Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~10 min read
The summons came at midnight.
Raven didn’t startle when the shadow moved wrong in the corner of her bare apartment. She’d counted three exits before entering, catalogued two weapons within arm’s reach, and slept—if four hours could be called sleep—with a blade under her pillow. The Guild didn’t knock.
“Storm.” The voice belonged to Marcus, one of the Guild Master’s ravens. Ironic, considering her name. “You’re wanted.”
She sat up in one fluid motion, already dressed in black tactical pants and a fitted tank. Sleeping in street clothes wasn’t paranoia when people like her existed in the world. “Now?”
“Would I be here otherwise?”
Fair point. Raven rolled her shoulders, feeling the familiar pull of scar tissue across her back—a reminder from her first kill at age seven. The Guild believed in learning through pain. She’d learned exceptionally well.
The walk through the Guild’s compound was silent. Raven moved like smoke through the corridors, counting each turn, memorizing each shadow. Twenty-one years here, and she still didn’t trust it. Trust was for people who hadn’t been sold to an organization of killers at age five.
The Guild Master’s office smelled like expensive whiskey and cheaper lives. He sat behind an obsidian desk that probably cost more than most people earned in a year. Blood money bought nice things.
“Raven Storm.” He didn’t look up from the file he was reading. Her file, she realized, noting the photo clipped to the inside cover. “Seventy-three contracts completed. Zero failures. They call you the Guild’s perfect weapon.”
She said nothing. He hadn’t asked a question.
“Do you know why you’ve never failed?” He finally met her eyes. His were cold, calculating—the same eyes that had evaluated her as a terrified five-year-old and decided she was worth the investment.
“I follow protocol. I don’t hesitate. I don’t feel.” The words came automatically, beaten into her through years of training.
“Precisely.” He smiled, and it was the smile of a man who’d created something beautiful and deadly. “Which is why you’re going to accept this contract.”
He slid the file across the desk.
Raven picked it up, flipped it open, and froze.
The photograph showed a man who shouldn’t exist. Sharp features that were too perfect to be human, violet eyes that seemed to glow even in the still image, black hair that fell past his shoulders like liquid midnight. Beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful—deadly, precise, mesmerizing.
Prince Draven Shadowfire. Shadow Court. High Fae.
“You want me to kill a fae prince.” Her voice remained steady. Years of training kept the shock from showing on her face, but inside, something that might have been fear—if she allowed herself to feel such things—stirred.
“Not just any fae prince. The most dangerous one.” The Guild Master leaned back in his chair, studying her reaction. “He’s ruled the Shadow Court for three hundred years. The court of secrets, spies, and assassins. Fitting, don’t you think?”
Raven turned the page. Contract details. Target: Prince Draven Shadowfire. Method: Any. Timeline: Flexible. Payment—
She stopped breathing.
The number had too many zeros. This wasn’t just the highest payment she’d ever seen. This was enough to buy her freedom from the Guild ten times over. Enough to disappear and never be found. Enough to finally, finally be something other than a weapon.
“That’s not possible.” The words escaped before she could stop them. “The Guild would never pay—”
“The Guild isn’t paying. The client is.” He pulled out another document. “Someone wants the Shadow Prince dead badly enough to empty their coffers. Badly enough to approach us. Badly enough to offer a sum that would make kings weep.”
Raven forced herself to keep reading. Previous attempts: Seventeen. Success rate: Zero. Casualties: Seventeen dead assassins, various guilds and organizations.
“Seventeen assassins have tried.” She looked up. “Seventeen have died.”
“Seventeen have failed.” The correction was deliberate. “You don’t fail, Raven.”
It should have felt like confidence. Instead, it felt like a leash tightening around her throat. The Guild owned her—body, contract, soul. She’d been property since she was five years old, and this contract was just another way to remind her that her legendary status wasn’t freedom. It was chains made of reputation instead of iron.
But that payment. That impossible, beautiful number.
“The previous attempts?” She flipped through the file, scanning details. “They were all discovered?”
“He knew they were coming. Every single one.” The Guild Master’s smile widened. “They say Prince Draven Shadowfire is bored. That he’s ruled so long, killed so many challengers, that nothing interests him anymore. They say he lets assassins try just to break the monotony. He plays with them like a cat with mice. And then he kills them.”
“Creative deaths?”
“Very. He has three hundred years of practice.”
Raven studied the photograph again. Those violet eyes seemed to stare through the paper, through her, seeing things she didn’t want seen. Fae were dangerous—everyone knew that. Their courts ran on magic, politics, and blood. The Shadow Court was the worst of them, ruled by secrets and ruthless cunning.
This was a suicide mission.
This was impossible.
This was exactly the kind of challenge that would cement her legacy or end her life.
“Why me?” She closed the file carefully. “You could send a team. Multiple assassins, coordinated strike.”
“We tried that once. Three years ago. Five of our best.” The Guild Master’s expression didn’t change. “He killed them all in under ten minutes and sent their heads back in a box with a note that said ‘send someone interesting next time.'”
