When the news of Lucius Malfoy's death reached him, Blaise felt an unexpected rush of emotions—too many and too fast to make sense of. Relief came first, a sudden, undeniable weight lifting from his chest, though it unsettled him. It wasn't as though he had any personal vendetta against the man, but Lucius Malfoy had always been there—a looming, oppressive figure who had shaped not just Draco's life, but the entire wizarding world. His influence had been vast, insidious, seeping into every crevice of power, every whispered conversation behind closed doors.
For as long as Blaise had known Draco, Lucius had cast a suffocating shadow over him, molding him into something he was never meant to be. Draco had spent years balancing on a knife's edge, torn between the expectations of a father who demanded perfection and his own quiet defiance, which had always burned just beneath the surface. And now?
Now, that weight was gone.
Lucius Malfoy would never again sneer at Draco's choices, never again dictate the course of his life with an arched brow and a carefully placed word. The chains had finally broken.
And yet, the relief was quickly followed by something colder, something uglier.
Guilt.
It crept in like a shadow, unwelcome and insistent. It wasn't grief—Blaise knew that much. It wasn't regret. Lucius Malfoy had been cruel, manipulative, a man who had bent and twisted the world around him to suit his own ambitions. His power had left scars, not just on Draco, but on anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in his web. Still, his death felt like the end of an era—one built on bloodlines and whispered alliances, on fear and control so deeply embedded in the fabric of wizarding society that it was impossible to unravel.
And Draco…
Blaise exhaled slowly, staring at the fire flickering in the hearth, imagining the moment Draco must have received the news.
Would he mourn?
Blaise knew him too well to think he'd grieve like any other son. Theirs had never been a relationship built on warmth or affection. Lucius had been a man of sharp edges and impossible standards, and Draco had spent his life walking that tightrope—appease, obey, perform, and still never be enough.
Blaise had watched the toll it took on him, the way Draco had been forced to carve out his own identity beneath the crushing weight of his father's name. And now, suddenly, there were no more battles left to fight. No looming presence to answer to. No impossible expectations to chase.
Draco was free.
And yet… Blaise wondered if he'd even know what to do with that freedom.
He closed his eyes, running a hand down his face.
Lucius Malfoy had been a force. Charismatic, commanding, and undeniably dangerous. He had built an empire on precision, his words as sharp as any blade, his every action carefully measured. He had wielded power not through brute force, but through influence—through a perfectly arched brow and a single, damning sentence spoken in the right ear.
He had been cold. Ruthless. The embodiment of pureblood tradition wrapped in silk and steel.
But he had also been a father.
Blaise could still remember the way Lucius had looked at him over the years, assessing him, calculating his worth against some invisible standard. A gaze that never quite softened, a smile that never quite reached his eyes. To Lucius, everyone was a pawn—a piece to be maneuvered across the chessboard of his ambitions. And Blaise had been no exception.
Yet, for all his detachment, for all the damage he had wrought, his presence had been a constant in Draco's life. A force Draco had spent his entire existence pushing against, defining himself by. And now, with that force gone, there would be a void.
Even the worst fathers leave shadows.
And Blaise knew, better than most, that sometimes it's easier to fight a ghost than to live with its absence.
Blaise knew Draco well enough to understand that his grief would be anything but simple. It wouldn't be the clean, quiet mourning of a beloved father—it would be something far more tangled, far more insidious. Lucius' death wasn't just the loss of a parent; it was the loss of a man whose expectations had dictated the course of Draco's entire life. A man who had shaped his every decision, whether through pressure or defiance, whether to please him or to fight against him.
And now, with Lucius gone, Draco was left to pick up the pieces—to sift through the wreckage of a relationship built on control, fear, and duty, searching for something real in its aftermath.
Blaise wondered what Draco was feeling at that very moment—whether he was relieved, furious, hollow, or caught somewhere in the space between. Would the weight of his father's influence finally lift, freeing him from a lifetime of impossible expectations? Or would it press down even heavier, now an invisible burden rather than a living one?
