"He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how."
— Friedrich Nietzsche
The chill of twilight seeped through the patched walls of the rundown shack, biting into Alaric Vale's skin. He glanced at his sleeping sister, Liora, her delicate face peaceful beneath waves of silver-white hair that shimmered like moonlight. Pulling the worn blanket higher over her slender frame, he whispered softly, "Sleep well, Lia. I'll be back before dawn."
Stepping outside into the pale moonlight, Alaric inhaled the heavy scent of the Grey Quarter—rusted metal, stale water, and the faint stench of desperation. At nineteen, he had grown used to this life of scarcity and struggle. Every echo of distant shouting, every rustle of footfalls on broken cobblestones, reminded him of how fiercely he had to fight for Liora's survival. Still, he hid his anxieties behind a calm facade. If he showed weakness, the slums would devour him.
As he navigated the labyrinthine alleys, he brushed past leaning walls and makeshift huts. Children huddled around small fires, their eyes hollow, their faces pale under the flickering glow. Beggars hovered near crumbling arches, hands outstretched in silent pleas for mercy. Alaric could only tighten his jaw, force himself forward. He had no luxuries to give them; everything he earned went to Liora's care.
He eventually reached the ragtag gathering spot where scrappy workers waited for daily jobs. This makeshift marketplace thrived on desperation, with opportunistic handlers dishing out tasks that ranged from menial to outright dangerous. The air was thick with tension. He spotted Axel Dane, his only real friend, amidst the crowd. Axel was stout and strong, his unkempt red hair and ever-present grin almost comforting. He waved energetically as soon as he saw Alaric.
"Al! Heard there's good work tonight. Might finally score us a real meal!" Axel said, that trademark enthusiasm lighting up his face.
Alaric offered a small smile in return, his lean frame slipping between the pressing bodies. He hated these crowds—too many eyes, too much noise. "We can only hope," he murmured, scanning the faces for Boss Murdock. The balding, beady-eyed overseer was impossible to miss, standing on a ramshackle crate to bark orders.
"Vale! Good timing," Murdock hissed, beckoning Alaric with a bony finger. "I've got a special job for you tonight." His thin lips curled into what might pass for a grin. "Pays double. But it's at the Widow's Estate."
At this, Axel's expression darkened. The Widow's Estate was an ominous place—a sprawling mansion on the city's outskirts, rumored to belong to the reclusive Lord Eldric Cassian. Whispers claimed Cassian had fled powerful enemies and hidden himself away. Still, the money was undeniable. Alaric pictured Liora's thin wrists and resolute eyes. He had to provide for her.
"I'll take it," Alaric responded before he could second-guess himself.
Axel grabbed his arm. "Be careful, Al. That place reeks of trouble."
"I know," Alaric replied softly, placing a hand on Axel's shoulder. "Look after Lia if I'm late. I'd feel better knowing she has someone around."
"You got it," Axel said, though the worry never left his eyes.
The journey to the Widow's Estate was deceptively peaceful. Night cloaked the city in a hush occasionally interrupted by distant barks or faint laughter. Passing beyond the cramped confines of the Grey Quarter, Alaric could almost taste the difference—richer air, fewer broken cobblestones, more elaborate structures looming with silent grandeur. Despite the upscale environment, a sense of unease pricked at his senses.
When Alaric arrived, he found the mansion even more imposing than rumors suggested. Towering iron gates loomed overhead, and stone gargoyles perched on tall pillars seemed to watch him approach. Torches along the mansion's walls flickered, casting dancing shadows on the manicured lawns and imposing facade. Guards in stiff uniforms prowled the estate's perimeter, eyes narrowed as he approached.
One guard sneered dismissively but motioned for Alaric to enter. Inside, the mansion's interior dazzled him—polished marble floors reflected the ornate chandeliers, and gilded statues lined the halls. For hours, he performed menial tasks: hauling crates of imported goods, sweeping dust from hidden corners, and scrubbing the floors until they shone like mirrors. The pay better be worth the sweat, he thought, his hands aching from the repetitive labor.
As the moon rose higher, a hush fell over the Estate. Alaric finished arranging an upstairs storage room and looked out a tall window. The courtyard below was strangely empty; the once patrol-busy paths lay silent, devoid of any visible movement. A chill snaked down his spine.
Feeling the prickle of instinct, he pressed himself against the wall, quieting his breath. The stillness felt unnatural, like a vacuum swallowing every sound. "Where is everyone?" he murmured, peering into the corridor. Nervousness churned in his gut, urging him to flee.
