Updated Nov 6, 2025 • ~12 min read
“You need to attend court today,” Draven announced, appearing from the shadows in her chambers just as Raven finished her morning training routine.
She didn’t even flinch anymore. Three assassination attempts and a week of training had desensitized her to his dramatic entrances.
“Why?” She grabbed a towel, wiping sweat from her face. “I’m an assassin, not a courtier.”
“You’re both, now.” He leaned against her desk, looking infuriatingly composed in dark formal attire. “If you’re going to kill me and take my throne—which seems increasingly likely given your improvement—you need to understand Shadow Court politics. Otherwise, my nobles will eat you alive within a week of my death.”
“I don’t want your throne.”
“Fae law doesn’t care what you want.” He pulled something from a shadow—a dress. Deep purple silk that looked like liquid midnight. “You kill me, you inherit everything. Throne, court, responsibilities, several centuries’ worth of political complications. Best to be prepared.”
Raven stared at the dress. “I’m not wearing that.”
“It has hidden pockets for weapons. I had it specially made.” He held it up. “And before you argue, yes, I’ve been planning for your eventual success and/or my eventual death. Call me an optimistic fatalist.”
Despite herself, she took the dress. It was beautiful, and the hidden pockets were perfectly placed. “You’re insane.”
“We’ve established this.” He moved toward her door. “Court session starts in an hour. Try not to stab anyone unless they absolutely deserve it. I’ll make a list.”
He left before she could throw the towel at him.
The Shadow Court throne room was full of fae who looked at her like she was an interesting insect they were deciding whether to crush or keep.
Raven stood beside Draven’s throne—he’d refused to let her stand in the back like a proper observer—wearing the purple dress and approximately seven concealed weapons. The dress fit perfectly, moved easily, and somehow made her feel both elegant and deadly.
She hated that she liked it.
“Today’s session covers trade disputes, succession concerns, and one attempted assassination plot,” Draven said quietly as nobles filed in. “Standard Tuesday.”
“Succession concerns?” Raven watched a particularly elegant fae woman glare at her with open hostility. “Let me guess. People who want your throne.”
“Want to marry me for my throne,” he corrected. “Technically different. Lord Malachai has been trying to marry off his daughter for two decades. She’s lovely, ambitious, and would absolutely poison my wine within a month of the wedding.”
“Smart woman.”
“I’ve always thought so.” He leaned back on his throne as the room filled. “That’s why I keep declining. If I’m going to be poisoned, I prefer it done by a professional.”
The first hour of court was mind-numbingly boring. Trade agreements between the Shadow Court and other fae realms. Disputes over territory that had apparently been ongoing for three centuries. A complaint about someone’s shadows infringing on someone else’s shadows, which shouldn’t be physically possible but apparently was.
Raven watched Draven navigate it all with casual brilliance. He knew every name, every grievance, every hidden agenda. Rendered judgments that seemed arbitrary but were actually carefully calculated to maintain balance. Threatened creative violence when necessary. Made people laugh when it served a purpose.
It was a performance. And he’d been giving it for three hundred years.
“Now for the interesting part,” he murmured as Lord Malachai approached the throne.
The noble was classic fae—inhumanly beautiful, ageless, radiating power and arrogance. He bowed with exactly the minimum respect required.
“Your Highness. I come with news of a plot against your life.”
“How exciting. Who’s trying to kill me this week?” Draven sounded more bored than concerned.
“Members of the Dawn Court. They’ve hired assassins from the mortal realm to infiltrate your palace and—” Lord Malachai paused meaningfully, eyes sliding toward Raven. “But perhaps this should be discussed privately, given certain… guests.”
“You mean my assassin?” Draven gestured to Raven casually. “She’s here on official business. Trying to kill me is her job. Continue.”
The throne room went silent. Every fae turned to stare at her.
Raven kept her expression neutral, but internally, she was screaming. He’d just announced to his entire court that she was there to assassinate him.
“Your Highness,” Lord Malachai’s smile was sharp, “surely you’re joking.”
“I never joke about assassination attempts. It undermines the seriousness of people trying to murder me.” Draven’s tone was light, but his eyes glowed violet. “Raven Storm of the Assassin’s Guild has a thirty-day contract to kill me. We’re at day seven. She’s attempted three times so far—poison, ambush, and clever use of light essence. All impressive, all ultimately unsuccessful.”