The latter, Blaise suspected grimly.
Lucius Malfoy had never been the type of man to let go, even in death. His legacy would cling to Draco like a specter, whispering in his ear, lurking in the corners of his mind, a ghost that refused to be exorcised.
There was a certain tragedy in it, Blaise thought.
Lucius had been many things—a tyrant, a manipulator, a man who wielded fear with effortless precision—but above all else, he had been constant. Draco had spent his life pushing against him, defining himself in opposition to his father's impossible expectations. And now, for the first time, there was nothing to push against.
It was the kind of loss that could leave a man unmoored.
Draco would have to face the legacy left behind, one steeped in power, blood, and the unwavering demands of a society that still revered the Malfoy name. But Draco was not his father. He never had been. And Blaise could only hope that, in time, he would come to see that for himself.
Perhaps, in the long run, Lucius' death would be a form of liberation. A severing of the chains that had bound Draco since birth. But freedom didn't come without cost, and Blaise knew this particular kind of freedom would be paved with pain—confusion, anger, the aching remnants of a father-son relationship that had never been allowed to exist as it should have.
For now, all he could do was wait.
Wait for Draco to wade through the storm, to emerge from the labyrinth of grief and expectations that had never truly belonged to him.
And when he did—when he finally surfaced from the weight of it all—Blaise would be there.
Not to offer empty words or meaningless condolences.
But to remind Draco that the past did not define him.
And that, no matter how far his father's shadow stretched, he was his own man now.
~~~~~~
Twenty-eight hours later, Draco stood beside Hermione at the gravesite, their hands clasped tightly, fingers intertwined as if tethering each other to the present. Neither spoke. There was nothing to say—no words that could make this moment more or less than what it was. Before them lay the open grave of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, the freshly turned earth waiting to swallow the man who had once loomed so large, his influence stretching like a shadow across their lives.
The air was unnaturally still, as if the world itself had paused to mark the passing of a man who had commanded both fear and reverence in equal measure. But Draco felt neither. No sharp pang of grief, no overwhelming sorrow. Instead, a strange, distant detachment settled over him—a quiet, clinical understanding that this was simply the closing of a chapter he had long since stopped reading.
There was no mourning here. Only finality.
The others stood nearby, silent specters in the background of his thoughts. Theo, Pansy, and Blaise formed a small, solemn trio, their expressions carefully schooled but filled with a quiet sense of resolution. They had all, in one way or another, been shaped by Lucius Malfoy's legacy—entangled in the web of his influence, his politics, his vision of a world they had long since outgrown. Today was not just a funeral. It was a farewell to the weight of a past none of them wished to carry forward.
The first shovelfuls of earth fell, hitting the coffin with a dull, final thud. Draco exhaled slowly, feeling something inside him loosen, lighten.
Lucius Malfoy had once been a towering force in his life—a father, yes, but also an architect of his fears, his failures, the battles he had fought to carve out his own identity. And yet, stripped of power, stripped of presence, he was nothing now. Just another man buried beneath the soil. Just another name etched into stone.
Draco listened to the rhythmic fall of dirt, each handful striking the coffin like a punctuation mark to the story of a man who had ruled his world for too long. It was not a sound of grief. It was a lullaby—a final, quiet song of release.
A few steps away, Narcissa stood composed, her profile sharp against the gray sky. To an outsider, she might have appeared grief-stricken, the picture of a devoted wife laying her husband to rest. But Draco saw what no one else could—the subtle shift in her posture, the barely perceptible weight that seemed to lift from her frame.
She was free.
For the first time in decades, she was free of the expectations, the whispered manipulations, the burden of being Lucius Malfoy's wife. The weight of his choices, his alliances, his mistakes—she had carried them all for so long. And now, finally, they were being buried with him.
A single tear slipped down Narcissa's cheek, not in sorrow, but in quiet acknowledgment. A final farewell to the man she had once loved, the man she had long since lost.
