Chapter Two
The Assassin's Vow
Nesilhan
THE SHADOW COURT guards escort me through corridors of polished obsidian, their armor absorbing what little light filters through the narrow windows.
I keep my chin high, my steps measured, my face a perfect mask of dignified resignation.
Years of training have prepared me for this—appearing composed while plotting murder.
Yet inside, I've never felt so frazzled.
When we reach my assigned chambers, a guard opens the ornate black door with a bow that might almost seem respectful if not for the smirk playing at his lips.
"Your accommodations, Lady Nesilhan," he says. "Lord Kaan hopes you'll find them... comfortable."
I sweep past him without acknowledgment, entering a room that is surprisingly luxurious—all midnight blues, deep purples, and silver accents.
A four-poster bed dominates one wall, draped with velvet so dark it seems to swallow light.
Elaborate tapestries depicting Shadow Court victories hang on the walls.
A not-so-subtle reminder of whose territory I'm in.
The door closes behind me with a heavy thud—the lock clicks.
Only then do I let my mask slip. I raise both my hands to see them tremble. My heart hammers viciously against my chest and the room spins, growing smaller, the design seems to suck the air from my lungs with its darkness and deadly beauty. I need to react and not think.
I grab a delicate silver-painted vase from a nearby table and hurl it against the wall. It shatters satisfyingly, water and night-blooming flowers scattering across the floor. My chest heaves as the water touches the tip of my shoes.
I'm shaking with fury, the rage I've been suppressing since Kaan's throne room finally boiling over. The audacity of him—treating my brother's life like a bargaining chip, looking at me like I'm already his possession, making those vulgar insinuations in front of an entire court.
My fingers find the ring on my right hand—my mother's ring—and I twist it rapidly, a nervous habit I've had since childhood—three turns clockwise, three counterclockwise. The familiar motion centers me, but only slightly.
I pace the room, cataloging exits and potential weapons by instinct, a habit ingrained through years of training that few at court would ever suspect.
One door, locked. Three windows, narrow but perhaps wide enough to squeeze through if necessary.
A forty-foot drop to the courtyard below—survivable with proper technique.
The furniture is mostly too ornate to be practical, but there's a letter opener on the writing desk that could serve as a weapon.
From my sleeve, I withdraw one of my hidden daggers—a slim blade balanced for throwing.
The weight of it in my palm is comforting.
I flick my wrist, sending it spinning across the room to embed itself in the center of a tapestry depicting a Shadow Court lord standing triumphantly over a fallen Light Court warrior.
A perfect hit. The blade pierces directly through the victorious lord's eye.
A tentative knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. I walk briskly and retrieve my dagger before I slide it back into its hidden sheath and let my mask fall into place. "Enter."
The door opens to reveal my father and brother. Zoran looks terrible—his Light Court robes are rumpled, his golden eyes bloodshot, his usually immaculate hair disheveled. My father appears more composed, but I can see the strain in the tight set of his shoulders and the lines around his mouth.
"Nesilhan," Zoran says, rushing forward. "I'm so sorry—this is all my fault. If I hadn't—"
I hold up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "It's done, Zoran. No use dwelling on it now."
"But how can you be so calm?" he asks, searching my face. "He's a monster. Everyone knows what he's capable of."
"Would you prefer I collapse into hysterics?" I ask coolly. "Would that solve anything?"
In my head, I recite the opening verses of "The Light Bearer's Lament," an ancient poem my mother taught me. When darkness threatens to consume, remember that shadow cannot exist without light...
The familiar words help me maintain my composure when I want to scream.
"Nesilhan," my father says, stepping forward. "We need to talk. Privately."
I arch an eyebrow. "I believe we're already private, unless Shadow Court spies lurk in the walls."
"They might," my father says grimly. He makes a subtle gesture with his hand—a small flare of light magic that briefly illuminates the room before settling into a faint shimmer around us—a privacy ward, simple but effective against eavesdropping.
"Now we can speak freely," he says.
I cross my arms. "What is there to say? You've sold me to the Shadow Court to save Zoran. A father's love, I suppose, though clearly not for both his children equally."
Zoran winces. My father's expression remains impassive.
"Is that what you think?" he asks. "That I've sacrificed you?"
