Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~13 min read
The Shadow Court palace was alive in ways that made Raven’s skin crawl.
Not literally alive—though with fae magic, she wouldn’t put it past them—but aware. The shadows moved wrong, lingering in corners that should have been illuminated by the floating orbs of light. The hallways seemed to shift when she wasn’t looking directly at them. And everywhere, constantly, she felt the weight of invisible eyes watching her every move.
Three days in, and she still couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking through a trap that hadn’t sprung yet.
“You, new girl.” A sharp-faced woman in servant’s dress snapped her fingers at Raven. “The north wing needs cleaning. Take supplies from the closet and don’t touch anything that looks expensive. Which is everything.”
Raven nodded, keeping her eyes downcast and her expression blank. The perfect servant. Forgettable. Invisible.
It was surprisingly easy to disappear in a palace full of fae who thought themselves above noticing the help.
She collected her supplies and made her way toward the north wing, mentally cataloging every detail. Guard rotations—she’d identified three separate shifts, each with different routes. Secret passages—she’d found two so far, and suspected at least four more. The prince’s schedule—maddeningly irregular, but she was starting to identify patterns.
And everywhere, constantly, those watching shadows.
He knew she was here. She was certain of it.
That first night, something had been in her room. She’d felt the presence in the darkness, felt eyes on her skin like a physical touch. She’d called it out—probably stupid, definitely risky—and it had laughed before disappearing.
His laugh. She’d heard it once in court when Lady Vesper said something particularly vapid. A dark, rich sound that felt like it could wrap around you and pull you under.
Prince Draven Shadowfire knew an assassin had infiltrated his court, and he was entertained by it.
The realization should have triggered abort protocols. The Guild trained them to abandon compromised missions. But the binding magic in her bones wouldn’t let her leave, wouldn’t let her fail. Complete the contract or die trying. Those were her only options.
So she’d stay. She’d plan. She’d find a way to kill a fae prince who already knew she was coming.
Seventeen assassins had failed this exact scenario.
She just had to be smarter than all of them combined.
The north wing was quieter than the rest of the palace. Fewer servants, fewer guards, fewer floating lights. Just long corridors of polished black stone and doors that probably led to rooms she absolutely shouldn’t enter.
Perfect for reconnaissance.
Raven began her cleaning routine—dusting, sweeping, the mindless work that let her study her surroundings without attracting attention. She noted each door, each window, each shadow that seemed darker than it should be.
And then she saw him.
Prince Draven Shadowfire stood at the end of the corridor, backlit by violet light from the massive windows behind him. He wasn’t looking at her—he appeared to be reading something, a small book held in one elegant hand. Silver rings glinted on every finger.
Raven’s heart didn’t race. The Guild had trained that response out of her. But something tightened in her chest, something that might have been anticipation or dread or both.
This was her target. Right there. Alone. Distracted.
She could kill him right now. Three throwing knives hidden in her cleaning supplies. She was accurate at this distance. One to the throat, one to the heart, one to the eye for good measure. He’d be dead before he hit the ground.
Her hand moved toward the hidden blade.
Do it, the Guild’s voice whispered in her mind. Complete the contract.
But something made her hesitate.
He turned a page in his book, still not looking at her. Still appearing completely unaware of the assassin standing twenty feet away with murder in mind.
Too unaware.
This was a test. He was waiting to see if she’d take the obvious shot, the stupid shot, the one that seventeen other assassins had probably tried.
Raven forced her hand away from the blade and went back to dusting.
“Smart choice.” His voice carried down the corridor, and she definitely didn’t jump. “The last assassin who tried the ‘throw knife at unaware prince’ tactic ended up decorating the throne room. Well, parts of him did.”
He still wasn’t looking at her.
Raven kept dusting, kept her expression neutral. “I’m sorry, your highness. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you don’t.” Now he did look up, and those violet eyes locked onto her with the precision of a predator spotting prey. “You’re just a servant. Cleaning the corridor. Definitely not planning seventeen different ways to kill me.”
Her hand stilled on the cloth.
He smiled. “Only seventeen? I’m disappointed. I had at least thirty methods planned by the time I was your age. Though I suppose mortal lifespans don’t allow for as much creativity.”
This was it. He knew. Game over. She’d be assassin number eighteen—another failure added to his collection.