From the corner of his eye, Draco caught Blaise's gaze. A small nod passed between them—subtle, but filled with understanding.
For years, Lucius Malfoy had been more than a father or a political figure; he had been a force, one that had shaped and suffocated them all in different ways. But now, they were free to step out from beneath his shadow. To forge lives untethered from his influence.
No one spoke during the service. The sky above remained overcast, the muted gray swallowing the whispers of the wind. The minister's voice rang out—steady, practiced, empty. Words meant to grant peace, spoken over a man who had never known how to give it. They drifted into the heavy air, weightless against the gravity of the moment.
As the final prayers concluded, the gathered mourners began to disperse, retreating in slow, silent movements, their figures fading into the misty morning.
Draco and Hermione remained.
They stood side by side, thoughts separate yet intertwined, the past and the present folding over one another in quiet reflection. Draco's mind was a battlefield of memories—some sharp and cutting, others dull with time. The endless lessons, the suffocating expectations, the unspoken moments of quiet defiance. And now, the emptiness that came in their absence.
A shift of movement—her hand tightening around his. He turned slightly, meeting her gaze. There was no pity in her eyes, no forced condolences, only quiet understanding. A silent promise that she was there, that she would be there, no matter what this new freedom brought.
Draco inhaled deeply, tasting the crisp bite of the morning air, the scent of damp earth rising from the grave before him.
Lucius Malfoy was gone.
And for the first time in his life, Draco could finally decide who he wanted to be.
Pansy settled into her seat beside the boys, her posture relaxed, yet her expression sharp—an odd blend of relief and defiance. She scanned their faces, taking in the knowing looks, the silent understanding that could only exist between those who had survived the same battlefield.
"Good riddance," she declared, the words slipping from her lips with a fierce, unshaken conviction.
The boys didn't hesitate.
"Amen," they echoed in unison, their voices overlapping, filling the room like an incantation—final, resolute, an unspoken agreement to bury the past alongside the men who had made their lives unbearable.
Blaise leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head, a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. "None of us shed a tear when our parents died or got locked away in Azkaban," he mused, his voice casual, yet laced with the kind of weight that made his meaning clear.
Theo chuckled, tapping his fingers against the table. "Why would we? I was ecstatic, actually." His eyes gleamed with mischief, but beneath the amusement lay the undeniable truth—this was freedom.
Pansy let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her fingers drumming idly against the polished wood. "Same," she admitted, leaning forward. "It's like breathing fresh air for the first time. I didn't even realize how much I was suffocating."
The sentiment settled between them, unspoken but understood.
They had all been trapped in some way—by their names, their bloodlines, the expectations of men who had wielded power like a weapon, forcing them into molds they were never meant to fit. And now, with those men gone, there was nothing left to fear.
The conversation shifted, the weight of the funeral easing as memories from their childhood surfaced—some dark, some ridiculous, all tethered to a past they had barely survived.
"Remember when we tried sneaking into the Forbidden Forest?" Blaise began, his grin widening. "We thought we were so clever—until Hagrid caught us and dragged us back by the scruffs of our necks."
"Oh, please," Pansy scoffed, rolling her eyes, though her lips twitched with amusement. "You were the one who nearly fell into that boggart pit. I thought I was going to die laughing."
Theo snorted. "Still can't believe you thought it was a giant snake, Pans. You screamed so loudly I thought the damn thing actually bit you."
Pansy groaned, covering her face. "I panicked! I was twelve! And besides," she added, narrowing her eyes at Theo, "it's rich coming from the guy who once hexed himself because he forgot his own wand was in his hand."
That did it.
Laughter erupted around the table, unrestrained and genuine—the kind of laughter that curled in the chest, shaking loose the last remnants of tension, making the air feel lighter. It felt good, washing away the heaviness of the day, if only for a moment.
