Chapter 19
Seraphina reached his territory faster than expected. Imelda had already warned her—if she wanted what he had, she'd have to pass his test and earn it.
She'd never met him before. The last time she needed this poison, Imelda delivered it personally. This time, she was going to get it herself.
The door hung slightly ajar, the silence inside unsettling. Her grip tightened on the dagger strapped to her dress and hanging by her side as she stepped in. The stench hit her immediately—a sickly, rotting odor that clung to the air like a threat. If she wasn't confident in herself, she would have turned back and left, because this place screamed bad news, but unfortunately… she'd forgotten what fear felt like.
Then, out of nowhere, a snake shot toward her face, fast as lightning.
She reacted on instinct. With a swift move of her hand, her dagger slashed through the air, slicing the creature into pieces before it could strike. Blood splattered across the floor, and as the snake's remains hit the ground, she heard it—a sharp, startled gasp from deeper inside.
She spun toward the sound just in time to see a shadow lunging at her, a gleaming needle aimed straight for her throat.
She ducked low, twisting out of reach. Her dagger came up to meet the needle, snapping it clean in two. The attacker staggered back, and she straightened, her heart pounding. Was that supposed to be a test? Or just some lunatic with a death wish? If she didn't know who he was, she would have slit his throat with her dagger as soon as he attacked.
Standing before her was a man—young, with jet-black hair, a trimmed beard, and a muscular build. His clothes were polished and well-tailored, a stark contrast to the chaos of this place.
He wasn't what she expected. At all.
Imelda was well over sixty, and this was supposed to be her father. He should've been a frail old man, but instead, he looked like he hadn't aged a day over thirty.
"You're quick," he said, his voice flat and unimpressed. "Assassin, I assume?" He turned his back on her and began walking further inside, as if she wasn't even worth looking at.
She followed, her grip tightening on the dagger. "That was nothing," she shot back. Of course, she was an assassin—why else would she need poison? "I've got a letter from your daughter," she added.
"Oh, you mean Imelda? She must think highly of your skills to send you here," he said, his tone dry as he stepped into a dimly lit room.
She followed close behind, her hand still resting on the hilt of her dagger, ready for anything. As she stepped inside, her eyes darted around, widening at the sight before her.
The room was a nightmare come to life. Rows of cages lined the walls, each holding writhing, hissing snakes. Jars filled with spiders and scorpions sat on shelves, their spindly legs scratching against the glass. The air was thick with the scent of decay and something earthy, primal.
It was like stepping into the lair of a man who had spent decades mastering the art of fear. This was more than creepy—it was unnerving.
He turned to her, stretching out his palm. She looked lost for a moment, but quickly understood what he was asking for. Reaching into the purse strapped to her side, she pulled out the sealed envelope. She double-checked it to be sure, then handed it over.
He took it without a word, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the seal. With a small nod of confirmation, he broke it open and began reading.
She held her breath, her heartbeat steady but tense as she waited. She had no idea what Imelda had written in that letter, but one thing was certain—she wasn't ready for whatever "test" he had planned. She could only hope it wasn't something impossible to get through.
After he finished reading, his gaze shifted back to her, his eyes cold and piercing. "So, you're after Widow's Kiss? Do you even understand the kind of death you're dealing with?"
Her fist clenched at her sides as she nodded, her resolve firm. "I won't die as long as I take the antidote before applying it. I've used it once before," she replied, but he gave her a nod of disapproval instead.
"I've made significant changes. It's far more lethal now—nothing like the version you've used before."
"Does that mean the antidote won't work?" she asked, her voice sharp, her expression hardening.
She had told herself she was willing to sacrifice anything for this mission—but her life wasn't part of the deal. If Widow's Kiss was out of the question, then brute force would have to do.
She couldn't remain by Rhydian's side any longer. She hated to admit it, but… her emotions were starting to waver. She needed to end this mission as soon as possible and return to her clan.
"It would," he said, his tone sharp and deliberate, "but the process is excruciating. That's where my trial comes in. If you don't have the resolve to endure it, I won't entrust you with Widow's Kiss."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared deeper into the dimly lit room. She stayed rooted in place, tension coiling in her chest as she waited for him to return with whatever he had planned.
Her palms grew clammy despite the cool air. Pain… she had a notoriously low tolerance for it. Could she really endure whatever trial he had in store?
Doubt began to creep in, clawing at the edges of her mind. Was this mission truly worth risking everything—her sanity, her body, her life? And if she failed, what would she have left?
Moments later, he reappeared, holding a jar with a spider inside—its legs twitching ominously. She swallowed hard, sweat beginning to bead on her forehead as a wave of heat washed over her. Her heart pounded, the sound deafening in her ears.
She hadn't felt this in a long time… fear. True, gut-wrenching fear.