I stood at the edge of the rooftop, the night air biting at my skin beneath the leather of my cloak. Below, the streets of Florence whispered with life—merchants packing away their wares, the last of the drunkards stumbling home, and guards patrolling with torches in hand. The city was alive, yet no one saw me. I was a shadow, one of the many that slipped between light and dark.
"Target sighted."
The words hissed through my mind as I focused on the man below. Pietro Castello, a Templar financier and slaver, dressed in silks that gleamed gold under the moonlight. He paced through the garden of his estate, surrounded by guards armed to the teeth—men who would gladly die to protect him.
I smiled faintly to myself. They would die.
I descended silently, the leather soles of my boots muffled against stone as I climbed down from the rooftop and slipped into the shadows of the hedge maze. The air smelled of lavender and wet earth, masking the sharp tang of my blade. I counted the guards as I moved. Four in the garden, two on the balcony, and a seventh standing at the villa entrance. Not bad.
I crouched low, pausing as one guard passed by, torchlight flickering across his face. He hummed an off-key tune, blissfully unaware that his life was already forfeit. My hidden blade slid forward with a quiet click. I struck.
One life ended in silence. He crumpled into the bushes, the torch falling with him. I extinguished its flame with a booted heel, then continued forward. My pulse was steady; I had done this a thousand times before. I was an Assassin—trained, disciplined, invisible.
I found Pietro near the center of the garden, his voice carrying through the night. He spoke with someone—a courier perhaps, judging by the man's dirt-streaked clothes.
"I expect delivery by morning," Pietro snapped, shoving a coin purse into the man's hands. "Do not fail me again."
I moved closer, watching his movements, listening to his words. Every breath he took might be his last, yet the man moved with arrogance, believing himself untouchable. They always did.
I stepped out from the shadows, my blade poised.
"Pietro Castello," I said quietly.
He turned, startled. For a moment, his face registered confusion, then terror. The courier stumbled back as I lunged forward.
"Assassin!" Pietro cried, fumbling for the dagger at his side.
I was faster. My hidden blade struck his chest, slipping between ribs to his heart. His cry turned into a strangled gasp, his body sagging forward as I whispered, "This is for the lives you've stolen."
I let him fall to the ground as silence enveloped the garden once more.
Then I heard the voice.
"I expected more, Elara."
I froze, my blood running cold. I knew that voice—smooth, deep, and infuriatingly calm. I turned sharply to see a figure leaning against one of the marble columns at the edge of the garden. He stepped into the moonlight, revealing the crimson cross emblazoned on his chest.
Darius Laurent.
A Templar Knight. My rival. My equal.
His sword was sheathed, but his hand hovered close to the hilt as though daring me to move first. His dark eyes fixed on me, unreadable, but there was something in them—a flicker of disappointment, perhaps.
"You're late, Darius," I said coolly, stepping back into a defensive stance.
"You're bold," he countered. "Killing one of my allies and believing you'll simply vanish into the shadows."
"This Templar was corrupt," I snapped. "You'd defend his crimes?"
Darius sighed as though I had inconvenienced him. "You think this is so simple, don't you, Assassin? A world divided into black and white."
He always did this—talked in riddles, questioning my purpose. I didn't need his doubts. I needed his blood on my blade.
"Enough," I growled, launching toward him.
Darius drew his sword in a fluid motion, meeting my strike with the clang of steel against steel. He was strong, his counter forcing me back a step, but I was faster. I struck again—left, right, a slash low to force him off balance. He parried every blow, his movements precise and controlled.
"I don't wish to fight you, Elara," he said through gritted teeth, his blade locking with mine.
"Then you shouldn't have followed me," I hissed, shoving him back.
He stumbled slightly, and I took my opening, sweeping low to knock him off his feet. He fell hard, his sword clattering away. I straddled him in a heartbeat, my hidden blade pressed against his throat. His breathing was steady, and those dark eyes still held no fear.
"You hesitate," Darius said softly.
I froze, the blade trembling slightly against his skin. Why do I hesitate? My mind screamed at me to finish him, but something held me back. It wasn't pity—he wouldn't offer me the same mercy if our positions were reversed. But killing Darius felt like something else—an ending I wasn't ready for.
"You are a fool, Assassin," he said, breaking the silence. "And so am I."
Before I could react, his hand shot up, grabbing my wrist. He twisted, throwing me off him. I hit the ground hard, rolling just in time to see him recover his sword.
We stood apart, both breathing heavily, the weight of what we'd almost done pressing between us.
"This isn't over," Darius said, backing toward the shadows. "But one day, Elara, you'll see what I see."
I stayed silent, watching as he disappeared into the darkness, leaving me alone with the body of Pietro Castello.
What did he see?
The thought haunted me as I climbed back into the night, melting into the rooftops once more. I had won the night, but something was shifting—something I couldn't yet name. And for the first time in years, I wondered if my blade would always be so steady.