Chapter One: Shadows Beneath the Opera House
People always think killing is the hardest part.
It's not.
It's the silence before—the weight of your heartbeat when you're crouched above someone who doesn't know tonight is their last. That moment when you wonder, just for a second, who they were before all this.
But I push the thought away. I don't have the luxury of wondering anymore.
The velvet rafters groaned faintly beneath me as I moved, my body tucked in black fabric that clung like a second skin. Down below, the opera played on—rich voices, golden chandeliers, the illusion of beauty. All of it hiding the filth.
I raise my hand, and violet light crackles in my palm. Cool, steady. My spell hums to life like a whisper against my skin. Silent. Lethal.
Just one cast, and it'll be over.
But I hesitate.
Something shifts. The air tightens. Magic—not mine.
I freeze, eyes scanning the opposite balcony.
And then I see him.
White hair like snow under moonlight. A tall frame dressed in dark formalwear, posture relaxed like he belongs here—but every movement is coiled and precise. Like mine.
And his eyes... gray. Cold. Focused. Familiar.
No. It can't be.
The Ghost.
We'd crossed blades once, years ago. Neither of us won. He vanished into shadow, and I never expected to see him again. And now here he is—at my mission, watching my target.
I grit my teeth.
He sees me.
And smiles.
Arrogant bastard.
I drop from the rafters in one smooth motion, landing light on the upper balcony. The red velvet carpet softens the sound, but he's already turning to face me, hand sparking faintly with that pale, crackling magic I remember too well.
"You're early," he says, like we're old friends meeting for coffee.
I draw my blade, letting my own magic lace along the edge. "You're in my way."
He doesn't back down. Of course he doesn't.
The first strike is mine. He blocks it easily, the clash of our magic sending a pulse through the air. His movements are as smooth as I remember—too smooth. Every attack I throw, he counters like we've rehearsed this fight before.
"You've gotten better," he murmurs, a breath away.
I snarl. "Shame you haven't."
The edge of my blade grazes his shoulder—not deep, but enough to tear through fabric. A faint glow seeps from the wound. He doesn't flinch.
We keep moving. Strike, dodge, parry. It's a dance, but not the kind anyone would pay to see.
Below us, the orchestra swells to its final note. The perfect cover.
I turn sharply toward the target's booth, magic already surging through my veins. One cast. That's all I need.
But he's there.
Of course he is.
We both raise our hands at the same time, spells crackling in unison.
The light flashes.
The target falls.
Smoke rises from the enchanted sigils that hover in the air—his and mine, intertwined. The man slumps forward, lifeless. Two perfect spells. Two flawless strikes.
I stare at the body. Then at him.
Another draw.
His lips curve slightly, smug. I want to hit him again. I want to know why I can't stop staring.
"I won't miss next time," I say, my voice low.
His eyes glitter like steel in the moonlight. "Neither will I."
Then he steps back, disappears into the shadows like a ghost slipping between dimensions.
And just like before, I'm left alone with nothing but the dying hum of our magic and a question I never want to ask:
Why does it always feel like fate when he looks at me?
I shook my head and pushed the Ghost out of my mind. He was gone. Again. And the job was done.
I slipped through the shadowed alleys behind the opera house, avoiding the flashing lights of the city. My cloak fluttered behind me like smoke, my magic still humming beneath my skin from the fight. A few lingering sparks crackled at my fingertips, and I forced myself to breathe. Calm. Controlled. Detached.
Ten minutes later, I was back at the hotel—an opulent, towering thing with more gold in its lobby than most cities had in their vaults. The kind of place where people smiled too wide and asked too few questions.
I bypassed the front desk and took the side elevator, the one staff pretended not to notice. My reflection stared back at me in the mirrored walls—black clothes, tousled hair, faint streaks of magical residue on my cheek. I wiped it off with a gloved hand.
The top floor was silent, guarded by an enchantment only I knew how to break. I pressed two fingers against the lock and whispered the code word under my breath.
"Cinis."
The sigils dissolved.
Inside, the room was dim, curtains drawn. Lavish furniture. Wine on ice. The kind of setting meant to distract from the blood being paid for.
The client sat in a high-backed chair near the window, swirling a glass of red liquid that wasn't wine. He turned as I entered, his beady eyes scanning me like I was just another tool in his arsenal.
"Well?" he asked.
I stepped forward and met his gaze. "It's done. The politician's dead."
A slow, satisfied smile crept across his face. "And the witnesses?"
"None. Clean."
He raised his glass in a mock toast. "Flawless work as always, Miss Selene."
