Clift had always been a quiet, precise, controlled, and lethally efficient. As one of the king's most trusted assassins, he moved beneath the surface of the kingdom like a submerged blade, unseen and deadly.
They called him the King's Hidden Dagger, a title whispered by those who knew that when Clift appeared, someone's fate had already been sealed.
Assassinations, espionage, clandestine infiltration, he handled the kingdom's filth so the crown could remain untarnished. And if the mission required pain, Clift delivered it with the same finesse others reserved for poetry.
He drew out a slender steel needle, its tip gleaming with a cold, merciless promise. With practiced ease, he gripped Igor's trembling hand and pierced the needle between the knuckles, one deliberate stab at a time—never deep enough to cripple, only deep enough to awaken nerves in a screaming blaze.
