Chapter 15: Yamete Kudasai Assassin-Chan! Not in the Alley <3

Ten days crawled by like drunk snails, and still no Elyndor.

So Serine and I packed up, Arkanthos hanging smugly at my hip, and set out north. If the bridge wasn’t finished, I was prepared to wring the carpenter’s pretty little neck myself. Cinabar had nothing left for us—low-paying jobs, boring drunks, and the kind of provincial “festivities” that made even Serine’s prayers look exciting. Aveloria promised more: work, opportunity, and far better ale.

Three days later, we reached the wyrm’s graveyard. The scar across the land yawned just as wide as before, a wound splitting the earth into two halves. But this time, a bridge stretched across it—sturdy beams, polished rails, flawless craft. Elyndor’s handiwork, no question.

Only, Elyndor himself was nowhere in sight.

Instead, a note waited for us, nailed into one of the posts. My name, Serine’s, scrawled neatly across the front. I plucked it free and read aloud.

Dearest Rissa and Serine,

Thanks to you, I completed the commission. I’ll never know how to repay you. But duty calls—I’ve been summoned back to my homeland, the Isle of Liraen. I travel now to Cape Vaelor, to board a ship at the coastal city of Mirath. If you ever find yourselves there, I promise to reward you properly.

“Isle of Liraen…” I muttered, folding the parchment with care. Of course. It explained everything.

Serine tilted her head, wide-eyed as ever. “Wait—does that mean Elyndor is… a half-human? Truly?”

I smirked at her, unable to resist. “I suspected he had elf blood from the start. The long green hair, always tied up just so—hiding his ears. And don’t get me started on those perfect cheekbones. No mortal carpenter gets bone structure like that.”

“Remarkable,” Serine whispered, awe flooding her face. “In Virelia, I’d only ever heard stories. I never imagined I’d meet a half-elf in person…”

Arkanthos’ dry voice slithered from my side. “It surprises me you did not know. In my time, such bloodlines were far less rare. But yes—Elyndor carries the heritage of two peoples. A half-elf indeed, Lady Serine.”

Serine pressed her hands together, eyes practically sparkling. “How wonderful! A living bridge between two worlds.”

“Wonderful, sure,” I said, slipping the folded note into my pouch. “But what I hear is: he owes us. And I don’t intend to forget it. Imagine it, Serine—an elven isle, brimming with magic, relics, riches. Elyndor’s sense of honor won’t let him turn us away. One day, we’ll visit Liraen, and when we do…”

I licked my lips and smiled darkly. “We’ll bleed his kindness dry.”

Serine frowned faintly, but didn’t argue. She never did when I started talking like that.

Two more days passed before the spires of Aveloria finally rose on the horizon.

The closer we came, the louder the world grew—until the city swallowed us whole.

Aveloria was alive in a way Cinabar could never dream of being. Streets bustled with hawkers, caravans, and clashing voices from a dozen lands. Banners of guilds and mercenary companies flapped in the wind, colors vying for dominance. Stalls lined every corner, selling blades, charms, maps, and drinks strong enough to kill a mule.

And the people—gods, the people. Adventurers in shining armor or tattered cloaks; merchants in embroidered silks; cutpurses lurking in alleys; even priests with enough coin in their pouches to prove holiness had a price. It was chaos, yes—but ordered chaos, humming with power.

Aveloria wasn’t part of any kingdom. It didn’t need to be. It stood as one of the three great city-states of the North—a sovereign fortress of stone, gold, and ambition.

To the west lay Tharvos, the closest port to the Shadow Continent. A dangerous, salt-stained city where smugglers and explorers rubbed shoulders with mercenaries and exiles.

To the east, wealth glittered in Vel Dranneth, richest of them all, tied by blood and faith to Dravencourt and the ever-righteous Holy Order.

Together, Aveloria, Tharvos, and Vel Dranneth formed the Northern Triscent—a pact that bound the northern lands together, safe from kings and their squabbling crowns. Here, guilds ruled instead of monarchs. Contracts outweighed decrees. And power, in all its forms, was currency.

I breathed it in like fine perfume, my lips curving. “Now this,” I whispered, “is more like it.”

First things first—we needed food, a roof, and some way to stop bleeding money like a stuck pig. But more importantly, we had to register at the Adventurers’ Guild here in Aveloria. No guild, no jobs. No jobs, no coin. No coin, no food. You get the picture.

“Serine,” I said, pulling her aside before she could wander off after the nearest shiny trinket. “You hunt us down a decent inn. Somewhere that serves food and won’t poison us with it. I’ll head to the guild. We meet in the central plaza, by the market, in two hours.”

She nodded, all bright-eyed obedience, and skipped down the main street, already scanning signboards like a bloodhound on the scent.

