The cold steel of their weapons clashed in the dimly lit library, sparks flying as Alastor barely deflected a ruthless strike aimed at his heart. His body reacted faster than his mind, muscles moving on instinct alone.
The assassin pressed forward, relentless. Their movements were precise, honed by years of deadly experience. Alastor, despite his noble upbringing, had been trained in combat—but this was no mere sparring session. This was a fight for his life.
The assassin's blade slashed towards his side. He twisted his body just in time, feeling the fabric of his robe tear as the dagger grazed him. Pain seared his skin, but he had no time to acknowledge it. He countered with a swift slash of his own, forcing the assassin to leap backward.
Lightning flashed outside, illuminating his attacker's form for a fleeting second. Their stance was disciplined, their breathing even. A professional.
But Alastor had something they didn't expect—a will to survive.
He feigned a stumble, allowing the assassin to lunge forward, thinking him vulnerable. At the last moment, he twisted, narrowly avoiding the incoming blade and driving his knee into the assassin's stomach.
A sharp gasp escaped his attacker, the impact forcing them back. Alastor seized the moment. He grabbed a heavy tome from the nearby shelf and hurled it at the assassin's face. They dodged, but the distraction was enough. Alastor lunged, slashing his dagger forward.
The assassin barely managed to parry, but Alastor didn't let up. A flurry of attacks followed—each one stronger, more relentless. He wasn't just fighting defensively anymore. He was attacking with everything he had.
A slip. The assassin faltered, their foot sliding against the polished marble.
Alastor struck.
His dagger found its mark, cutting through the assassin's sleeve, drawing blood. They hissed in pain, retreating a few steps. Alastor could hear their breathing quicken. They knew they couldn't win.
In one swift motion, the assassin pulled a small smoke bomb from their belt and threw it to the ground. A thick cloud of smoke engulfed the library, burning Alastor's eyes and throat. He coughed, waving a hand in front of him to clear his vision, but by the time the smoke settled, the assassin was gone.
Only silence remained.
Alastor's heart pounded in his chest. His hands trembled slightly, but he steadied himself. He turned toward the shelf where the first dagger had struck, pulling it free and inspecting it.
No insignia. No markings. Nothing that revealed who sent them.
But this wasn't a random attack.
Someone wanted him dead.
As his vision blurred and his body crumpled to the cold floor, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in his ears.