Then, as the laughter faded, Blaise's smirk softened into something more thoughtful. He leaned forward, fingers tapping idly against the table. "But really," he said, his tone shifting, "this is a new beginning for us." He looked between them, his gaze steady. "No more ghosts. No more guilt. No more living for anyone but ourselves."
Pansy inhaled sharply, her chest swelling with something dangerously close to hope. "Yes," she breathed, as if solidifying it into existence. "For the first time, we get to decide who we are. No more expectations. No more old bloodlines dictating our future. We build our own lives now."
Theo smirked, leaning back with easy confidence. "And what better way to start than with a party? A celebration of sheer, unapologetic rebellion." He lifted his glass, tilting it toward them. "For every poor bastard who's ever been suffocated by their last name."
Blaise arched a brow, intrigued. "A real party. None of this stiff, pureblood socialite nonsense." His smirk returned, this time with a dangerous glint. "A night that would make our ancestors recoil in horror."
Pansy's eyes lit up. "We should go all out," she said, excitement threading through her voice. "Extravagant. Decadent. Something so outrageous it would make our parents rise from the dead just to scold us."
The energy in the room crackled. Ideas began flying, each one wilder than the last—live music, enchanted drinks that changed colors, floating candles that dripped golden wax onto tables designed to look like ruined pureblood estates.
And in the midst of it all, Pansy felt something she hadn't in a long, long time.
Belonging.
Not the forced kind—the kind she had spent years pretending to feel among the right people, in the right circles, following the right rules. This was different. This was real.
This was family.
A family of choice, not blood. A bond forged through survival, through shared scars and reckless, defiant laughter.
She raised an imaginary glass, her voice bright, filled with something dangerous and limitless.
"To new beginnings."
The boys grinned, their voices echoing hers without hesitation.
"To new beginnings."
And for the first time in their lives, the future belonged entirely to them.
~~~~~~
He stepped through the front door, the familiar scent of home wrapping around him like a long-awaited embrace. The late afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows, casting elongated shadows across the floor, but the warmth of the golden hour did little to chase away the weight pressing down on him. The day clung to his skin like a heavy cloak, thick with the remnants of whispered condolences and the suffocating formality of Lucius Malfoy's funeral.
It had been cold , as expected. Hollow words, forced solemnity, and the ever-present tension of those gathered, like ghosts lurking just beneath the surface. No one had truly mourned the man—not in the way people mourned those they loved . It had been a farewell laced with duty rather than sorrow, an obligation rather than a loss.
And yet, the finality of it sat uncomfortably in his chest.
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before his gaze lifted—and there she was.
Standing in the kitchen, watching him with quiet intensity, her expression softened the moment she saw him. Without hesitation, she crossed the room, her warmth wrapping around him before she even touched him. Her arms slid around his waist, her body fitting seamlessly against his, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
" Blaise, " she murmured, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Her fingers traced gently over the fabric of his shirt, a silent reassurance, a tether to the present. "I know today must've been hard. I thought I'd make you something comforting. I made carbonara, your favorite, to try and cheer you up."
His lips curled into a tired, grateful smile as he reached up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin. " Thank you, tesoro, " he murmured, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. " You always know exactly what I need. "
And she did. She always had.
They settled at the table, the rich aroma of the meal filling the quiet space between them. Neither rushed to fill the silence, and that was something he loved about her—she never forced words from him when he wasn't ready. Instead, they ate in a quiet companionship, the only sounds the clinking of silverware and the occasional deep exhale as he slowly tried to unwind from the day.
She watched him, not intrusively, but with a patience that made his chest ache in the best way. She knew he wasn't ready to talk just yet, but she was there, grounding him, her presence a steady anchor in the storm that still churned inside him.
His mind drifted back to the funeral, to the stiff, impersonal ceremony, to the unspoken truths lingering between those who had gathered. He thought of Draco, standing at the gravesite, his expression carved from stone, his shoulders squared as if bracing for a final confrontation that would never come.