Finding the Adventurers’ Guild wasn’t exactly the puzzle of the century. All I had to do was follow the trail of oversized swords, dented armor, and egos so large they practically needed their own horses. Sure enough, at the far end of the main street, marble steps gleamed in the late sun, leading up to a hall that screamed “We kill things for fun and profit.”

Inside, the guild was buzzing with noise, ale mugs, and more testosterone than a battlefield. The walls were decorated like a hunter’s fever dream—massive fangs, claws the size of my arm, a wyvern skull so big it could swallow a wagon, and even a pair of shriveled troll heads glaring down at the room with milky eyes. Cozy.

A handful of secretaries worked behind polished oak desks, scribbling away and shooing adventurers with the kind of efficiency only boredom and disdain can produce. I queued up behind a hulking man in spiked armor who smelled like he hadn’t bathed since the last dragon raid. By the time he was done bragging about his “solo kill” of some oversized lizard, it was my turn.

And oh, lucky me. My “welcoming committee” was a secretary so gorgeous she could’ve been carved out of marble by lovesick gods. Long raven hair, sharp cheekbones, lips painted the exact shade of “kiss me if you dare.” Shame about her personality though—because the first words out of her mouth dripped frost.

“Name. Class. Purpose.”

Not even a hello. Charming.

I leaned on the desk with my most winning smile. “Rissa. Priestess (”of the death...”, I thought smiling to myself.) Aspiring adventurer, at your service gorgeous lady.”

Her eyes didn’t even flicker. “And your purpose, Miss Rissa?”

“Forming a party. Registering with the guild. Maybe getting a drink later, if fate’s feeling generous.” I gave her a wink.

She didn’t so much as blink. “Minimum requirement for party registration: three members. Rank F. You appear to be one short on your formulary.”

“Ah, but surely exceptions can be made for someone like me,” I purred, sliding the form back across the desk. “After all, I could make your day so much more… interesting.”

Her gaze snapped up then, finally meeting mine. But instead of softening, it could’ve frozen lava. “Miss, the only thing you’re making is a scene. Unless you can produce a third member, there is nothing more I can do for you. Next.”

Ouch.

I clutched my chest dramatically. “Cold. Cruel. You wound me, truly. And here I thought we had a connection.”

She arched one perfect brow. “The only connection we have is professional. And it’s over. Next.”

The adventurer behind me cleared his throat, impatient.

I sighed, pushing away from the desk. “Well, when you’re alone tonight, staring wistfully at the moon, just remember the one that got away.”

Her reply was so dry it could’ve started a desert. “I won’t.”

I left to a chorus of chuckles from the queue. Apparently, I’d just provided free entertainment. Great. Just great.

So. No third member, no registration, no party. Fantastic start.

I was so lost in plotting how to either bribe or blackmail some poor soul into joining us that I didn’t even notice the alley until it was too late. A hand snagged my hood, yanking me sideways off the street. Before I could shout, I was shoved against cold stone, my head snapping back from the impact.

An arm pressed across my throat, iron-strong despite its wiry frame. My eyes darted over the cloaked figure pinning me. Small. Slender. Not some burly thug. But gods, whoever they were, they had the strength of a damn ogre.

I wheezed a laugh through the pressure on my windpipe. “Well. If you wanted to get me alone, darling, there are less violent ways to ask.”

“No surprise,” the voice spat, sharp and venomous as a dagger. “You haven’t changed a bit, Rissa. Same filthy mouth. Same worthless tongue. Gods, you make me sick.”

My blood froze. I knew that voice.

“Myrrin.” I forced the name out around the pressure on my throat, coughing with a rasp of air. “Wow. Of all the alleys in Aveloria, you just had to drag me into this one. What is it, fate? Or are you stalking me like some lovesick puppy? You know, we can get cozy and lovey in any inn, though I have to admit the danger of an alley is also exciting, it almost takes my breath away just thinking about it.”

Beneath the moss-green hood, I caught a glimpse of Myrrin’s face—sharp, dangerous beauty carved into fine lines, with pale, feline eyes that gleamed like a predator’s. Strands of wavy, chestnut hair tumbled messily across her forehead, half-veiling her features, as though the wildness of it suited her better than any crown of silk ever could.

Her hood shifted just enough for me to see the edge of her glare—those pale eyes I remembered all too well, brimming with disgust. Myrrin. Lyra’s hound. Serine’s fellow lady-in-waiting. And the deadliest snake in the palace garden.

I tried for a smirk, even as her arm pressed harder. “Seventeen and already choking women in dark alleys. You must be so popular at parties.”

Her lips curled back in something between a sneer and a snarl. “Still running that mouth. I should crush your windpipe right now and silence it forever.”

“Tempting, I know,” I rasped, forcing the words out past the pressure. “But I’m sure strangling a priestess in broad daylight isn’t great for your reputation.”

