Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~12 min read
Draven Shadowfire was profoundly, devastatingly bored.
He sat on his throne of obsidian and shadow, chin resting on one hand, watching his court pretend they weren’t terrified of him. Lady Vesper simpered and schemed in the corner, plotting something tedious. Lord Malachai negotiated a trade agreement that Draven could have resolved in three minutes but was letting drag on for an hour because at least it passed the time. Vex, his spymaster, stood at his right hand, probably the only person in the realm who wasn’t actively afraid.
Probably because Vex was smart enough to be cautious instead.
“My prince,” Lady Vesper approached with a practiced sway to her hips that had stopped being interesting two centuries ago. “I’ve arranged entertainment for this evening. Musicians from the Summer Court, and perhaps—”
“No.” Draven didn’t bother looking at her.
“But surely your highness would enjoy—”
“I wouldn’t.” He finally turned his gaze on her, letting his eyes glow slightly violet in the dim light. A parlor trick, really, but it made mortals nervous and fae cautious. “I’ve heard every song, seen every dance, tasted every pleasure your ‘entertainment’ could provide. Multiple times. Over multiple centuries. The answer is no.”
Lady Vesper retreated, and Draven caught the flash of anger in her eyes before she masked it with docility. She wanted to be his queen. Wanted the power that came with ruling beside him. Wanted it so badly she could taste it.
He’d rather die.
Actually, dying might be interesting. At least it would be something new.
Five hundred years of existence, and Draven had done everything worth doing twice. He’d fought in wars that reshaped the fae realms. He’d loved and lost—or rather, he’d been intrigued briefly before boredom inevitably set in. He’d collected secrets like other people collected coins, storing them in the silver rings on his fingers, each one holding something dark and valuable.
And he’d killed seventeen assassins who’d tried to end his immortal life.
Those had been the most interesting days in decades.
He’d known they were coming, of course. The Shadow Court thrived on information. Every whisper, every plot, every dagger sharpened in darkness—he knew about it before the blade even left its sheath. Being the Prince of Secrets meant nothing stayed hidden from him for long.
The first assassin had been amusing. A mortal thief who thought stealth and a poisoned blade would be enough. Draven had let him get all the way to the bedroom before stepping out of the shadows and introducing him to creative uses of said shadows. The man’s screams had echoed through the palace for hours.
The others had been variations on the same theme. Skilled, yes. Determined, certainly. But predictable. They all relied on the same tactics—stealth, poison, ambush. As if three hundred years of survival had taught him nothing about recognizing danger.
The last one had been almost insulting. A fae assassin from a rival court, sent with much fanfare and confidence. Draven had killed him during breakfast without bothering to put down his tea.
That had been three months ago, and nothing interesting had happened since.
“Your highness seems troubled.” Vex’s voice was carefully neutral. The spymaster had silver hair despite appearing no older than forty, and eyes that saw far too much. “Perhaps you’d like to review the intelligence reports?”
“Are any of them interesting?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
Vex almost smiled. Almost. “You could always go to the Summer Court gathering next week. I hear Prince Aurelius is hosting—”
“I’d rather remove my own eyes with a spoon.” Draven stood, shadows pooling around his feet like loyal hounds. “The Summer Court is full of insufferable optimists who think sunshine solves everything. If I wanted to be bored to actual death, I’d accept that invitation.”
“Then what would your highness like to do?”
Good question. What did an immortal prince do when he’d done everything, seen everything, and nothing surprised him anymore?
Draven was about to suggest something appropriately dramatic and pointless when he felt it.
A shift in the shadows at the border of his realm.
Someone crossing from the mortal world into his territory.
Not just anyone. Someone who moved like smoke, who understood how to step between light and dark without disturbing either. Someone skilled.
His court continued their tedious politicking, unaware that their prince’s attention had suddenly sharpened to a razor’s edge.
“Vex.” His voice was quiet, but the spymaster heard the change in tone.
“My prince?”
“We have a visitor.” Draven’s eyes glowed brighter, violet light casting shadows across his sharp features. “At the northern border. Someone just crossed into the Shadow Court.”
“Should I send guards to investigate?”