Yet curiosity, a trait that had both aided and endangered him countless times, won out. He stole across the mansion's silent hallway, heading downstairs. The air smelled sharper, tinged with something metallic. On reaching the main hall, a gasp escaped his lips. Bodies were strewn about, guards left in mangled positions. Sightless eyes reflected confusion and terror. Each kill appeared exact and calculated, as though performed by someone who understood death intimately.
His heart thudded, and he stumbled back, pressing against a tall marble column. The eerie quiet magnified every tremor in his body. Then, a voice echoed from the upper balcony. He glanced up to see Lord Eldric Cassian, who wore a silken robe that now clung to him like a shroud of fear.
"Please!" Cassian's voice cracked with desperation. "I'll pay anything! Spare me!"
A lone figure materialized from the darkness, stepping into the moonlight. The assassin's black suit was immaculate, the lines of his attire sharp against the pale glow. White gloves held a gleaming blade, still unstained by blood, as though no act of violence could tarnish the killer's poise. An aura of menace radiated from him, refined yet unquestionably lethal. Alaric's breath caught in his throat. This man was no ordinary killer—there was an artful precision in the way he carried himself.
The assassin struck with fluid speed, almost too fast for Alaric's eyes to track. A flash of silver, a spray of crimson. Lord Cassian's final choked gurgle died in an instant, and his body crumpled lifelessly onto the floor. No last words. No second chance. The assassin, perfectly composed, wiped the blade with a silk handkerchief and dropped it onto Cassian's body as though discarding a trivial item.
Alaric's mind screamed for him to leave, to escape this nightmare. But he found himself drawn to the lethal elegance of the act, a dark fascination warring with his common sense. Heart pounding, he backed away cautiously. Then, he froze. A cold pressure brushed against his throat, the edge of steel so near that it pricked his skin.
Slowly, Alaric turned his head to the side. The assassin stood only meters away, blade extended. Alaric's chest tightened in terror, but despite that crippling fear, a sort of resigned calm settled over him. Perhaps it would be better to die by this man's hand, to be claimed in one swift motion rather than live and starve in the slums. But then he imagined Liora—her wide, trusting eyes, her innocence despite their harsh reality—and found the will to stand his ground.
A tense moment passed, each second dragging like an eternity. Finally, the assassin lowered his blade an inch, gazing at Alaric as though examining a curious phenomenon. "Interesting," he said softly. The single word struck like a thunderclap. "You don't fear death, and yet you do. You're terrified but not panicking. Rational. Focused."
Alaric swallowed, adrenaline coursing through him. He had no words, no explanation for his behavior. His entire life, he had either fought or fled. Now, he stood paralyzed between life and demise.
The assassin's lips curved in a faint, inscrutable smile. "You have no connection to that dead fool, so there's no reason to stain my blade further." He stepped gracefully past Alaric, footsteps eerily silent on the marble floor. "Farewell."
Only after the killer disappeared into the shadows did Alaric's legs respond. Gasping for air, he stumbled toward the mansion's entrance, weaving through the carnage. The night sky outside felt at once liberating and suffocating. Every nerve in his body screamed for him to run, so he did—through the gates, along the dark roads, and back into the cramped chaos of the Grey Quarter.
When he finally reached the ramshackle shack he called home, his lungs burned. He burst inside and collapsed onto the thin mattress, chest heaving with the remnants of shock and fear. The gruesome events replayed in his mind—he couldn't forget the chilling elegance of that assassin's strike, nor could he shake the image of Cassian's final moments.
Eventually, exhaustion overwhelmed him. The tension in his muscles ebbed, and his trembling subsided. Drifting into fitful sleep, he wondered if it had all been some feverish hallucination. But the vivid memory of that razor-sharp blade at his throat was too real to dismiss as a mere nightmare.
Sometime in the early hours, he awoke with a start. Something bright glowed in front of him, swirling like ethereal mist. He blinked rapidly, unsure if he was still dreaming. A cyan screen materialized, words forming in a crisp, uncanny font:
"Initializing Assassin's Path System… Welcome, Alaric Vale."
Despite his fatigue and bewilderment, Alaric's heart skipped a beat. He stared, uncomprehending, at the floating display. Was this some twisted joke? A hallucination brought on by trauma? The glow intensified momentarily, illuminating the shadows in their tiny shack. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the screen vanished.
Alaric's mind spun with questions. A 'system?' What did that mean? No matter the explanation, it felt like something beyond the bounds of the world he knew. Liora stirred in her sleep, but didn't wake. Alaric lay there, eyes unfocused, the assassin's words echoing in his thoughts—words that had somehow recognized his odd mixture of terror and serenity. Had that calm acceptance of death been rooted in despair, a desire to protect. As Alaric slowly fell into deep slumber, he found himself calmer than ever, almost as if the ordeal of the day was a calming white noise.