Raven’s mind raced through options. Fight—she’d lose. Flee—she’d die from the binding magic. Deny—he clearly already knew.
So she did the one thing the Guild had never trained her for.
She met his eyes and asked, “Are you going to kill me now?”
His smile widened. “Where would be the fun in that?”
They stared at each other across twenty feet of polished black stone. Predator and prey, except she couldn’t tell which was which. He had the power, the magic, the home advantage. But she had the element of—well, not surprise, clearly, but something.
“You knew from the moment I crossed into your territory.” It wasn’t a question.
“I know everything that happens in my court.” He closed the book, tucking it into a shadow that somehow had pockets. “Every whisper, every secret, every assassin who thinks they can infiltrate undetected. You were good, though. Better than the others. You almost made it three whole days before I got bored of pretending not to notice.”
“Three days.” Raven processed that. “You’ve been watching me for three days.”
“Watching, evaluating, taking notes.” He started walking toward her, and she forced herself not to retreat. “You check for exits first thing in every room. You count guard rotations. You hide weapons in places most people wouldn’t think to look. Very professional. The Guild trains well.”
Her blood went cold. “How do you know about the Guild?”
“I’m five hundred years old, little assassin. I know about most organizations that specialize in murder.” He stopped a few feet away, close enough that she could see the way shadows seemed to cling to him like living things. “The Assassin’s Guild has sent me three contracts over the centuries. You’re the first one I’ve considered letting live past the first night.”
“Why?”
“Why am I letting you live?” He tilted his head, studying her with those unnerving eyes. “Or why did I wait three days to introduce myself?”
“Both.”
“I’m bored.” He said it like that explained everything. “I’ve been bored for longer than your entire civilization has existed. Seventeen assassins have tried to kill me in the past decade, and every single one was disappointingly easy to dispatch. But you? You’re different.”
“I’m going to kill you anyway.” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact. A promise, not a threat.
He laughed, and the sound raised goosebumps on her arms. “I know. That’s what makes this interesting. You’re going to try very, very hard to murder me. And I’m going to make it challenging enough to be entertaining but possible enough to keep you trying.”
Raven’s mind struggled to process his words. “You’re going to… help me kill you?”
“Help is a strong word. I’m going to make it fair.” He gestured, and shadows coalesced into a chair behind him. He sat, sprawling like a cat, all dangerous grace. “Tell me, how many of the previous seventeen attempts do you think failed because I had an unfair advantage?”
“All of them?”
“Correct. I knew they were coming, knew their methods, knew their weaknesses. I hunted them in my own territory with centuries of experience and fae magic at my disposal.” His smile turned sharp. “Hardly sporting. Where’s the challenge in that?”
“So what are you proposing?” Raven stayed standing, stayed ready to move. Every instinct screamed that this was a trap, but she couldn’t see the shape of it yet.
“A deal.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees, violet eyes glowing in the dim light. “Thirty days. You have thirty days to kill me, using whatever methods you choose. I’ll give you access to the palace, information about my routines, even training if you want it. I’ll make it possible.”
“And in exchange?”
“If you fail—when you fail—you become mine.” His expression was unreadable. “Not as a prisoner. Not as a corpse. As my partner. My equal. You’ll rule the Shadow Court at my side.”
Raven stared at him. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.” He didn’t sound concerned. “Five hundred years of existence will do that. But I’m also serious. Thirty days to kill a prince. If you succeed, you get your payment and your freedom. If you fail, you get a throne and eternity. Either way, you win.”
“That’s not—” She stopped, trying to find words for the absurdity. “You can’t just offer someone a throne for failing to assassinate you.”
“I’m a prince. I can do whatever I want.” He stood, and shadows rose with him. “Besides, if you’re good enough to survive thirty days trying to kill me, you’re good enough to rule beside me. The Shadow Court respects strength and cunning above all else. You’d fit right in.”
“I could kill you right now.” Raven’s hand moved to the hidden blade at her hip. “Your deal doesn’t change that.”
“You could try.” He didn’t move, didn’t defend himself. Just watched her with those ancient eyes. “Go ahead. Take your shot. See what happens.”
This was definitely a trap. She’d throw the knife, and he’d catch it, or dodge it, or do some fae magic thing that turned her blade into butterflies or whatever the hell fae did with their powers.
