The Curator's question hung in the cold, damp air, a blade poised over my neck. In that moment, I understood that my next words would be more critical to my survival than any dagger thrust or parry. The physical tests were over. This was a test of the mind, a game played for the highest stakes.
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced my breathing to remain steady. I kept my eyes downcast, a posture of deference and exhaustion. The lie I had been crafting on my walk back had to be perfect. It had to be believable, acknowledge my tardiness, and, most importantly, feed him the information I'd found without revealing my blatant insubordination.
"My apologies, Curator," I began, my voice a carefully controlled rasp. I let a bit of weariness bleed into it. "The primary target was eliminated as ordered. The other two were neutralized without compromising our position."
I paused, letting him absorb the successful completion of the core mission. "But after the primary was dealt with, I felt… a lingering presence. A sense that the thread wasn't fully cut. The file stated the Serpent's Hand was a guild. I felt it was a mistake to assume the three agents at the celebration were its entirety."
This was the first part of the lie—framing my disobedience as diligence. I was not a rogue agent; I was a thorough one.
"I used the remaining authorized time for my operation to circle back to the plaza," I continued, keeping my story grounded in the mission parameters. "I observed from a distance, watching the crowd disperse. It was then I noticed him. A kitchen worker from the castle. He was acting nervously, circling a bakery in the lower district long after it had closed for the night. It was suspicious."
"Suspicious," the Curator repeated, the single word dripping with skepticism. "The city is full of suspicious men. Why this one?"
"His nervousness was specific, sir," I said, meeting his unseen gaze for a brief second before lowering my eyes again. "He wasn't a common thief. He was afraid of being watched. It was the same energy the assassins had. He was a sheep trying to act like a wolf, and it showed. I believed he might be a low-level contact, perhaps a courier."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the papers, holding them out with a slightly trembling hand. The tremble was not entirely an act.
"I followed him back to the castle. He was stopped at a new security checkpoint at the servant's entrance. He panicked. He discarded this package in a waste bin, intending to retrieve it later. I recovered it after he had gone inside. I did not engage him. I did not know the extent of the plot and did not wish to compromise a potential intelligence source by acting rashly."
There it was. The complete narrative. I had been diligent, not disobedient. I had used my intuition, a valuable trait in an operative. I had stumbled upon the information, not sought it out. And I had shown restraint by not acting on it, instead bringing it directly to my superior. It was a lie held together by threads of truth, the most convincing kind of fabrication.
The Curator was silent for a long, agonizing moment. He took the papers from my hand. I could hear the soft rustle as he looked them over in the dim light. The silence stretched, becoming a physical pressure. Every second that passed felt like a hammer blow, waiting to fall. I kept my body still, my head bowed, a perfect image of a weary but dutiful soldier awaiting judgment.
Then, the Curator did something I had never seen him do before. He chuckled. It was not a sound of mirth. It was a dry, rasping sound, like stones grinding together. It was the most terrifying sound I had ever heard.
"A lingering presence," he said, the words laced with a chilling amusement. "A valuable intuition."
He looked up from the papers, and though I couldn't see his face, I felt the full weight of his attention on me. "Your initiative has uncovered a deeper rot than we suspected. An active intelligence leak from within the castle itself. You have done well, Shadow."
Relief washed over me, so potent it almost made me dizzy. I had done it. He believed me.
Then he took a step closer, and the cold dread returned with a vengeance. "You have done well," he repeated, his voice losing all trace of amusement and becoming as sharp as broken glass. "But a tool that thinks for itself is a dangerous thing. Initiative is a blade that must be kept on a razor's edge. It can be a great asset, or it can be the flaw that shatters the weapon."
He turned his head slightly. "Kael."
The hulking instructor stepped out of a nearby shadow, as if he had been there the entire time. My blood ran cold.
"The boy showed initiative," the Curator said to Kael. "But he was also late. His report was not immediate. He allowed his 'intuition' to delay his return. A delay of minutes could mean the failure of a mission. It could mean the death of the Hero. He needs to understand the price of time."
Kael nodded, a slow, grim motion. He cracked his knuckles.
"Initiative is rewarded," the Curator said, his voice a cold whisper as he looked back down at me. "Deception is punished. And while your deception was… commendable… I do not tolerate it. You were not circling back. You found a note on the lead assassin's body. Don't ever assume I am a fool."
My heart stopped. He had known. He had known all along. This entire exchange had been a test. A game.
"The information you brought back is valuable," the Curator continued, turning to leave. "So, you will live. But you will not forget this lesson."
He disappeared into the darkness, leaving me alone with Kael.
I didn't even have time to brace myself. Kael's lesson was not a beating with a whip. It was a methodical, brutal deconstruction. He didn't break bones. He targeted nerves, joints, and muscle groups, using precise, painful strikes designed to inflict maximum agony without causing permanent damage. It was a lesson in pain, a reminder of my place in the hierarchy. It was a message delivered not in words, but in blinding, white-hot torment.
I don't know how long it lasted. When it was over, I was left bruised, bleeding, and trembling on the floor, every inch of my body a symphony of pain. I had succeeded in my mission. I had uncovered a conspiracy. And this was my reward.
Through the swimming haze of pain, I heard the Curator's voice echo in my mind. Do not forget who you are, tool.
Kael dropped a new, thicker file next to my head. "Get up," he grunted. "The Curator has a new task for you. He was impressed with your work."
I dragged my broken body upright, my vision slowly clearing. I opened the file. Inside was a portrait of a stern, formidable-looking man in the uniform of the Royal Guard. Captain Marcus. The file detailed his incorruptible reputation, his fanatical loyalty, his position as head of the Hero's personal security detail. And it detailed his connection to the kitchen boy. He was the source of the leak.
The Curator's voice echoed in my ears, a final, chilling order for the night.
"Killing him is easy. It is also foolish. A dead captain is replaced. A controlled captain is a weapon. You will not kill him, Shadow. You will find his weakness. You will break him. And you will make him ours."