"What would you call it?" I snap, my calm facade cracking.
"I'm to marry a man who calls himself the monster of the Shadow Court, who threatened to execute my brother in front of me, who looked at me like—" I cut myself off, unwilling to voice how Kaan had looked at me, like a predator sizing up prey.
"Tell me, Father, what would you call it if not a sacrifice? "
"I would call it the culmination of your training," he says quietly.
I freeze. "What?"
"Did you really think I didn't know?" My father moves to the window, looking out at the twilight of the Shadow Court. "About the Order of the Silent Blade? About your missions? The assassination in Blackvale last summer? The informant you cultivated in the Eastern Provinces?"
Each word has my mind reeling. Not that he knows I'm an assassin—I always suspected the Court had eyes everywhere—but that he orchestrated it all. My carefully constructed belief that I had chosen this path myself, that my secret life was truly my own, crumbles around me.
"How long have you known?" I manage to ask.
"Since the beginning," he replies, turning back to face me. "I was the one who recommended you to the Order."
The room seems to tilt beneath my feet. I sink onto a nearby chair, struggling to reconcile this revelation with everything I've believed about my life.
Fifteen years—half my lifetime—spent in training and service to the Order.
Eight assassinations personally carried out, countless intelligence operations conducted.
All while maintaining the perfect facade of the diplomat's obedient daughter.
"You... what?" Zoran looks between us, confusion written across his face. "Nesilhan is an assassin? Father, what are you talking about?"
My father sighs. "Your sister has been training with an elite group of Light Court assassins since she was a child. Preparing for missions that require... particular skills."
"But she's a diplomatic attaché," Zoran protests. "She attends peace negotiations, assists with treaties—"
"The perfect cover," I say quietly, still processing my father's revelation. "No one suspects the polite, well-mannered daughter of Councillor Taren."
Zoran stares at me like he's never seen me before. Perhaps he hasn't—not really.
"Why would you keep this from me?" he asks, hurt evident in his voice.
"For your protection," I reply automatically, the answer I've been conditioned to give. "The fewer people who know, the safer everyone is."
"Then why tell me now?" His golden eyes, so like my own, search my face.
My father answers for me. "Because this arrangement with Lord Kaan isn't just about saving your life, Zoran. It's about something we've been planning for years."
A cold realization dawns on me. "You wanted this," I say slowly. "You wanted me to marry him."
"Not precisely," my father corrects. "But we've long sought a way to place someone close to Kaan. He's too careful, too well-guarded for conventional assassination attempts. His shadows sense approaching threats, and his personal guards are fanatically loyal."
"So I'm to be the knife that gets past his defenses," I say, a bitter laugh escaping me. "How convenient that Zoran provided the perfect opportunity."
Zoran pales. "You want Nesilhan to kill Kaan? After they're married?"
"The blood binding of marriage is one of the few times Kaan will be vulnerable," my father explains. "His guards will be dismissed for the wedding night. His attention will be... elsewhere."
The implication hangs heavy in the air. I twist my mother's ring again, focusing on the cool metal against my skin to ground myself.
"And if I refuse?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Will you?" My father's gaze is piercing. "After what he did to your mother?"
The words hit their mark with devastating precision. Images flash through my mind—my mother's broken body, her light magic dimmed forever, the official report claiming "unfortunate casualties during border skirmishes." But those of us who knew the truth, who saw the distinctive shadow burns.. .
"Kaan couldn't have killed Mother," I say with certainty. "That was fifteen years ago, when he was just a rising commander, five years before he seized the Shadow throne."
"He was there," my father counters firmly. "He was part of the shadow squad that crossed our borders that night. He may not have struck the killing blow, but he stood by while others did."
"What? How could you keep this from me all these years?"
"We have sources," my father says vaguely. "Information gathered over the years. Kaan was a rising power even then, favored by the previous Shadow Lord."
Zoran moves to the window, his back to us. "I can't believe this. All these years, you've both been—" He shakes his head. "And now you're asking Nesilhan to marry a monster, to let him—" He can't finish the sentence.
"I'm not asking," my father says, his voice hardening. "I'm reminding her of her duty. To the Light Court. To her training. To her mother's memory."