Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~11 min read
Five days of training, and Raven had learned three important things about Prince Draven Shadowfire.
One: He was a better teacher than anyone at the Guild had ever been.
Two: He had a tell—barely noticeable, but his left shoulder dipped a fraction of a second before he used shadow magic.
Three: He checked the library every night at exactly midnight, alone, to return whatever book he’d been reading.
That last one was going to get him killed.
Raven waited in the darkest corner of the royal library, pressed against the wall behind a shelf of ancient tomes, breathing slow and controlled. She’d disabled the three monitoring spells she’d found. The blade in her hand was pure iron—the kind that burned fae on contact. And she’d positioned herself perfectly.
When Draven walked through that door, she’d have three seconds of perfect opportunity. He’d be silhouetted against the hallway light, night-blind for just a moment. She’d strike from behind, iron blade to the heart, and be done before his shadow magic could activate.
Professional. Clean. Efficient.
The Guild would be proud.
The door opened.
Draven entered, book in hand, and Raven moved.
Silent. Fast. Blade aimed precisely at the spot where his heart should be. Iron burning cold in her grip. Five days of training had taught her to read his movements, anticipate his defenses, strike where he was instead of where he’d been.
She was going to succeed.
Her blade was inches from his back when he dissolved into shadow.
“Damn it,” she whispered.
“Behind you,” his voice came from the darkness.
Raven spun, slashing where his voice had been. Blade cut through empty air. She dropped low, rolled behind a bookshelf, came up scanning for movement.
The library was silent except for her breathing and the whisper of pages from a book that fell when she’d passed.
“You’ve gotten better,” Draven’s voice echoed from somewhere above. Probably the second level balcony. “Five days ago, you’d have attacked from the front. At least you learned the value of ambush positioning.”
“Show yourself,” she called, moving between shelves, staying low. The iron blade was useless if she couldn’t connect with solid form.
“Why? You’re doing so well finding me.” His voice shifted—now behind her, now to the left. He was moving through the shadows, staying incorporeal, playing with her.
Raven forced herself to think. Five days of training. She’d learned to read him, to anticipate. He had a tell. Left shoulder dropped before shadow magic.
But he was already in shadow form. She needed him solid.
“You said to play to my strengths,” she called out, still moving, staying unpredictable. “Blades in the dark. I’m following your advice.”
“I’m touched.” His voice was closer now, definitely the balcony. “Though I expected more creativity. Ambush in the library is rather classical. Assassin number four tried the same approach.”
“What happened to assassin number four?”
“He’s alphabetizing the dungeon archives. Has been for three years now. Probably will be for three more.” A pause. “Give up, Raven. You can’t kill what you can’t touch.”
She smiled in the darkness. “Who said I was trying to touch you?”
Raven pulled the second item from her belt—a crystal vial filled with concentrated light essence. Extremely expensive, incredibly rare, and absolutely devastating to shadow-based magic.
She threw it at the balcony.
The vial shattered, and pure white light exploded through the library. It was daylight condensed into liquid form, burning away every shadow, flooding the space with illumination that hurt her eyes even though she’d prepared for it.
And on the balcony, suddenly solid and visible, Draven staggered as his shadow magic was forcibly disrupted.
Raven didn’t hesitate. She vaulted over a table, grabbed a shelf for momentum, and launched herself at the balcony stairs. Up them in seconds, iron blade ready, closing the distance while he was vulnerable.
Draven saw her coming. His eyes—normally violet, currently blazing with reflected light—widened in genuine surprise.
“Clever,” he managed, bringing his arm up to defend.
She struck fast. Blade aimed for his chest, then adjusted mid-strike when he tried to dodge—combat training, read the movement, adapt—and scored a cut across his forearm.
He hissed in pain as the iron burned. “You actually got me.”
“Finally.” Raven pressed the attack, striking high, then low, driving him back against the balcony railing. Without his shadow magic, he was just a fae with five hundred years of combat experience against a mortal who’d trained since childhood.
Almost fair odds.
Their blades met—he’d drawn a sword from shadows before they’d fully dispersed—and the clash of steel on iron rang through the library. He was stronger, she was faster. He had reach, she had fury.
They moved across the balcony in a deadly dance. Strike, parry, riposte, dodge. Every technique she’d learned in five days of training, she used. Every weakness she’d identified, she exploited.
And Draven fought back with the intensity of someone who was actually being challenged.
His blade cut close—she felt the wind of it pass her cheek. Her iron knife scored another burning line across his shoulder. His kick nearly caught her ribs. Her elbow strike glanced off his jaw.
The light essence was fading. She had maybe thirty seconds before shadows returned and he could escape.
Raven changed tactics. Instead of trying to kill him—she’d need a perfect strike, and he was too skilled—she went for disable. Swept his legs while he was off-balance from blocking her blade, and they both went down hard on the library balcony floor.
She ended up on top, knees pinning his arms, iron blade at his throat.
“Yield,” she demanded, breathing hard.
Draven looked up at her, and his expression was pure delight. “You actually got me. Genuinely cornered me. That light essence was inspired.”
“Yield,” she repeated, pressing the blade slightly. Not enough to cut, just enough to remind him it was there. “Or I kill you right now.”