The irony of it all— a lifetime spent fighting for his father's approval, only for the battle to end in silence.
Blaise had seen death before. He had lost people before. But something about today left a different kind of bitterness in his mouth. Maybe it was the weight of what Lucius had represented, the suffocating expectation that had clung to Draco like shackles his entire life. Or maybe it was the simple fact that Lucius Malfoy—one of the most powerful men they had ever known—had been reduced to nothing more than ashes and a headstone .
A name carved in stone and a legacy that had never been his to claim.
She let him sit with the thought, let him carry the silence until he was ready to let go of it.
Finally, after several more bites, she broke the quiet, her voice gentle but sure. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He hesitated, setting his fork down with a quiet clink before leaning back in his chair. His fingers traced the rim of his glass, his thoughts still tangled.
"It wasn't just the funeral," he admitted, his voice low, steady. "It was watching Draco —watching him stand there like… like it wasn't real yet. Like part of him was still waiting for the fight to continue." His jaw tensed slightly. "Lucius's death wasn't just the loss of a father—it was the loss of an entire war Draco has been fighting his whole life. And now, suddenly, there's no opponent left. Just… emptiness."
His eyes flicked up to meet hers, a flicker of something vulnerable passing through his usually guarded gaze.
She nodded, understanding more than she could put into words.
Because she knew what complicated grief looked like. The Weasleys had their own ghosts, their own stories of love and loss, of men who left wounds so deep they never fully healed. And then, of course, there was Ron —the tangled, painful knot of emotions she had yet to fully unravel.
She squeezed his hand, her fingers slipping easily into the spaces between his. "You don't have to carry all that alone, Blaise," she murmured.
He exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around hers, his thumb brushing absently over her knuckles. " I know, baby girl, " he said, voice softer now, quieter. "It's just… there's so much to think about."
But for the first time that day, it didn't feel as heavy .
Because when she held his hand like this, when she sat beside him in unwavering patience, the weight of the world didn't feel like his to carry alone.
The evening stretched on in the quiet cocoon of shared emotions, the last remnants of their meal slowly disappearing from their plates. The weight of the day still lingered, heavy in the air, but with each passing moment, Blaise felt it loosen, unraveling just enough for him to breathe. The golden light of the setting sun streamed through the windows, casting long shadows across the room, painting everything in warm hues of amber and deep orange.
Ginny leaned back in her chair, her gaze never leaving him, studying him the way she always did—like she was peeling back the layers without ever needing to say a word.
"Why don't we go sit in the living room?" she suggested gently. "We don't have to talk if you don't want to, but I think you need to rest."
He nodded, feeling the exhaustion sink deeper into his bones now that she had spoken it into existence. Without another word, they rose together, moving through the house in comfortable silence.
As soon as they settled onto the sofa, she curled into his side, tucking herself beneath his arm like she belonged there—and she did. The warmth of her body against his was grounding, steadying, a quiet reassurance that he hadn't realized he'd needed until that moment.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the faint hum of the evening wind against the windows. Blaise let his head fall back against the cushions, closing his eyes, exhaling slow and deep as the tension in his chest finally began to ease.
For the first time all day, he felt like he could breathe again.
His grip on her tightened slightly, as if afraid that the moment might slip away, that the quiet peace she brought him was something too fleeting to hold onto.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice so soft it barely carried through the stillness.
But she heard him.
"For what?" she murmured, tilting her head up slightly to look at him.
"For this," he said, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles on her arm. "For knowing when to push and when to just… be."
A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. She nestled closer, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw before resting her head against his shoulder.
"That's what I'm here for," she said simply. "You don't have to face everything alone, Blaise. I've got you."
Her words were soft, barely more than a breath, but they wrapped around him like a shield, like armor against the ghosts of the day.
And in that moment, he let go.
He let himself feel—the exhaustion, the grief, the relief, the bittersweet tangle of emotions he hadn't quite sorted through yet. He let himself lean into the quiet solace of her presence, knowing that for once, he didn't have to carry it all on his own.