“No.” A smile curved Draven’s mouth—the first genuine expression he’d worn in months. “I want to see what they do.”
He closed his eyes, letting his consciousness drift through the shadows that permeated his realm. It was his gift, his curse, his endless burden—he was connected to every shadow in the Shadow Court. Could see through them, move through them, exist in multiple places at once if he wanted.
Most days, it was just another source of tedium. Watching his subjects scheme, plot, and live their lives. Seeing everything meant nothing surprised him.
But this. This was different.
The figure moving through his shadows was good. Better than good. She—definitely female, he could sense that much—moved with the kind of precision that came from years of training. She wasn’t using magic to hide. She was using pure skill, understanding exactly how shadows fell and where eyes naturally avoided looking.
She was breathtaking in her competence.
Draven watched through the darkness as she made her way toward his palace. She’d forged entry documents—he could see them tucked in her pack. False identity as a servant seeking work in the court. It was a classic infiltration technique, and she’d executed it flawlessly.
Too flawlessly.
This wasn’t some amateur with a grudge and a blade. This was a professional. An artist of death.
Another assassin.
His smile widened.
“Your highness?” Vex sounded concerned by the expression on his face. “What is it?”
“Entertainment.” Draven opened his eyes, and they glowed with genuine amusement for the first time in decades. “It seems someone has sent me a gift.”
“A gift?”
“Assassin number eighteen.” He returned to his throne, sprawling across it with renewed interest in existence. “And she’s good, Vex. Very good. Watch.”
He gestured, and shadows coalesced into a viewing portal above his hand—showing the figure as she approached the palace servants’ entrance. Black hair cut brutally short. Lean build, all efficient muscle. Dark eyes that constantly scanned for threats. She moved like violence contained in human form.
Beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful.
“Should I alert the guards?” Vex asked.
“Absolutely not.” Draven leaned forward, studying every detail of his new toy. “I want to see how far she gets. Let her infiltrate. Let her plan. Let her think she has a chance.”
“And then you’ll kill her.”
“Maybe.” He tilted his head, considering. “Or maybe I’ll do something more interesting.”
Vex raised an eyebrow. “More interesting than killing assassins who try to murder you?”
“She’s different from the others.” Draven watched as the woman presented her forged documents to the bored guard at the servants’ entrance. Perfect forgeries—he could tell even from here. “The others were sent by amateurs or fools. But her? Someone paid a fortune for her. Someone wants me dead badly enough to hire the best.”
“How do you know she’s the best?”
“Because she made it this far without me sensing her until she was already inside my borders.” Draven’s smile turned sharp. “Because she moves like she’s never failed at anything in her life. Because looking at her, I can tell—she’s killed before, and she’s good at it.”
The woman was admitted to the palace. Draven watched through the shadows as she was led to the servants’ quarters, given her assignment, and left alone to settle in. The moment the door closed, she swept the room for surveillance, found three monitoring spells, and avoided all of them with casual expertise.
She was magnificent.
“What are you planning?” Vex asked carefully.
Draven thought about it. He could kill her tonight. Step out of the shadows, surprise her, end it quickly. Add her to the count of seventeen failures.
Or.
Or he could do something he hadn’t done in five hundred years.
He could take a risk.
“I’m going to let her try.” He stood, shadows swirling around him like excited children. “I’m going to watch her plan, watch her scheme, watch her attempt to kill me. And when she makes her move—”
“You’ll execute her.”
“I’ll offer her a deal.”
Vex’s carefully neutral expression cracked. “A deal?”
“I’m bored, old friend.” Draven walked toward the private exit from his throne room, already planning. “I’ve been bored for longer than some kingdoms have existed. But watching her move through my shadows? That’s the first interesting thing to happen in months.”
“So you’ll let an assassin run loose in your palace because you’re bored?” Vex sounded incredulous.
“Not just any assassin. The best one.” Draven paused at the doorway, glancing back with glowing violet eyes. “And not just run loose. I’ll set up a game. A challenge. Let’s see if she’s as good as I think she is.”
“And if she actually manages to kill you?”