That’s when I felt it—the unmistakable chill of steel. A blade slid from her sleeve and pressed flat against my throat, just hard enough to nick the skin.

“Priestess my ass.” she hissed. “You think I care what strangers think of me? The only thing I care about is watching the light go out of those lying eyes of yours.”

I laughed, low and hoarse. “Well, that’s flattering. I didn’t know I made such an impression.”

Her knife bit closer. “You think this is a game?”

“Oh, sweetheart, with you, it’s always a game. Back at the palace—you remember? Archery practice? You glaring at me like I’d stolen your bow, your arrows, your soul, and your loved lady Lyra. I figured it was just teenage angst, but no… turns out it was pure hatred. You wound me.”

“You don’t deserve to say her name!” Myrrin snapped, her voice rising so sharply it cracked through the alley. “Princess Lyra trusted you. And you betrayed her. Lied to her. Manipulated her. You disgust me. Every day I dreamed of putting an arrow straight through your spine.”

“Aw, how romantic.” I tilted my head against the rough stone, ignoring the sting of her blade at my throat. “All those stolen glares at the practice field, all those years of obsession. You could’ve just written me a love letter, Myrrin. We might’ve worked something out.”

Her breath burned against my cheek, hot and furious. “If it were up to me, you’d already be a corpse rotting in some ditch. But trust me, I’d take my time first. Piece by piece. Slow. Until you begged me to end it.”

“Charming,” I muttered, though my pulse thundered in my ears. “You always did have a talent for foreplay.”

Her arm slammed me harder into the wall, the knife pressing deeper. I felt the cold bite of steel threaten to break skin. My smirk faltered for the briefest instant.

“You don’t get it,” she hissed, her voice shaking with rage. “Princess Lyra gave me orders. To bring you back. Alive.”

“Oh, wonderful,” I croaked, forcing a laugh. “Now threaten me even more, it actually turns me on, little Myrrin.”

“But,” she leaned in close enough that her hood brushed my forehead, her knife scraping across my skin, “she never said I had to bring you back with your tongue. Or your fingers. Or your legs.”

A shiver stabbed down my spine, cold and sharp. For once, the humor lodged in my throat, and real fear crept in. But habit—damn habit—made me smile anyway.

“You always were detail-oriented,” I whispered, my lips brushing the edge of her blade. “That’s what makes you so… efficient. It’s endearing, in a psychotic sort of way. Micromanaging your kills.”

She pressed harder, enough that a thin bead of blood trailed warm across my neck.

“One word,” she seethed. “Just one more word out of that filthy mouth, and I’ll cut it from you. I’ll drag you back to Lyra with stumps where your arms used to be and a carved smile across your throat. Do you understand?”

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, her fury pouring over me like a storm. My heart thundered so loud I thought it would shake the knife itself.

Then, slowly, my lips curled into a grin.

I didn’t want to hurt Myrrin. Gods knew I didn’t care much for her, but I wasn’t blind to the bigger picture—Serine had grown up with her, and Lyra… well, Lyra valued her more than she’d ever admit out loud. If I laid a finger on the girl, if I scarred her in a way she couldn’t hide, the palace would come down on me like a hammer, and this time with just cause.

But with her arm choking the air from my lungs and steel biting against my throat, the memory wouldn’t leave me—the first time I got killed. The heat, the loss of control, the way the rusty flavour peaked in my throat when my soul was escaping my body. I could almost feel it again, clawing at me, begging to be let loose as magic power.

Not now. Not her. Not like this.

And yet, my lips itched for one last jab. One more insult, sharp enough to dig under her skin, to watch her snap—

CRACK.

The sound tore through the alley, violent and final, like a tree splitting under a storm.

Myrrin’s body collapsed at my feet, graceless and limp, her knife clattering against the stones. Blood trickled from a fresh wound at her temple. My breath caught in my chest. Not dead. Just out cold.

I dragged in air, rasping, my fingers brushing the angry red line across my throat. Then I looked up.

He stood there. Broad shoulders. Storm-gray eyes. That infuriatingly perfect air of control.

“Cassie,” I croaked, forcing a smirk. “What timing. Lovely to see you... and that absolutely tragic haircut of yours, here of all places.”

His jaw tightened.

“It’s Cassian,” he said, voice low, sharp. “You know that. The least you could do is show some respect to the man who just saved your life.”

I gave him an exaggerated sigh, rolling my eyes as though he’d just asked me to scrub chamber pots.

“Fine, fine… handsome boy. You win. I won’t make too many jokes about you. Not today.”

I tilted my head, grin slipping back into place.

“Come on then. I’ll buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do for my gallant rescuer… though fair warning, I’m definitely going back to mocking your hair afterward.”

I winked at him, because what else do you do when you’ve just been nearly murdered and saved by a storm-eyed stranger you can’t decide whether to mock or thank?