She was here.
And for tonight, that was enough.
~~~~~~
He had never felt sorrow when his parents were dragged off to Azkaban. Why would he? They had never been anything to him but captors dressed as caretakers, tormentors who had called themselves family. Even as a child, he had been thrust into a world no boy should ever have to endure—one not defined by love or warmth, but by fear, duty, and violence. Branded like cattle by a madman, the Dark Mark etched onto his arm had never been a symbol of pride, never a mark of belonging. It had been a shackle, binding him not only to Voldemort but to the world he had been born into.
When they came for his father, he had felt nothing.
No fear. No sadness. No regret.
Only relief. Cold, hollow, and absolute.
It was as though the manor itself exhaled the moment his father was dragged away, its walls finally free from the oppressive weight of his presence. The sharp, unforgiving crack of a fist against a table, the biting sound of his name spat from cruel lips, the threats woven into every word his father spoke—all of it was silenced. No more looming footsteps that made his stomach clench. No more carefully measured breaths, waiting for the next outburst. No more nights spent curled beneath blankets, counting seconds between crashes, gauging whether it was safe to move.
The weight of his father's cruelty had lifted like a veil, and for the first time in his life, he realized what it felt like to exist without fear.
The punishment, the suffering—constants in his childhood—were over.
He had been too young to fully grasp what it all meant back then, but he had understood one thing: he was free.
The silence had been intoxicating.
He had wandered through the halls of the manor in those first few days, expecting to feel something, anything—grief, loneliness, maybe even guilt. But all he had felt was lightness, like he had been released from invisible chains he hadn't even realized had been dragging him down.
Then there was his mother.
A different kind of absence.
One that had always been there, even when she had stood in the same room.
She had never been a mother in the way others might have known. She was distant, cold, her affections always reserved for other things—power, status, survival. To her, Blaise had never been a son. He had been a piece in a larger game, a name to carry forward, an asset to be leveraged. Love had never been part of their relationship—perhaps, once, he had hoped for it, but that hope had died long before the Ministry took her away.
When they came for her, he hadn't felt anger. Hadn't felt sadness.
He had simply watched.
Watched as the proud, untouchable woman who had once ruled his life crumbled beneath the weight of her own choices. Watched as the realization of her fate settled over her like a suffocating fog, her hands trembling, her breath uneven.
She had sacrificed everything for a cause that had never truly belonged to her, given her loyalty to men who had discarded her the moment she was no longer useful. And in the end, she had lost it all.
But it was not his loss. It was not his burden to bear.
He did not mourn her. Not really.
She had never been the kind of mother whose absence would leave a hole in his heart.
He had often wondered, in the quiet hours of the night, if she thought of him from her cold, damp cell in Azkaban. If regret had finally settled in. If, in the darkness, she had come to realize what she had thrown away.
But then again, maybe she hadn't. Maybe she was still trapped in the same delusions that had led her there.
It didn't matter. Not anymore.
He had never known real love from either of them. Only duty. Only neglect. Only the sharp sting of expectation and the dull ache of never being enough.
But now?
Now, with both of them gone, he was finally free.
Free from their demands. Free from the legacy of a bloodline that had never done anything but chain him to a life he never wanted. Free from their mistakes, their ambitions, their failures.
There was no grief in his heart for them.
Only the quiet, unshakable knowledge that their absence had given him something they never could.
Freedom.
~~~~~~
How had it come to this?
Blaise stood over the lifeless body, his expression unreadable, his mind curiously blank. The world around him felt distant, like he was seeing it through a pane of glass—there, but not quite real. Blood pooled at his feet, dark and glistening beneath the pale glow of the moon. The severed head lay a few inches away from its body, eyes still frozen in the final moment of shock, as if the man had never expected to die. They never do.
The body lay still, unmoving, as though the weight of its existence had finally been lifted.
