9. Seraphina
9
SERAPHINA
D ays seem to pass so slow since I arrived here in Midnight Den. Rylan hasn’t asked me to do anything.
And it only makes the tension heighten. He calls me into his office, letting me stand at the side.
I can’t help but watch him under my lashes, feigning nonchalance but my heart is racing. Suddenly, I hear a whistle of something unexpected.
The knife sings through the air before I even register the shadow moving behind Rylan.
Instinct kicks in.
I don’t think—I act.
My body collides with his, shoving him sideways just as the blade buries itself into the wood where his heart had been a heartbeat ago.
The room explodes into chaos.
Rylan recovers fast—too fast. He spins, drawing a dagger from his coat, his eyes flashing emerald fire as he searches for his attacker.
I don’t wait for him to make sense of what just happened. I already know.
My gaze snaps to the assassin—a lithe figure, dressed in dark silks, blending seamlessly with the shadows. A dark elf. Their face is masked, but I see the glint of silvered steel in their hands, the poised stance of someone ready to kill again.
They lunge.
I move first.
I snatch the blade from the wooden wall and turn it on them.
Steel collides with steel in a vicious clash, the impact vibrating up my arm. I grit my teeth, forcing my weight forward, but the assassin is faster. Stronger.
Their arm hooks around my throat, yanking me back against them.
"You should have stayed out of this, human," a voice hisses against my ear.
I snarl, twisting, breaking their grip, driving the dagger up?—
They jerk away at the last second, but not before my blade slices through fabric and flesh. A sharp curse follows, but the assassin doesn’t falter. They’re trained. Efficient. Deadly.
Rylan moves, a blur of darkness and steel. He doesn’t hesitate. His blade flashes once, twice—silent, calculated violence.
Blood spatters across the stone floor. The assassin falters, clutching their side.
But they smile.
Too late, I see the vial in their free hand.
"Poison," I snap.
Rylan lunges.
The assassin shatters the vial against their own skin.
Smoke erupts, thick and acrid, burning my throat as the assassin disappears into the haze.
By the time the air clears, they’re gone.
I choke on the bitterness clinging to my lungs, blinking through the sting. My heart hammers. The stench of blood lingers, hot and metallic, mixing with the sharp tang of something darker—something that makes my skin crawl.
Rylan stands rigid, his jaw clenched. His gaze sweeps the room, assessing. Calculating.
Then—he turns to me.
The silence is deafening.
I brace myself for his rage, for accusations, for the sharp edge of his suspicion.
Instead, he tilts his head, his emerald eyes dark with something unreadable.
"You saved my life."
I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders. "Don’t sound so surprised."
He watches me, gaze flicking to the blood smeared across my arm. Not mine—the assassin’s.
I wipe it on my tunic, meeting his eyes. "Any idea who wants you dead?"
He chuckles, low and dangerous. "You’ll have to be more specific, little thief."
My chest tightens. Lartina. She had been here three days ago. She left a threat hanging between her painted lips like a blade waiting to drop.
I take a step forward. "Was it her?"
His smirk lingers, but his eyes sharpen. "You think Lartina ordered the hit?"
I fold my arms. "You tell me."
He exhales through his nose, shifting slightly as he think about it. Ponder. Calculate.
Finally, he murmurs, "Not her style."
I narrow my eyes. "Then who?"
He says nothing. But I see it. The momentary flicker of something in his gaze—recognition.
He knows.
"Rylan." My voice is steady, pressing. "Who was that?"
For a long, breathless moment, he says nothing.
He reaches out, his fingers brushing against my wrist. I swallow, my breath uneven.
"Why did you do it?" he asks softly.
My pulse stumbles. "Do what?"
His grip tightens—not painful, but enough to feel it.
"Why did you save me?" His voice is lower now, quieter, filled with something I refuse to name.
I wet my lips, forcing myself to stay still.
If I move, I might lean into him.
That would be a mistake.
"I need you alive," I say, keeping my voice flat. "That was the deal, wasn’t it?"
His smirk returns, slow, curling at the edges. But his grip on my wrist lingers a moment longer than it should.
He lets me go.
The air between us shifts.
Something unspoken coils between us—something fragile, something dangerous.
Trust.
Or the closest thing to it.
Rylan exhales, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes flicking back to the empty space where the assassin had stood.
"This isn’t over," he murmurs.
I glance at the blood drying against the stone floor, at the lingering scent of poison clinging to the air.
No. It can never be.