The room erupted in whispers. Shocked looks. Some laughter. A few expressions of calculation that suggested people were already planning how to use this information.
“You’ve… invited an assassin into your court?” A female noble—Lady something, Raven hadn’t caught her name—looked between them with fascination. “And announced it publicly?”
“I’ve given her every opportunity to kill me fairly. If she succeeds, she’ll take my throne. If she fails, she’ll rule beside me.” Draven’s casual explanation made it sound perfectly reasonable. “It’s an excellent arrangement. She gets purpose beyond the Guild’s control, I get a worthy opponent, and the court gets entertainment. Everyone wins.”
“Everyone except you, if she succeeds,” Lord Malachai said dryly.
“If she succeeds, I’ll die to someone magnificent instead of fading into bored eternity. Still a win from my perspective.” Draven looked at Raven, and his smile was genuine. “Plus, she’s teaching me what it feels like to be challenged. Haven’t felt that in decades.”
Raven wanted to disappear. Or stab him. Possibly both.
“Your Highness is either brilliantly strategic or has finally lost his mind entirely,” Lady Seraphine—that was her name, Raven remembered now—observed. “I honestly can’t tell which.”
“Why not both?” Draven returned his attention to Lord Malachai. “Now, about this Dawn Court plot. Details?”
The noble clearly wanted to press the assassin issue, but centuries of court protocol won out. “Three assassins, hired through intermediaries. They’re planning to strike during the Autumn Equinox celebration next week. Poison, I believe, delivered through the ceremonial wine.”
“Boring. The Dawn Court has no imagination.” Draven waved dismissively. “Vex will handle it. Anything else?”
Lord Malachai bowed and retreated, but not before giving Raven a look that suggested he was filing her existence away for future manipulation.
The rest of the session continued—more politics, more subtle threats masked as courtesy, more information traded like currency. And through it all, nobles kept glancing at Raven, reassessing her presence.
The mortal assassin given permission to kill the Shadow Prince.
By the time Draven finally dismissed court two hours later, Raven’s head was spinning.
“Why did you tell them?” She demanded once they were alone in his private study—a room filled with books, maps, and shadow-cats that might or might not be alive.
“Because hiding it was pointless. They’d figure it out anyway.” He poured two glasses of something that glowed faintly silver. “Shadow Court thrives on information. Better to control the narrative than let rumors spread.”
“You made me a target.” She didn’t take the offered glass. “Every noble in that room is now calculating how to use me against you.”
“Yes. That’s the point.” He took a sip from her rejected glass, testing it. Clean. He handed it to her again. “You need to learn how to navigate fae politics. Being a target is the fastest way to learn.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s practical.” He settled into a chair by the fireplace where flames burned in purple and black. “Every lord and lady in my court will now approach you. Some will try to recruit you to their schemes. Some will try to kill you to gain my favor. Some will try to seduce you for information. All of it will teach you how this court operates.”
Raven finally took the glass, more from shock than agreement. “You’re using assassination attempts on me as a teaching tool.”
“We learn best through experience.” His smile was unapologetic. “Besides, you’re good enough to handle them. I’ve trained you personally. If you can’t survive court politics, you definitely can’t kill me and take the throne.”
“I still don’t want the throne.”
“You will.” He said it with absolute certainty. “Once you understand what the Shadow Court actually is, what it protects, what it maintains—you’ll understand why it needs a strong ruler. And why you’d be perfect for it.”
“I’m a mortal assassin. I know nothing about running a fae court.”
“You’re a brilliant strategist who learns fast, adapts faster, and doesn’t flinch from difficult decisions.” Draven met her eyes over his glass. “That’s more qualified than half the nobles who want my throne. The only difference is they’ve been preparing for centuries, and you’re doing crash course.”
Raven sat in the chair opposite him, partially from exhaustion, partially from confusion. “This was never part of the contract.”
“The contract was to kill me. Everything else is bonus content.” He gestured, and a shadow-cat that was definitely alive jumped into his lap. He petted it absently. “Think of it as insurance. If you do manage to kill me, the court needs to accept you immediately. Having them aware of your existence and capabilities before the succession helps with that.”
