Mother Dearest made me spar with Nellie again.
She knows I hate fighting women. Does she care? Of course not. That's part of her charm. Or cruelty. Even then... The Knight Commander is a proper knight. Even if she was born weaker, she still swings like a bull with a vendetta.
I strike. I parry. I deflect.I've always hated swords. I'd rather use a spear. Honestly.
"Pay attention, kid!" she barked.
That fucking brute of a woman. Six feet tall and a face like two horses smashed together. Not ugly, just... overwhelming. Her presence filled any room, even outdoors. She fought me like I owed her blood.
Of course, she knocked me on my ass. Hard.
Breakfast came up. All of it. Porridge and figs, mostly. I remember because it smelled the same going out as it did going in.
And in that mess, I saw my reflection, distorted in bile and shame. Back when my teeth hadn't yet rotted, when my hair still held shape. I probably even smelled decent then. Seemed like another lifetime. In a way, it was.
"Ah! Don't tell the Madame about this, okay?" Nellie's voice cracked.
She was still catching her breath, sweating under her armour. She helped me up with one hand and rubbed her sore ribs with the other.
We swore a vow of silence over bruises and bile. We always did. Nellie was a brute, yes... but never cruel. She didn't want to humiliate me. She just wanted me to be stronger.
Later that evening, I sat beside her in the sun-warmed courtyard. The villa, De Vermund estate, sprawled out behind us. Columns, towers, artificial waterfalls, our family always had more money than sense. The servants worked the gardens until they looked painted. Spring didn't bloom here...
It obeyed.
Nellie looked at me and smiled. "Master, having a good day, I take it?"
She was out of her armour now. Clean tunic, hair braided back. She always braided it tight, almost painfully so. She told me once that loose hair on a battlefield was a death sentence. I believed her. I still do.
I tried to answer. "Just... a littl-"
Then it started. That hideous sensation. Like being turned inside out, rebuilt from bone to soul. Reforged, not healed.
The pain, the flashing visions, spikes behind the eyes, heat under the ribs, iron in my mouth.
And then: Nellie's skull. A dagger, no, a stiletto- slamming through the bridge of her nose. Her body jerked once, then collapsed. My mother's scream, high and desperate. My father…?Where in all nine hells was he?
Spring bloomed in blood.
Her expression burned into me forever. Not pain. Not fear. Just surprise. Like she'd seen the vision too, at the last second, and realised it was real.
I was sixteen. Still the crybaby. Still haunted. Still weak.
And now? Nine years later. Twenty-five. Still alive. Barely.
...From here, I prepared.
The next day, I feigned a fever. Skipped my drills. Let Nellie and Mother think I was sulking again.
But in secret, I planned. Every detail.
The assassin would come through the south garden, why there? Because the vines had overgrown the old marblework, and there was a cracked window frame behind the rose trellis. Easy to miss, easier to exploit. A place the servants missed, this estate was too large.
He'd use a soft spell to silence the latch, then squeeze through like a serpent. The moment his foot hit the floor, I'd see him. He'd lunge, fast, lean, not armoured. A dagg- Stilleto in hand.
Nellie would deflect the blow. Take the second. Die.
My mother would run in. Too late.
I'd be alone again.
So I built the hallway into a killing field. I moved the flour sacks myself, one by one, pretending they were part of some prank. White powder layered the floor until it was slick as ice. I stacked up the furniture, end tables, shelves, and a folding screen to make a narrow path. I scattered ball bearings, stolen from the stables. Laid thread tripwires across the hallway at ankle height, anchored to empty candlesticks.
At the very end of it all, I placed a mirror. Just to fuck with him. Let him see himself one last time.
My weapons? A short spear, weighted toward the tip. Another, longer and barbed. And a third, thin, iron, made for piercing mail. I kept them lined up behind the panel wall.
Armour was simple: leather underlay, some chain I found in the armoury, and a stubby iron helmet with a dent I liked. It made me feel like someone else had survived worse.
Then I waited.
"Throw the spear. Win. Throw the spear. Win."
I whispered it to myself for hours, chewing on dried meat and holding back panic.
And then, it came.
The soft scrape of the window being unlatched. A breath. A shape slipping through the opening. Human? Barely. He moved like a thing born of rats and gutters, limbs too long, spine too short.
He smelled like poison and wax. I'll never forget that.
I waited for his footsteps. The shift of weight. Then-
I threw.
The short spear struck. Not a clean kill. His side. Deep, but not fatal. He stumbled forward, shrieking like a beast. Blood spattered the flour into a wet paste. His feet slipped.
He hurled his dagger. It hit my helmet square. I nearly dropped from the shock. But I stayed upright.
He was fast, even wounded. He twisted through my defences like smoke, crawling over the overturned chairs, slamming into the tripwire, catching himself on a shelf.
But I'd planned too well. I retreated to the corner of the corridor; My second layer of defences. Another table, to hide behind.
The final spear drove into his gut when he turned the corner. I stepped forward before him and twisted it. He screamed. Then whimpered. Then bled.
I watched him die.
Slow.
Alone.
Every step of his ragged crawl left red behind. I didn't finish him off, he just... tried to escape.
His body fell. Slumped. Bled.Each ragged step of his collapse was sacred to me.He hurt the ones I loved.
A fate deserved.
I saved the day.
...But Nellie never came....And Mother didn't either.
"The first assassin was dead..." I muttered.
But these visions... they leak.They always leak.
"First assassin? Right... Of course, of course. First..."...Even I didn't know there was a second, not until my body seized up again, twisting in that all-too-familiar scream of fate. The churning of my insides, the words repeating back to me.
And Father?Where in the nine hells was he!?