Something cold slithered down Raven’s spine. Not fear—she didn’t do fear. But recognition, perhaps. This fae prince wasn’t just dangerous. He was smart, creative, and apparently had a sense of humor about people trying to murder him.
“He wants a challenge.” The pieces clicked together in her mind. “He’s bored, so he’s waiting for someone skilled enough to make it interesting.”
“Exactly.” The Guild Master stood, walked to the window overlooking the training yards where children—younger than she’d been—practiced with blades. Creating the next generation of weapons. “You’re the best we have, Raven. The best anyone has. If anyone can kill an immortal prince in his own court, it’s you.”
The weight of expectation settled on her shoulders like a familiar coat. She’d worn it her whole life. Never failed. Never hesitated. Never disappointed the people who’d bought her and shaped her into this.
“And if I refuse?”
His reflection in the window smiled. “You won’t.”
He was right, and they both knew it. The Guild didn’t ask. The binding magic they’d woven into her bones during her first year ensured obedience. Refuse a direct contract, and the magic would burn her from the inside out. She’d seen it happen to others who’d tried to leave.
Besides, that payment. That staggering, impossible sum that represented everything she’d never had—choice, freedom, a life that was hers.
Raven stood, picked up the file, and tucked it under her arm. “When do I leave?”
“Tonight. We’ve arranged your entry into the Shadow Court. Cover identity, forged documents, everything you need.” He turned to face her. “You’ll go in as a servant. Get close. Learn his patterns. And when the moment is right—”
“I’ll kill him.” The words came easily. She’d said them seventy-three times before.
“Eighteen attempts on his life, and you’ll be the last.” The Guild Master’s smile was proud, possessive. “Either because you’ll succeed, or because you’ll die trying. Either way, the Guild’s reputation remains intact.”
How comforting. She was either a legend or a cautionary tale. No pressure.
Raven turned to leave, but his voice stopped her at the door.
“One more thing. Prince Draven Shadowfire has never been afraid of anything in his five hundred years of existence.” The Guild Master’s eyes glittered with something that might have been anticipation. “I want you to teach him fear before you kill him.”
She nodded once and left the office, file clutched in her hand, future balanced on the edge of a blade.
In her apartment, Raven spread the contents of the file across her bed. Photographs of the Shadow Court palace—a structure that existed partially in the shadow realm, impossible architecture that defied mortal understanding. Maps that were probably useless, since fae buildings rearranged themselves. Intelligence reports from the seventeen failed attempts, each ending with the same result: Target aware. Assassin eliminated.
And at the center of it all, that photograph. Prince Draven Shadowfire, looking amused in a way that suggested he knew something no one else did. Looking directly at the camera with those impossible violet eyes. Looking like he was waiting.
Raven had killed seventy-three people. Politicians, crime lords, rogue mages, other assassins. She’d ended lives without hesitation because hesitation meant failure, and failure meant death. She’d been perfect because perfect was the only way to survive.
But she’d never killed a prince. Never killed a fae. Never walked into a court of immortal predators and planned to murder their ruler on his own throne.
Seventeen assassins had died trying.
She’d be the eighteenth to try.
Or the first to succeed.
Raven Storm began to pack, her movements efficient and practiced. Black clothes, easy to move in. Weapons that could be hidden. Poisons that could pass inspection. Everything she needed to infiltrate a fae court and kill its prince.
She pulled her hair back, studying her reflection in the cracked mirror mounted on the wall. Dark eyes stared back at her—a stranger’s eyes. She’d been the Guild’s weapon for so long, she couldn’t remember who she’d been before. Couldn’t remember if there had ever been a “before.”
But that payment. That beautiful, impossible number.
Maybe after this, she could find out who Raven Storm was when she wasn’t killing people.
Maybe after this, she could finally be free.
She just had to kill the most dangerous fae in existence first.
The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. Almost. The Guild had trained the humor out of her years ago.
Raven finished packing, checked her weapons one final time, and memorized every detail in the file. By dawn, she’d know everything the Guild knew about Prince Draven Shadowfire. By tomorrow night, she’d be in the Shadow Court.
And in thirty days—maybe less if she was good, maybe never if he was better—one of them would be dead.
Somewhere in the Shadow Court, Prince Draven Shadowfire sat on his throne of secrets and shadows, utterly unaware that the Guild’s most dangerous assassin was coming for him.
Or maybe he knew.
Maybe he’d been waiting.
Maybe that’s what made him smile in the photograph—the knowledge that someone interesting was finally on their way.
Raven Storm had never failed a contract.
She wasn’t about to start now.
Even if her target had five hundred years of experience staying alive and violet eyes that seemed to see straight through her soul.
This was fine.
Everything was fine.
The Shadow Prince was waiting, and she never kept contracts waiting.
Time to teach a bored immortal what fear felt like.
Time to earn her freedom.
Time to kill a prince.
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