“And if they kill me first?”
“They won’t.” His tone held absolute confidence. “Because you’re under my protection. Anyone who harms you answers to me. And my court knows exactly what that means.”
Raven thought about Lady Vesper, imprisoned in the dungeons for poisoning her drink. About the crystal-frozen woman in the throne room. About seventeen dead assassins.
“You’re protecting your assassin from other assassins.”
“I’m protecting my investment.” He scratched the shadow-cat behind the ears. “I’ve spent a week training you, educating you, preparing you to either kill me or rule beside me. I’ll be damned if some scheming noble cuts that short because they want political advantage.”
It was twisted logic. Completely insane. And somehow starting to make sense in the strange way that everything in the Shadow Court made sense.
“Teach me,” Raven said suddenly. “The politics. The games. Everything I’d need to know if I…”
“If you succeed in killing me and inherit the throne?” He looked pleased. “Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”
He spent the next three hours explaining Shadow Court politics. Who held real power versus ceremonial titles. Which nobles were loyal, which were ambitious, which were dangerous. How information was currency more valuable than gold. The way alliances shifted like shadows depending on advantage. The delicate balance between the various fae courts that kept their world from descending into chaos.
It was fascinating. And terrifying. And nothing the Guild had ever prepared her for.
“The Shadow Court isn’t evil,” Draven explained, shadows forming visual aids around him—maps, family trees, political connections. “We just operate on different morality than mortals. Everything is information, leverage, advantage. But we maintain balance. Keep the other courts in check. Prevent any one realm from dominating.”
“Through secrets and manipulation.”
“Through understanding and strategy.” He corrected gently. “We’re the ones who know everyone’s weaknesses, everyone’s secrets. That gives us power, yes. But it also gives us responsibility. Power without purpose is just destruction.”
Raven studied the shadow-map of fae politics floating in the air. Hundreds of connections, thousands of relationships, centuries of history.
“How do you keep track of all this?” She asked finally.
“Practice. Time. And these.” He held up his hands, showing the silver rings on every finger. “Each one holds secrets. Literally. Shadow magic bound into metal, storing information I’ve gathered over three hundred years. My memory is good, but not perfect. So I cheat.”
“Smart.”
“Necessary.” He dismissed the shadow-map with a wave. “You’d develop your own system. Your own ways of managing information and leverage. The throne adapts to its ruler.”
“You’re talking like I’ve already killed you and taken over.”
“I’m preparing for all possibilities.” He stood, and the shadow-cat dissolved back into darkness. “Twenty-three days left. Every day, you get better. More dangerous. More capable. Whether you succeed or not, you’ll be changed by this. Best to be prepared for both outcomes.”
Raven stood too, feeling the weight of information, of possibility, of futures she’d never imagined. “I came here to complete a contract. Kill a target. Earn freedom.”
“And now?” His violet eyes seemed to see straight through her.
“Now I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.” The admission came out quietly. “The Guild trained me to kill. Not to think. Not to question. Definitely not to prepare to rule a fae court.”
“Then you’re learning exactly what I hoped you’d learn.” Draven moved toward the door, then paused. “You’re not just a weapon, Raven. You never were. The Guild made you believe that because it was convenient for them. But you’re a person who’s capable of so much more than just killing.”
“Like what?”
“Like understanding five hours of complex court politics in three hours. Like adapting combat technique in days instead of years. Like looking at a lonely immortal who’s given you every opportunity to kill him, and hesitating because you’re starting to see him as a person instead of a target.” His smile was soft. “That takes strength. Not weakness.”
He left before she could respond.
Raven stood alone in the study, surrounded by books and shadow-cats and the fading echo of political maps that showed her just how complicated the world really was.
Twenty-three days left.
And she was no longer sure if killing Draven was what she actually wanted or what the Guild had programmed her to want.
First time she’d questioned a contract.
First time she’d wondered what came after completion.
First time she’d felt like maybe, possibly, she was more than just the weapon they’d forged her into.
In the shadows, Draven smiled.
She was questioning. Thinking. Becoming.
Exactly as he’d hoped.
Whether she killed him or not mattered less than making sure she became the person she was meant to be instead of the tool the Guild had tried to create.
Twenty-three days to find out which outcome would occur.
He could hardly wait.
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