Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~10 min read
Fifteen days. Seven assassination attempts. Zero successes.
But standing in Draven’s study at midnight, arguing about the proper way to throw a knife while he demonstrated with shadow constructs, Raven realized something had shifted.
She was laughing.
Actually laughing. Not the polite sounds people made in conversation, but genuine amusement that bubbled up from somewhere she’d forgotten existed.
“No, no,” Draven said, shadows forming into a training dummy. “You’re still putting too much wrist into it. Let the blade’s weight do the work. Like this—”
He threw a knife that embedded itself perfectly in the shadow-dummy’s throat. Then immediately threw another that knocked the first one out and took its place.
“Show off,” Raven muttered, but she was smiling.
“Five hundred years of practice. I’ve earned the right to show off.” He handed her a blade. “Your turn. Less wrist, more follow-through.”
She threw. The knife hit the dummy’s shoulder instead of its throat.
“Better,” Draven said. “You’ve improved three inches since this morning. At this rate, you’ll have perfect accuracy by day twenty.”
“Just in time to kill you with it.”
“One can only hope.” He grinned. “Though given your current trajectory, you might hesitate at the last second and hit my shoulder instead. Again.”
Raven threw another knife at him—not the dummy. He caught it without looking, still smiling.
“You keep doing that,” he observed. “Throwing things at me when you’re annoyed. It’s oddly endearing.”
“I’m an assassin. Throwing things is literally my job.”
“Yes, but you only throw things at me when you’re feeling playful, not homicidal. I’ve learned to tell the difference.” He set the caught knife on his desk with at least five others she’d thrown at him over the past week. He was keeping them like trophies. “The homicidal throws have killing intent. The annoyed throws have… affection?”
“I don’t do affection.”
“Sure you don’t.” He moved to the bookshelf, pulling down a massive tome. “Speaking of things you don’t do, I found references to that binding magic the Guild used on you. Want to hear the bad news or the worse news?”
Raven’s stomach dropped. “Bad news first.”
“The binding is blood magic, woven into your bones during childhood. Breaking it requires either completing the contract or…” He paused, reading. “Or the death of the caster.”
“The Guild Master.”
“Presumably. Which leads to the worse news—if you kill him, the backlash from breaking binding magic could kill you too. Blood magic doesn’t like being forcibly severed.”
“So I’m trapped.” Raven sat heavily in the chair by his fireplace. “Complete the contract or die trying. Those really are my only options.”
“Not necessarily.” Draven brought the book over, showing her a page covered in complicated diagrams. “There’s a third option. If someone with sufficient power absorbs the binding before it breaks, the backlash is redirected. You’d be free, the Guild Master stays alive, and whoever absorbs it deals with some temporary unpleasantness.”
“Temporary unpleasantness sounds like a euphemism for something horrible.”
“About three days of feeling like your insides are being shredded by broken glass. But I’ve lived through worse.” He said it casually, like he was offering to carry a package for her.
Raven stared at him. “You’d do that? Take on binding magic that could kill me, just to set me free from the Guild?”
“Of course.” He looked genuinely confused by her surprise. “You’re my assassin. I take care of what’s mine.”
“I’m not yours.”
“Semantics.” He returned to his desk. “Point is, you have options beyond complete the contract or die. I’ve been researching breaking the binding since day three. Should have a working solution by day twenty-five at the latest.”
“Why?” The question came out quieter than intended. “Why spend so much effort helping the person who’s trying to kill you?”
Draven was quiet for a moment, shadows swirling around him thoughtfully. “Because you’re the first interesting thing to happen to me in decades. Because you’re more than just an assassin sent by the Guild. Because somewhere between attempt three and attempt seven, I started hoping you’d choose to stay instead of choosing to leave.”
The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with implications neither wanted to examine too closely.
“That’s…” Raven struggled for words. “Complicated.”
“Everything about this situation is complicated.” He smiled, but it was softer than his usual sharp grin. “But that’s what makes it interesting. Simple is boring. Complicated means there are stakes, choices, consequences.”
“You want me to fail the contract.” She realized it as she said it. “You’ve been hoping I’d fail from the beginning.”
“I want you to choose.” He met her eyes, and his glowed faintly violet. “Choose to stay, choose to leave, choose to kill me, choose to rule beside me. Any choice is fine as long as it’s yours, not the Guild’s. That’s all I’ve wanted since you walked into my court.”
Raven didn’t know what to say to that. The Guild had never given her choices. Just orders. Complete the contract. Kill the target. Move on.
But Draven had given her every opportunity to kill him and then showed her what life could be like if she didn’t.
Training sessions that felt like partnership. Dinners with real conversation. Court lessons that treated her like an equal. Midnight discussions about knife-throwing and binding magic and five hundred years of loneliness.
“I’m supposed to kill you,” she said finally. “That’s why I’m here.”
“I know.” He turned back to the book. “Doesn’t mean you have to. Fifteen days left. Plenty of time to figure out what you actually want instead of what you were programmed to want.”
A knock at the door interrupted whatever she might have said next.
“Enter,” Draven called.
Vex came in, looking more serious than usual. “We have a situation. Lady Seraphine is hosting a court ball tomorrow night. She’s specifically requested Raven’s presence.”