“Then I’ll die surprised, which is better than I’ve felt in decades.” He laughed, and the sound echoed through the shadows. “But she won’t. She’ll try, she’ll fail, and when she realizes she can’t win—that’s when I’ll make my offer.”
“What offer?”
Draven’s smile was all sharp edges and dangerous amusement. “I haven’t decided yet. Something interesting. Something that will make those dark eyes of hers flash with anger or fear or—” He paused. “—something other than the emptiness I saw in them.”
Because that’s what he’d recognized in her, moving through his shadows. That’s what made her fascinating.
She was just as empty as he was.
Just as bored, in her own way. Going through the motions of a life that held no meaning beyond the next contract, the next kill, the next checkmark on an endless list of completions.
She was him, mortal version. A weapon that had forgotten it was also a person.
“You’re going to get yourself killed because you’re interested in an assassin’s psychological state,” Vex said flatly.
“Possibly.” Draven disappeared into the shadows, his voice echoing back. “But at least I won’t die bored.”
He drifted through the darkness, incorporeal and invisible, until he found her room again. She’d already memorized the layout, marked three escape routes, and hidden five weapons in various locations. Now she sat on the bed, studying a small leather-bound journal.
His file, he realized. Intelligence on him. She’d done her research.
Draven watched from the shadows as she read about his habits, his kills, his centuries of existence. Watched as her expression remained perfectly blank, perfectly controlled. No fear. No hesitation. Just cold calculation.
Assassin number eighteen wasn’t afraid of him.
That alone made her worth keeping alive.
For now.
She pulled out a photograph—his official court portrait from a decade ago—and studied it with the same detached focus she’d give any target. Looking for weaknesses. Searching for the place to plant the knife.
Draven could have revealed himself right then. Could have stepped out of the shadows and watched her scramble for a weapon. Could have ended it before it began.
Instead, he stayed hidden and watched her work.
She was planning already. He could see the wheels turning behind those dark eyes. Mapping the palace in her mind, calculating approaches, considering methods. She’d try poison first—smart. Then perhaps something more direct if that failed.
She had no idea he was immune to most poisons. No idea that he could move through shadows. No idea that he’d been watching her since she crossed into his realm.
The game had already begun, and she didn’t even know she was playing yet.
“Hello, assassin number eighteen,” he whispered to the shadows, too quiet for mortal ears to hear. “Let’s see if you can make immortality interesting again.”
She stiffened suddenly, head snapping toward the darkest corner of the room—where he was hiding in the shadows.
Impossible. She couldn’t have heard him.
But she was staring right at where he existed in the darkness, eyes narrowed, hand drifting toward a hidden blade.
“I know you’re here,” she said quietly. “I can feel you watching.”
Draven went very still.
She couldn’t sense him. Mortals couldn’t perceive shadow-form fae. It was impossible.
“Show yourself or leave,” she continued, voice flat. “But stop lurking. It’s rude.”
Against his better judgment—against five hundred years of caution—Draven found himself laughing.
She heard it. He saw her tense, saw her hand close around the blade.
“Interesting,” he murmured, and let himself dissolve deeper into the shadows, pulling back to his own chambers.
She’d sensed him somehow. Mortal assassin with no magic, and she’d felt his presence in the darkness.
This was going to be fun.
Back in his private rooms, Draven sprawled across the massive bed and stared at the ceiling, mind racing with possibilities. Assassin number eighteen was already exceeding expectations, and she’d been in his palace less than an hour.
Seventeen assassins had failed. Seventeen had died. Seventeen had bored him within minutes of their attempts.
But this one?
This one might actually make him feel alive again.
“Thirty days,” he decided aloud. “I’ll give her thirty days to try. Enough time to plan, to attempt, to fail spectacularly.”
And then he’d offer her the deal that was forming in his mind. The one that would either give him the worthy opponent he’d been craving for centuries, or would result in his dramatic and long-overdue demise.
Either way, he wouldn’t be bored anymore.
In the servants’ quarters, Raven Storm continued planning the death of a prince who was very much looking forward to her attempts.
The game had begun.
And for the first time in five hundred years, Prince Draven Shadowfire couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
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