The first rule of the Shadow Court was simple: never leave a trace.
Asher crouched on the rooftop, his breath steady despite the cold night air biting at his skin. Below, the royal palace glimmered like a jewel in the darkness, its ivory spires cutting into the starless sky. A fortress of power, wealth, and lies—a gilded cage for a king who didn't yet know he was marked for death.
His gloved fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger strapped to his thigh, a weapon honed as sharply as the boy who wielded it. Tonight, that blade would spill royal blood.
A whisper of movement behind him drew his attention. Asher turned, his hand on his dagger in an instant.
"It's just me." A shadow detached itself from the gloom, revealing a young woman with sharp eyes and a sharper smirk. Livia. She was one of the Shadow Court's best informants and Asher's only ally in a world where trust was a luxury he couldn't afford.
"You're late," Asher said, his voice barely above a murmur.
"And you're predictable," Livia countered, tossing him a rolled parchment. "Here's the revised layout of the palace. The king's quarters are heavily guarded tonight—seems someone tipped them off."
Asher's jaw tightened. "Did they suspect me?"
"Not yet. But you'll need to be faster than usual. The Court doesn't tolerate failure, Asher." Her smirk faded, replaced by a rare flicker of concern.
"I don't need the reminder," he said, slipping the map into his belt.
Livia hesitated, then leaned closer, her voice softening. "Just… come back alive. They'll kill me too if you don't."
He nodded once, an unspoken promise passing between them, before he melted into the shadows.
The palace was a labyrinth, but Asher's steps were silent, calculated. He knew every corridor, every blind spot, every pattern in the guards' patrols. Years of training in the Shadow Court had made him more ghost than man, his presence a fleeting whisper of death.
As he approached the royal wing, the opulence became suffocating—golden chandeliers, marble floors, and tapestries depicting centuries of conquest. All of it disgusted him. This kingdom had bled his people dry, leaving them to rot in the shadows while the royals dined on the spoils of war.
And at the center of it all was King Alaric.
Asher paused outside the king's chambers, his heart steady as he slipped the dagger from its sheath. He pressed a gloved hand against the door, listening for any sound within.
Nothing.
He eased the door open and stepped inside.
The room was vast, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the balcony windows. And there he was—Alaric, the golden king, seated at a desk piled with documents. He didn't look up, his attention fixed on the parchment before him.
Asher moved closer, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. The dagger in his hand gleamed faintly as he raised it, the blade aimed at the king's unprotected neck.
But then Alaric spoke.
"You're late," the king said, his voice calm, almost amused.
Asher froze, his dagger hovering inches from Alaric's throat.
"How—"
Alaric turned his head, and for the first time, Asher saw his face up close. The king was younger than he'd expected, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seemed to pierce through the darkness. He didn't flinch, didn't move, as if the threat of death meant nothing to him.
"You think I wouldn't notice the Shadow Court's best assassin slipping into my palace?" Alaric's lips curled into a faint smile. "I've been expecting you."