“Requested or demanded?” Draven asked.
“Phrased as a gracious invitation. Intended as a test.” Vex handed over a formal invitation written on shadow-paper. “She wants to see how the mortal assassin handles high fae society. Every noble in the court will be watching.”
“Perfect.” Draven smiled. “Raven needs practice with court politics anyway. We’ll attend.”
“We?” Raven stood. “I don’t do formal balls.”
“You do now. You’re my official assassin, remember? I announced it to court. You’re expected to appear at major social functions.” He looked her over critically. “We’ll need to get you proper attire. Something that says ‘deadly but sophisticated.'”
“I hate this plan.”
“I know. That’s part of what makes it fun.” His grin widened. “Besides, a ball is the perfect opportunity for assassination attempt number eight. Dancing puts me in close quarters, with my guard potentially lowered, surrounded by witnesses who’d be too shocked to intervene immediately. Tactically sound.”
“You want me to try to kill you at a ball.”
“I want you to have options. Killing me at a ball is one of them.” He stood, moving toward her. “Or you could just dance with me and enjoy an evening of court intrigue. Either way, it’ll be interesting.”
Raven looked between him and Vex, both looking far too entertained by this plan. “This is insane.”
“This is the Shadow Court,” Vex said. “Same thing.”
They spent the next hour planning for the ball—what she’d wear, who she’d meet, which nobles were dangerous versus merely ambitious. Draven knew everyone’s secrets, everyone’s weaknesses. He shared them freely, like he was arming her for social warfare.
Which, she supposed, he was.
“Lord Malachai will try to recruit you,” Draven explained, shadows forming dossiers of each noble. “He wants allies against Lady Seraphine. Don’t commit to anything, but don’t refuse outright either. Information flows both ways.”
“Lady Seraphine herself will test your knowledge of fae customs. She’s trying to prove you’re unworthy of court attention.” He smiled. “She’s going to be very disappointed when you demonstrate perfect etiquette.”
“I don’t know fae etiquette.”
“You will by tomorrow night. We’re doing crash course in formal protocols.” He gestured, and a stack of books appeared on the desk. “Reading assignment.”
“You’re giving me homework.”
“I’m giving you tools to survive court politics. If you’re going to be here—either as my assassin or my partner—you need to know how to navigate high society without being eaten alive.”
“Literally or figuratively?”
“Both.”
They worked until dawn—Raven reading, Draven explaining, Vex occasionally interjecting with practical advice about which nobles were actually dangerous versus which just pretended to be.
And somewhere during the seventh hour of court etiquette lessons, Raven laughed again. At something Draven said, some dry observation about a noble’s absurd demands. It startled her, that laugh. She’d laughed more in fifteen days with a target she was supposed to kill than in twenty-one years with the Guild.
“You should do that more often,” Draven said quietly.
“What?”
“Laugh. You light up when you do. Like you’re remembering how to be human instead of just surviving as a weapon.”
The observation hit deeper than any blade. “The Guild trained laughter out of me. Said emotions were weaknesses.”
“The Guild was wrong about a lot of things.” He closed the book he’d been reading. “Emotions aren’t weaknesses. They’re what make existence bearable. I’ve lived five hundred years, and the moments I remember best are the ones where I felt something—joy, anger, fear, connection. The empty years blend together into nothing.”
“Is that why you want me to kill you?” Raven asked. “Because you’re tired of empty years?”
“I want you to challenge me because it makes me feel alive.” He met her eyes. “Whether that ends in my death or your partnership, I’ll have felt something genuine. That’s more valuable than another three hundred years of bored existence.”
They sat in silence, the weight of his words settling between them.
“Fifteen days,” Raven said finally. “Fifteen days and I still haven’t managed to kill you.”
“Fifteen days and you’ve learned to laugh, question orders, and see yourself as more than a weapon.” Draven smiled. “I’d say you’re winning, even if you’re failing the contract.”
“The Guild wouldn’t agree.”
“The Guild doesn’t get a vote.” He stood, stretching. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow night, you’re going to a ball where every noble will try to manipulate, seduce, or kill you. You’ll need to be sharp.”
“What will you be doing?”
“Protecting you while pretending not to. Teaching you while pretending to socialize. And possibly preventing multiple assassination attempts that aren’t yours.” His grin was wicked. “Should be a fun evening.”
Raven stood too, gathering the books. “This is the strangest assignment I’ve ever had.”
“Good. Strange means you’re learning something new.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “Raven? The laughter thing? Don’t stop. You’ve earned the right to feel joy, even if the Guild tried to take it from you.”
He left before she could respond, shadows trailing after him like loyal pets.
Raven stood alone in the study, surrounded by books about court etiquette and fae politics, and realized she’d spent seven hours in Draven’s company without once seriously considering killing him.
Without even thinking about the contract.
Just… existing. Talking. Learning. Laughing.
When had that happened? When had “target” become “person”? When had “complete the mission” become “maybe there’s another option”?
Fifteen days in, and Raven Storm was starting to suspect the most dangerous thing in the Shadow Court wasn’t the prince she was supposed to kill.
It was the feeling that she might not want to kill him at all.
And that terrified her more than any assassination attempt ever had.
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