“Do you really think an iron knife at my throat is enough?” But he didn’t move. Didn’t try to escape. Just lay there, looking up at her with those impossible eyes. “I’m five hundred years old, Raven. I’ve survived worse than this.”
“Have you survived having your throat cut with pure iron while pinned and unable to access shadow magic?” She adjusted her grip. “I’m genuinely curious.”
“Actually, no.” He smiled. “This is a new experience. I’m not sure if I’ll survive it.”
“Then yield.”
“And if I don’t?”
Raven leaned closer, blade steady. “Then I complete my contract. You die. I take your throne. Is that what you want?”
Something flickered in his eyes. “You’d do it? Right now? Even after five days of training together?”
“You’re a contract. Nothing more.”
“Liar.” He said it softly, without malice. “If I was just a contract, you’d have cut my throat already instead of asking me to yield. You’re hesitating.”
“I’m not—” She stopped, because he was right. The blade was at his throat. She could end this now. One motion, and the Shadow Prince would be dead.
But her hand wasn’t moving.
“Why aren’t you killing me?” Draven asked quietly. His usual amusement was gone, replaced by genuine curiosity. “You have me. Fair and square. This is the moment you’ve been working toward. So why are you talking instead of acting?”
“I…” Raven didn’t have an answer. The Guild had trained hesitation out of her. Complete the contract. Kill the target. Move on.
But this target was looking up at her with eyes that saw too much, and asking questions she didn’t want to answer.
“You’re not a weapon anymore,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re a person who’s realizing she has choices. And choosing to kill someone you’ve been learning to understand is harder than killing a stranger, isn’t it?”
“Shut up.” She pressed the blade harder.
“Make me.”
The shadows rushed back as the light essence finally faded. They poured in through the windows, flooded the balcony, and wrapped around Raven like living things.
In one smooth motion, Draven reversed their positions. The shadows lifted her, flipped her, and suddenly she was on her back with him above her, her blade gone, his hand pinning both her wrists over her head.
Their faces were inches apart. Both breathing hard. Both flushed from combat and something else neither wanted to name.
“You’ll have to do better than that, little assassin,” he said softly. His free hand came up, fingers brushing the strand of hair that had come loose from her practical style. “But that was magnificent. The light essence, the combat adaptation, actually getting me cornered. Best assassination attempt I’ve experienced in a century.”
“I failed.” The words tasted like ash. “Again.”
“You failed to kill me. But you succeeded in genuinely threatening me.” His thumb brushed across her wrist, where her pulse was racing. “Do you know how rare that is? How long it’s been since I’ve felt my heart actually race during a fight?”
“Let me go.”
“In a moment.” He didn’t move. Just studied her face like she was a puzzle to solve. “You cut me. Twice. With iron. I’ll have scars.”
“Good.”
“I agree.” His smile was soft, genuine. “I’ll finally have interesting scars instead of just boring battle wounds. I can tell people my own assassin gave them to me.”
“I’m not your assassin. I’m an assassin hired to kill you.”
“Semantics.” He finally released her wrists and stood, offering a hand up. “You’re the one currently trying to murder me. That makes you mine by default.”
Raven ignored his hand and stood on her own, looking around for her iron blade. It lay a few feet away, and she retrieved it, checking the edge. Still good. Still sharp.
Still hadn’t killed him when she had the chance.
“Why did I hesitate?” She asked it quietly, more to herself than him.
“Because you’re starting to see me as a person instead of a target.” Draven moved to the balcony railing, looking out at the library below where scattered books and shattered light essence crystal marked their fight. “And killing people is harder than killing targets. The Guild never taught you that because they needed you to be a weapon.”
“I am a weapon.”
“You’re a person who’s been used as a weapon. There’s a difference.” He turned back to her. “The question is whether you’re brave enough to figure out who you are beyond the killing.”
Raven wanted to argue, wanted to deny it. But the words stuck in her throat because some traitorous part of her wondered if he was right.
“Twenty-five days left,” she said instead. “I’ll try again.”
“I know.” He smiled. “And I’ll look forward to it. Maybe next time, you’ll succeed. Or maybe you’ll just keep hesitating at the last second, and we’ll both have to figure out what that means.”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“If you say so.” He started toward the stairs, then paused. “Oh, and Raven? The light essence was genuinely clever. I’m awarding this attempt a nine out of ten. Highest score yet.”
“What would it take to get a ten?”
“Actually killing me.” His grin was sharp. “But I have faith in you. You’re learning fast.”
He dissolved into shadows and disappeared, leaving her alone on the balcony with an iron blade, two small victories in the form of cuts she’d given him, and a head full of questions she didn’t want to answer.
Why had she hesitated?
She’d had him. Perfect opportunity. And she’d talked instead of acted.
Raven looked at the blade in her hand. The weapon the Guild had forged her into.
And wondered if Draven was right.
If she was starting to become something more than just a weapon.
Something that chose instead of just obeyed.
Twenty-five days left.
Next time, she wouldn’t hesitate.
Probably.
In the shadows, Draven touched the cuts on his arm and shoulder—shallow, but burning from the iron. They’d scar beautifully.
She’d actually gotten him. Actually made him fight for real.
And she’d hesitated at the killing blow.
Interesting.
Very interesting indeed.
He smiled in the darkness, already looking forward to her next attempt.
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