I didn't smile. "My payment."
He nodded to the desk. A pouch sat there, glowing faintly with protective runes. I didn't need to open it—I could feel the weight, the truth of it, with just a touch.
I was about to walk out when he stopped me.
"Wait, Miss Selene," he said, swirling the glass again. "How about you join me for a glass of wine?"
I paused, hand still on the doorknob. Slowly, I turned to face him.
His smile was polished, the kind of expression men wore when they thought charm could bend steel. I'd seen it a hundred times. It never worked.
"I don't drink while I'm working," I replied, voice cool.
"You just finished working." He leaned back, gesturing to the second glass already waiting on the table. "Consider it a celebration."
I hesitated, but I knew he wouldn't give up that easily. Men like him never did.
So I crossed the room, grabbed the glass, and downed the wine in one go. It was bitter, dry, laced with the arrogance of someone who thought this counted as civility.
I slammed the glass back on the table without a word and turned away.
Satisfaction radiated from him like heat, but I didn't give him the pleasure of looking back. I walked out, coat flaring behind me, boots silent on marble. One mission done. Payment secured. Just another night.
But halfway to the elevator, something shifted.
My vision blurred—edges bending, lights streaking unnaturally. I blinked hard, tried to steady myself, but the floor swayed beneath me.
I staggered, reaching for the wall.
"Damn old man," I muttered under my breath, a sliver of panic creeping in.
My head pounded like a war drum, magic twisting in my chest, unbalanced. I could feel it—the wrongness. Something was in that wine.
"Shit," I hissed, swaying as two men appeared at the end of the hallway. Suits. Too clean. Too calm.
They weren't hotel staff.
I backed up instinctively, fingers twitching toward the dagger strapped to my thigh, but my magic—my precision—was off. Like a string snapped inside me.
"You shouldn't have let your guard down," one of them said, voice smooth and amused.
I gritted my teeth, crouching slightly as I tried to force a spell through the haze. It fizzled at my fingertips. My limbs felt too heavy, the corridor spinning.
He drugged me. That bastard drugged me.
My body was weakening, but my instincts screamed one thing:
Fight.
The two men came closer, their smiles too wide, their movements too smooth. I couldn't focus. My legs felt like they were made of lead, my magic slipping out of reach, but I had to act fast.
They weren't going to make this easy.
I staggered back, trying to clear my mind, then in one swift motion, I drew the dagger from my thigh and threw it.
The first man didn't even flinch as the blade grazed his arm, but it distracted him long enough. I lunged at the second one, drawing my other dagger with a growl. I was slower than usual, but still lethal.
He raised a hand, preparing a spell, but I was already there. My blade found the sweet spot just beneath his ribs, and I twisted. The light flickered in his eyes as he crumpled to the floor, too stunned to even scream.
The first man reached for his own weapon—an old, enchanted blade—but it didn't matter. I was already on him. I moved with the instinct I'd honed over years of training. A slash to the wrist. A sharp twist. A punch to his gut that sent him to his knees.
With a final flick of my wrist, I buried my dagger in his throat. He gurgled, his hand clawing at the air in a futile attempt to stay upright before collapsing, his life slipping away in the quiet hallway.
I took a steadying breath, chest heaving, but the victory felt hollow. My magic wasn't responding the way it should. The drug still clouded my thoughts, and I was desperate to shake it off. I needed to get to a bathroom, rinse off the disorientation. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears, drowning out everything else.
A door loomed ahead, there might be water, a bathroom. I stumbled toward it, each step heavy and uncooperative, like my own body was fighting me.
My fingers brushed the handle—but before I could twist it, a hand shot out from behind the door, yanking me inside with brutal force.
I barely had time to react as the door slammed shut behind me. The room spun, the haze in my mind growing thicker. My legs trembled, barely keeping me on my feet as I tried to resist, but my senses were swimming.
Then, he was there.
A man, tall and imposing, his presence suffocating the small space. My blurry vision struggled to focus on him, but I felt his warmth—a heat that didn't match the chill creeping under my skin. Before I could gather enough strength to push him away, his lips found mine, pressing hard, almost demanding.
My brain screamed, Fight back, but the drug made everything sluggish. My limbs wouldn't obey. My breath hitched, disjointed, as his lips molded against mine, warm and unyielding.
He's warm, I thought, disoriented. The thought seemed to hang in the air, too distant, as if it weren't even mine.
I felt something pull inside me, something deeper than the fight or flight instinct, a feeling I couldn't chase away, no matter how much I wanted to.
.....