And yet, he felt nothing.
No fear. No disgust. Not even satisfaction.
He should have felt something. But there was only silence, an emptiness that had been creeping closer and closer with every kill.
He had done this before. Many times. Death was as routine as breathing in his line of work, and this man—this mark—was nothing special. Just another name, another target assigned by those who paid him handsomely to do what they couldn't. Another disposable body in the long line of men who had found themselves on the wrong side of power.
And yet, as Blaise wiped the blood from his blade, as he watched the body grow cold, a question gnawed at him.
How did I end up here?
Standing in the shadows, drenched in blood, a silent executor of death.
Once, his life had seemed... open. Full of possibilities. He had been intelligent, sharp as a blade himself—his mind could have taken him anywhere, led him down a path of purpose, of creation instead of destruction. Maybe he could have built something. Maybe he could have pursued a career that didn't revolve around death and deception. Maybe he could have been someone his younger self wouldn't have feared.
But no.
He had chosen this life. Or rather, it had been chosen for him long before he had even realized it.
The truth was, he had never stood a chance.
The Zabini name had always been tainted, marred by shadows, by the sins of his bloodline. His father's legacy had loomed over him like an executioner's blade, dangling just above his head. The man had been a master of manipulation, a merchant of death who had left behind more bodies than Blaise cared to count. And from the moment Blaise had come of age, the expectation had been clear:
He would follow in those footsteps.
He would inherit not just the name, but the business.
A legacy soaked in blood.
Lovely.
He had been trained for this life before he was even old enough to understand what it meant. Conditioned to be the perfect weapon—silent, efficient, unfeeling. He had learned early that emotions were weaknesses, and weakness got men killed. So he had buried it all.
The anger.
The sadness.
The loneliness.
Layer by layer, he had buried them beneath ice and steel, forging himself into exactly what his father had wanted:
A killer.
And he had been good at it.
But now, standing here, watching blood seep into the dirt, he couldn't shake the emptiness that gnawed at his insides.
It wasn't the act of killing itself that bothered him. He had long since stopped caring about the morality of it. In his world, life and death were dictated by power, and Blaise held a great deal of it. No, what troubled him was the realization that this was all there was.
This was his life.
An endless cycle of death, betrayal, and lies.
And it was starting to wear on him in ways he hadn't anticipated.
Where had his mind been tonight? Certainly not here. His body had moved with precision, his blade had cut through flesh as smoothly as always, but his mind... his mind had wandered.
That had never happened before.
His hands still trembled slightly, but not from adrenaline.
It was her.
Ginny.
The home they were trying to build together. The life they were trying to carve out despite the darkness that clung to them both like a second skin.
Was that what had distracted him tonight? The thought of something more? Of something that didn't involve bodies hitting the floor and looking over his shoulder every day, waiting for the moment his name ended up on someone else's list?
A part of him longed for it.
An escape. A chance at something real, something that didn't reek of blood and smoke and whispered threats.
But another part of him knew it was foolish.
He had been born into this world. Raised in its shadows. Molded into something that could never exist outside of it. He could never truly walk away from the blood on his hands.
It was in his veins.
His father had made sure of that.
And so, he resigned himself to the life he had been given.
He would continue to kill.
Continue to deceive.
Because that was what he knew.
It was what he was good at.
But as he turned away from the lifeless body and disappeared into the night, a single thought clung to the edges of his mind, refusing to be ignored.
How much longer?
How much longer could he pretend that this was enough?
How much longer before the numbness overtook him entirely?
He didn't have an answer.
All he knew was that the life of an assassin was a lonely one.
And for all the power, all the money, all the control it afforded him, it came at a cost—one that was slowly, surely, eroding what little humanity he had left.
But there was no time for self-reflection.
There was always another name.
Another job.
Another life to take.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, allowing the last flickers of emotion to settle into nothingness. Then, with the precision of a man who had done this too many times before, he stepped back into the shadows.
Where he belonged.