The first kill had been the hardest. Not because of guilt—Silas had none—but because it was the moment he had stepped beyond mere survival. That night, when he slit the noble's throat, he had become something more than a street rat. He had become a hunter.
After that, the contracts came steadily.
The second kill was a merchant who had been stealing from the Black Sun. He had grown too bold, thinking he could skim from the top without consequence. Silas found him in his bedchamber, drunk and careless, and ended his life with a swift slice across the throat.
The third was a city guard who had betrayed his own men for coin. Silas followed him for days, watching, studying his habits. When the moment came, he struck from the shadows, a needle of poison to the neck. The guard collapsed in the middle of the street, dead before he hit the ground.
Each job was a lesson. Each target a new puzzle. He learned patience, precision, and control. The city was his hunting ground, and he was its unseen predator.
By the time he reached his tenth kill, Silas had carved out a reputation. People whispered of the Black Jack, a ghost who struck without warning and vanished before the dawn. The Black Sun feared him now. They had left him broken in the streets, but he had risen stronger, deadlier.
And then, on the night of his tenth kill, Falk called him to a meeting.
---
They met in a hidden room beneath a ruined chapel, a place of shadows and forgotten prayers. Falk stood in the candlelight, his sharp eyes watching Silas as he stepped inside. He was older now, the years carving lines into his face, but his presence was as sharp as ever.
"You've done well," Falk said, his voice low, measured. "Better than I expected."
Silas said nothing. He had never been one for words.
Falk smirked. "Ten contracts. No mistakes. No witnesses. You've earned something."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a dagger.
The blade was unlike any Silas had ever seen. Black as midnight, thin yet impossibly strong, its edge gleamed with a deadly sharpness. The handle was wrapped in dark leather, fitted perfectly for his grip. It was not just a weapon—it was an extension of the hand that wielded it.
"This," Falk said, holding it out, "is the Silencer."
Silas took the blade, feeling its weight. Light, balanced. A perfect instrument of death.
"It's been passed down through generations of assassins," Falk continued. "A blade that does not sing, does not reflect light. A weapon made for the true killers, not the butchers who think bloodshed is about strength."
Silas ran his thumb along the edge, feeling the razor-sharp bite. He looked up at Falk. "Why give this to me?"
"Because you're ready." Falk's gaze was steady. "And because you'll need it for what comes next."
Silas tightened his grip on the Silencer. Whatever came next, he would be ready.