the effort of trying to recall too much, her mind clouded by years of solitude, trapped in this place, guarding the Deathroot. "I can't remember…"
He could hear the frustration and pain in her voice. She had been here for far too long, caught in this cycle.
"It's alright," He said softly, still supporting her. "You don't have to remember now. But you don't have to do this alone anymore. Whatever you're guarding, we can figure this out together."
"How long have you been here?" he asked softly.
She hesitated, her gaze still wary but softened by exhaustion.
"Centuries," she murmured, her voice tinged with a bitterness born of isolation. "Long enough that I've lost track of who I am, of who I was supposed to be. I was told to guard the Deathroot—to protect it, to keep it from the unworthy." Her eyes scanned his face, scrutinizing him. "But you… you don't even seem to want it."
He shook his head slowly, his gaze unwavering. "No," he replied, sincerity in his tone. "I'm not here for that. My path just… led me to you."
She studied him in silence, with a faint nod, she allowed herself to lean into his support.
"Should I… tend to your wounds?" he asked gently, glancing at the gash on her shoulder, dried blood darkening the fabric beneath her armor.
Her eyes flashed, and for a moment, suspicion returned, her body tensing as if to resist. The notion of allowing anyone close, even for aid, was almost inconceivable after so many years of solitude. But exhaustion weighed her down, and something about him—his honesty, perhaps—chipped away at her defenses.
"Alright," she murmured, almost to herself, the decision a tenuous one. "But my hood… it must stay on." Her gaze faltered, conflicted, as if revealing her face felt too intimate, too vulnerable. For the Black Knife Assassins, showing one's true face was a mark of deep trust, reserved for a husband, a lord… someone bound by more than mere acquaintance.
"If… if you must remove it to help… you may."
He hesitated. His hand hovered near her hood, feeling her breath catch as he did so, her pulse quickening beneath his fingertips. Slowly, he slipped the fabric back, revealing her face, inch by inch.
For a moment, he held his breath as her face came into view—a face both scarred and beautiful, marked by the years but untouched by time, fierce yet carrying a deep-seated vulnerability. Her eyes, sharp and fierce, softened under his gaze.
"You… are not my lord," she whispered, her voice trembling. "And yet…" Her words trailed off.
He met her gaze, his voice low, steady. "No. I'm not. But if you'll let me, I can be the one to help you break free of all of this."
Her lips parted, her breath shallow, as if unsure whether to retreat or stay in this fragile moment. In centuries of darkness, this was the first warmth she had felt.
carefully cleaning the wound on her shoulder. The cut was deep, surrounded by old scars, reminders of countless battles. Her skin was rough. She flinched slightly at first, but exhaustion kept her steady.
As he finished wrapping the bandage, he looked at her and simply said, "It's done."
He helped her settle her hood back into place, his hands steady, respectful. She looked at him, her gaze lingering a moment longer than it should, as if she was trying to hold onto this unfamiliar sense of company.
In the quiet of that room, after so many years of isolation, the presence of someone else felt almost surreal, an intrusion into her world that she hadn't expected and didn't know how to handle.
They sat together for a while, silent but oddly comfortable. She found herself glancing his way, watching him with a mix of curiosity and uncertainty, as if struggling to remember what it felt like to talk to another person.
When he finally stood, preparing to leave, a quiet pang hit her—unexpected and unsettling. She kept her expression neutral, but inside, a part of her resisted the thought of being alone again.
"Are you… leaving so soon?" Her voice was soft, almost reluctant.