But the contract burned in her mind. Kill the prince. Earn freedom. Complete the mission.
Her hand moved fast—blade drawn, thrown, aimed for his throat in one smooth motion that had taken fifteen years to perfect.
The knife passed through empty air.
He’d turned into shadow, dissolved into darkness, and reformed three feet to the left. The blade embedded itself in the wall behind where he’d been standing.
“Nice throw,” he said appreciatively. “Excellent form. The last assassin who tried that was off by three inches and hit the portrait instead of me. My court painter was devastated.”
Raven had another blade in hand before he finished speaking.
He smiled. “This is going to be fun.”
“You’re toying with me.” The words came out sharper than she intended. “This is all a game to you.”
“Of course it is.” He didn’t sound apologetic. “I’m five hundred years old and functionally immortal. Everything is a game when you’ve been alive this long. The question is whether it’s a boring game or an interesting one. And you, Raven Storm of the Assassin’s Guild, are the most interesting game I’ve encountered in decades.”
He knew her name. Of course he did. He probably knew everything about her.
“So what happens now?” She kept the blade ready, kept herself ready. “I accept your insane deal and spend thirty days trying to murder you?”
“That’s entirely up to you.” He walked past her, close enough that she could feel the chill of shadow magic radiating from him. “You can accept the deal, in which case I’ll give you the resources to actually succeed. Or you can refuse, in which case I’ll kill you now and save us both the trouble of pretending you have a chance without my cooperation.”
Raven turned to follow his movement. “Those are my options? Accept or die?”
“Those are everyone’s options in the Shadow Court.” He paused at the end of the corridor, glancing back. “The only difference is I’m giving you a real choice. The last assassin didn’t get that courtesy.”
“Why me?” The question escaped before she could stop it. “What makes me different from the others?”
His expression softened, just slightly. “Because when I watched you in your room that first night, reading about all the ways I’ve killed people, planning all the ways you might kill me—you weren’t afraid. You were empty. Just like me.”
The observation hit harder than she expected.
“I’ve been alone in this throne for three hundred years,” he continued quietly. “Surrounded by people who fear me or want something from me, but never an equal. Never someone who sees me as a challenge instead of a monster or a prize. You walked into my court ready to end my life, and that’s the most honest interaction I’ve had in a century.”
Raven didn’t know what to say to that. The Guild had trained her to kill, not to understand lonely immortals.
“Thirty days,” Draven repeated. “Starting tomorrow. I’ll have Vex provide you with better quarters—you’re not fooling anyone with the servant disguise anymore. Training yard access, palace maps, my daily schedule. Everything you need to plan the perfect assassination.”
“And if I kill you before thirty days?” She had to ask.
His smile was brilliant and sharp. “Then you’ll have to take my throne. Fae law. Kill the ruler, become the ruler. I hope you’re prepared for the politics.”
“You’re serious about this.”
“Deadly serious.” He started to walk away, then paused. “Oh, and Raven? I’d avoid trying to kill me in my sleep. The last three assassins who attempted that are still screaming in the dungeons. The shadows don’t sleep, even if I do.”
He disappeared into darkness, literally, leaving her standing alone in the corridor with a throwing knife in her hand and a head full of confusion.
A deal to kill a prince in thirty days.
Access to everything she needed.
And a target who apparently wanted her to succeed.
This was the strangest contract she’d ever taken.
Raven looked at the blade in her hand, then at the spot where Prince Draven had been standing. She could still feel the chill of his shadow magic in the air.
Seventeen assassins had failed.
But none of them had been given a fair chance.
She walked to the wall and retrieved her thrown knife, checking the balance. Perfect, as always. The Guild trained their weapons well.
Thirty days to kill a prince who was bored enough to make it sporting.
This was either going to end with her legendary triumph or her spectacular death.
Possibly both.
In the shadows above, Draven watched her practice throwing the blade at the exact spot where he’d been standing, each throw hitting within an inch of the last.
“Thirty days,” he murmured to the darkness. “Let’s see if you can teach me to feel alive again, little assassin. Or if I’ll teach you what it means to be something more than a weapon.”
Either way, he wasn’t bored anymore.
And that alone was worth the risk of dying.
Reader Reactions