In the dead of night, a small figure darted toward the palace, weaving effortlessly between the guards on duty. Her breath came in soft puffs, barely visible in the cold air. She moved like a shadow—silent, swift, unseen.
Erin's POV
"I can't believe they made me come here on such a cold night," I thought in my head, her tiny fingers numb against the palace stone. Sure, I'm their best chance at success, but I'm still seven. What do they expect from a child they stole—or kidnapped, or abducted, whatever they call it? In the end, I was only five when they found me. And just because I survived a bull stampede?
Erin shook her head, disapproving and helpless. She slipped through the servant's corridor and into the second prince's quarters, undetected. I'll finish this quickly and get back to my warm blankets, she told herself with a blissful smile.
The door creaked open. Instantly, Erin leapt to the balcony roof, her body pressed flat against the tiles as her target stepped inside.
Zeph's POV
Zeph entered his room, pausing mid-step. Something was off.
Another assassin? he guessed silently. The noble faction must be desperate.
He sighed, tugging at the stiff collar of his ceremonial robe. I'm only eight. I don't even want to be crown prince. Maybe I should just tell them at the next banquet... but that means more ridiculous clothes and endless speeches.
His eyes narrowed, scanning the room. Then they flicked upward—toward the balcony roof.
Erin's POV
Erin crouched on the beams, still as stone, but her stomach betrayed her. It growled—loudly. She cursed under her breath. I should have eaten before taking this assignment. Her head tilted in thought. But I wasn't given an option. Maybe I should have stolen—no, borrowed without asking—the apples from the kitchen.
Zeph's lips curved into something dangerously close to a smirk. Without a word, he walked to his table, pulled out uncooked noodles from a hidden stash, lit a brazier, and set a pot to boil. The faint hiss of water filled the room.
Erin's curiosity was piqued, but she shook her head vigorously. Ignore him. Focus. You are a shadow. You resist gold. You resist glory. You resist hunger. Even curiosity. She stilled her already leaning head before it could betray her.
A rich, savory scent soon curled upward, filling her nose. Spices, broth, something soft and warm. Her willpower was the only thing keeping her from looking.
It's just food. I've survived worse. Lions. Poisonous snakes. I am a weapon. Weapons don't drool. They are resilient.
Zeph stirred slowly, deliberately, letting the steam rise. "Strange night for an assassin. Must be cold up there. And I heard being raised as an assassin means you only eat cold, hard food—sometimes undercooked."
No answer. It was common knowledge among certain nobles that only when assassins had truly mastered their craft were they allowed to eat soft food.
"Or maybe," he added casually, "you're just hungry." He lifted chopsticks, noodles glistening, steam rising, and began to slurp.
A bead of sweat slid down Erin's temple. No. I can resist. I must resist. I MUST RESIS—
She hadn't even finished the thought when he fanned the steam upward with his free hand.
That was when something inside her cracked. She dropped down like a cat, landing silently on the rug, but her glare could have burned holes.
"Just so we're clear," she said, snatching the bowl, "you're still my target after this."
Zeph leaned back, perfectly calm. "Good. But eat first. Cold noodles are a criminal offense if I'm the one who cooked them."
Erin wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, cheeks tinged with a faint blush. She had to admit, the noodles were good—so good that the thought of sparing him crossed her mind. But she quickly dispelled it. Her eyes sharpened, like a blade catching moonlight.
In a flash, her dagger was already five centimeters from his throat.
Zeph barely dodged. The blade sliced the air where his head had been and embedded itself in the pillar behind him with a dull thunk. He blinked once, then smirked.
"I figured you'd try," he said calmly. "Still caught me off guard."
He reached for the decorative sword mounted on the wall—meant for show, not combat—but it would have to do. The blade hissed as it left the sheath.
They clashed, and strange dust burst from the weapon, filling the room like smoke.
"Is your sword that old?" Erin asked, peering through the thick haze.
"Do you really think this is dust?" Zeph's voice resounded through the fog-like substance.
"No. Dust would have settled by now. But do you really think I didn't know that?" she said as she cut through the haze like butter. "I was just locating you before stepping out. Still, I'm surprised you of all people have Lychen dust—considering how rare it is."
With practiced ease, Erin swept the glittering powder into a pouch.
Zeph watched, a flabbergasted sigh escaping his lips. "Are you really the one they sent to assassinate me?"
"Firstly, yes, I am," she replied, tightening the bag and tossing it onto the bed. "Secondly, you yourself know how rare this mineral is."
"I appreciate the effort. Collecting it off the floor would've taken forever," Zeph said as he charged.
She flipped over his attack effortlessly.
Erin was a blur—small, fast, precise. Her feet barely touched the ground. Zeph was taller and stronger, but his movements were raw and unrefined. He blocked, parried, and stumbled. She danced around him like wind through trees.
Steel met steel. Sparks flew.
"I thought they would've given you more practical lessons, considering you're a prince," Erin commented as she nearly knocked the sword from his hands.
"Well, I'm just the second prince, not the crown prince," Zeph replied, gripping his sword tighter. "So they either want me dead—or expect me dead."
Erin stopped suddenly. "Wow... I did not expect that." She resumed her fierce attack. "Thank you for educating me in this," she said, driving him backward.
Zeph grunted, backing into a corner. "Well," he said between breaths, "at least I got to feed an assassin once in my life. We both profited from this." His smile was clearly forced; he struggled to maintain it, knowing he might die at any moment.
Erin pinned him, dagger at his throat. Her breath was steady, her grip firm.
But her eyes flicked to the empty bowl on the table. The scent still lingered—warm, comforting, human.
She hesitated.
Then, slowly, she stepped back.
At that moment, a servant entered. Both turned. The scene before her: the young prince cornered, a girl with a dagger in hand. She said nothing and simply turned and left. Later, when another servant asked about the noise, she dismissed it as nothing important.
"Why didn't she say anything?" Erin asked, frowning and slightly confused.
"She's a spy for the nobles," Zeph explained. "She wouldn't interfere."
"Oh. That is..... something." Erin lowered her daggers. "I'm still your enemy," she muttered.
Zeph lowered his sword. "Good. I need an enemy like you. But next time, ask before you enter my room."
"What do you mean, 'an enemy like me'?"
Zeph tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching into something between a smirk and a sigh. "One who's unpredictable. Sharp. Someone who makes me think twice." He stepped closer—not enough to threaten, but enough to close the distance.
"Most enemies want me dead. You make me alive."
Erin's eyes narrowed, but her grip on the dagger loosened.
"Careful, prince. That almost sounded like a compliment."
"Almost."
The tension didn't vanish—it shifted, like a storm waiting to break. From the hallway, footsteps echoed again. Erin glanced toward the door, then back at Zeph.
"By the way," she said, "your skills seem like something you only read about in books."
"Ouch. That hurts my pride. Is it really that bad?" Zeph asked, genuinely curious.
"No," she said, pausing just long enough to raise his hopes. "It's worse."
She straightened. "With that being said, I'll take my leave."
"And your mission?" Zeph raised an eyebrow, curious.
"I'll just say a servant entered. Which is entirely true."
And as she had come—silent, sudden, sharp—she also left, like wind slipping through cracks in stone.