Elara's POV
"You're lying to me."
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. Mira froze in the doorway of our shared quarters, her hand still on the handle.
"What?" She turned slowly, confusion painted across her face. Too much confusion. The kind of expression you practice in front of a mirror.
I'd seen her practice it. We'd trained together for sixteen years. I knew all her tricks.
"When you said 'we'll both be free,'" I pressed. "What did you mean?"
Mira's smile returned, but it didn't reach her eyes. "El, you're overthinking. I just meant—"
"The truth, Mira." I stepped closer. "After everything we've been through, I deserve the truth."
For a long moment, she just stared at me. Then her shoulders sagged. "Close the door."
My stomach twisted, but I pushed the door shut. Our quarters were small—two narrow beds, two trunks, one tiny window that never let in enough light. We'd shared this space since we were children. We'd told each other secrets in the dark. Held each other through nightmares. Celebrated our first successful missions together.
We were supposed to trust each other.
"I'm your handler for this mission," Mira said quietly.
The floor seemed to tilt under my feet. "What?"
"The Council assigned me. I'll be monitoring you, receiving your reports, making sure you... stay on track." She wouldn't meet my eyes. "It's standard procedure for final missions."
Standard procedure. Right. Because everything about assassinating the Dark Lord was standard.
"Why didn't you tell me?" My voice came out sharper than I intended.
"Because I knew you'd react like this!" Mira's hands clenched into fists. "El, this is good news. It means I'll be there to help you. To support you. Isn't that better than some stranger watching over you?"
Was it? I didn't know anymore. That flicker in her expression earlier, that lie—it suddenly felt bigger. More dangerous.
But this was Mira. My best friend. The girl who'd held my hand during my first kill. Who'd smuggled me extra food when I was being punished. Who'd made me laugh when everything felt hopeless.
I had to trust her. She was all I had.
"Okay," I said finally. "Okay. You're right."
Relief flooded her face. "Good. Now come on—we need to pack. You leave in six hours, and we have to go over your cover story a hundred more times."
She pulled my trunk from under the bed and started throwing things in. Clothes, books, the fake documents that proved I was Dr. Elara Ashton. My new identity. My weapon.
"Tell me again," Mira said as she worked. "Who are you?"
I sat on the bed, watching her pack my entire life into one small trunk. "Dr. Elara Ashton. Twenty-six years old. I studied ancient languages at the Northern Academy. I specialize in pre-war texts."
"And why are you going to the Shadowlands?"
"The Dark Lord's library is legendary. It's a scholar's dream." The lies tasted bitter, but they came easily now. Eighteen years of training made lying feel like breathing. "I've been hired for a six-month contract to catalog and translate their collection."
"Good." Mira folded one of my shirts with sharp, precise movements. "Remember—he can't know who you really are. He can't suspect anything. Get close to him. Make him trust you. And when he's vulnerable—"
"I'll kill him." The words should have felt powerful. Righteous. Instead, they sat heavy in my chest like stones.
Mira stopped packing and looked at me. Really looked at me. "You can do this, El. I know you can."
"He killed our families," I said, needing to hear it out loud. Needing to remember why this mattered. "He destroyed Thornewood Village. My parents, your parents—everyone we loved. He's a monster."
"He is," Mira agreed. Her voice dropped lower, harder. "I remember the smoke. The screaming. Running through the streets while buildings burned around us. Do you remember?"
I tried. I always tried to remember that night. But my memories of the village massacre were strange—blurry and distant, like watching something happen through fog. The Council said it was trauma. That my eight-year-old mind had protected itself by blocking out the worst parts.
"I remember the fear," I said. It was the truth, even if the details stayed fuzzy.
"Then hold onto that." Mira grabbed my hands, squeezing tight. "When you look at him, when he tries to charm you or trick you, remember what he took from us. Remember that he deserves to die."
She was right. She had to be right.
We spent the next hours rehearsing. Mira fired questions at me about ancient languages, about the Northern Academy that didn't exist, about the childhood I'd never had. I answered perfectly every time. I'd studied these lies until they became truth.
When the first hint of dawn light crept through our window, Mira pulled me into a hug.
"I'm going to miss you," she whispered against my hair.
"It's only six months." I hugged her back, breathing in her familiar scent. "Then we'll both be free. Really free."
She pulled away, and something flickered across her face again. That same wrong expression from before.
"Mira? What is it?"
"Nothing." She smiled, but it looked painful. "Just be careful, El. The Dark Lord is dangerous. More dangerous than you know."
A knock on the door interrupted us. "Transport is ready," a guard's voice called.
This was it. Time to go. Time to become someone else. Time to kill the man who'd destroyed my life.
I picked up my trunk and followed the guard into the hallway. At the last second, I looked back. Mira stood in the doorway of our quarters, watching me leave. In the pale morning light, she looked smaller somehow. Younger.
Scared.
"Mira—" I started.
"Complete the mission, Elara." Her voice was strange. Too formal. Too cold. "No matter what you discover. No matter what he says. No matter what you feel. Complete the mission."
The way she said it sent ice through my veins. Like she knew something I didn't. Like she was warning me—or threatening me.
"What do you mean?" I called back.
But she'd already closed the door.