Chapter Two #2
The weight of expectation settles over me like a burial shroud. I've always known my training would culminate in a high-value assassination, but I never imagined it would require this level of personal sacrifice.
"How would we communicate?" I ask, my rational mind already moving to logistics despite my turmoil. "I assume I'll be watched closely."
My father's expression softens slightly, perhaps relieved that I'm not refusing outright. "We have an agent in place here—a servant who appears to serve the Shadow Court but whose true loyalty lies with us. She'll bring you your morning tea. Ask for honey with it if you need to pass a message."
"And my weapons?" I ask. "I doubt I'll be allowed to keep my usual arsenal once I'm searched."
He reaches into his robes and withdraws a delicate silver hairpin topped with a moonstone.
"This contains a rare poison derived from shadowroot.
Odorless, tasteless, and virtually untraceable.
It mimics the symptoms of a magical burnout, common enough among powerful magic users that it shouldn't raise suspicion. "
I take the hairpin, examining it carefully. The poison reservoir is cleverly hidden within the moonstone itself, designed to release its contents with a specific twist.
"When should I use it?" I ask.
"Not immediately," my father cautions. "The marriage must be consummated to be legally binding. And we need time to extract maximum political advantage before his death."
Zoran makes a choked sound. I can't look at him.
"How long?" I ask instead.
"A month, perhaps two," my father replies. "We need to establish the political alliance first. Once the border agreements are ratified by both courts, the Shadow Council will be less likely to retaliate violently when he dies. Too soon, and we risk full-scale war."
A month or two of being married to Kaan. Of sharing his bed, his table, his life. The thought makes my skin crawl, yet my training kicks in. I can do this. I've endured worse for shorter-term missions.
"And after?" I ask. "Once it's done?"
"You'll be the grieving widow, returned to the Light Court with our deepest sympathies," my father says.
"We have agents placed in the Shadow Court who will help extract you during the chaos following his death.
The political alliance will dissolve naturally with his death, but by then we'll have secured the concessions we need. "
It's a clean plan. Clinical. I am simply the instrument of its execution.
"I should go," my father says, glancing at the door. "We've been here too long already. Suspicions will arise."
He moves to leave, then pauses, looking back at me. For a moment, I see something like regret in his eyes. "I know this isn't what you would have chosen, Nesilhan. But you were born for this purpose. Your skills, your training—all of it has led to this moment."
Without waiting for a response, he exits, leaving me alone with Zoran.
The privacy ward won’t hold for much longer since my father has left, and I can see the questions in my brother’s gaze.
"Did you know?" he finally asks. "About what Father had planned? "
"No," I answer honestly. "I knew I was an assassin trained for difficult missions, but I never knew Father had been orchestrating this specific plan for me to target Kaan all along. I thought my missions were assigned based on current needs, not as stepping stones to this ultimate goal."
Zoran runs a hand through his already disheveled hair.
"I don't know who you are anymore, Nesi.
" His voice carries the same tonal pattern our mother had—that slight musical lilt when distressed.
Despite his scholarly demeanor, Zoran has always possessed a depth of feeling that I sometimes envy.
Where I was taught to suppress emotion, his intellectual brilliance lies partly in his emotional intelligence—his ability to understand people, to connect with them.
"You're still my brother," I say softly. "The one who taught me constellation patterns when we were children. The one who argued endlessly for peace negotiations instead of military solutions."
"And you're the sister who secretly killed people while I preached nonviolence." Bitterness edges his words, but beneath it lies genuine pain. "All these years, I thought you were just... my little sister. The diplomatic one. The one who hated violence."
He looks away first. "I can't believe Father would use you like this. Use both of us—my mistake, your skills—all just pieces in his political game."
"That's what we've always been," I reply, the truth of it settling into my bones. "I just accepted it earlier than you did."
"I'll find a way to stop this," Zoran promises suddenly. "I'll go to the Light Court elders, tell them what Father is planning—"
"No." My voice is sharp. "You'll do nothing of the sort. If you interfere, Kaan will execute you without hesitation. And then all of this will be for nothing."
"So I'm just supposed to let you sacrifice yourself? Let that monster—" He breaks off, his face contorted with disgust and guilt .
I move to him, taking his hands in mine. "Listen to me, Zoran. I have been trained for this. I can protect myself. And when the time is right, I will complete my mission and return home."
"You make it sound so simple," he whispers.
"It isn't," I admit. "But it's what must be done."
He shakes his head like he's ready to argue. I can sense the privacy wards failing, and I don’t want anyone to overhear us."Go, rest." I release his hands and raise my chin.
A part of me expects him to stay, to fight, to reason with his sister, but he leaves, and some bitter part of me gnarls as he leaves. I have to quench that part of me. I can't get sentimental.
I take a moment to center myself, feeling the strain of maintaining so many layers of deception.
Just as I've hidden my assassin training behind diplomatic smiles, I've concealed the true extent of my light magic behind minor parlor tricks at court functions—another layer of deception in a life built on them.
I stand at the window, staring out at the Shadow Court's twisted architecture. The perpetual twilight casts everything in shades of gray and deep blue, so different from the golden warmth of the Light Court.
I withdraw to the center of the room and close my eyes, centering myself. Slowly, I extend my hands, palms up, and concentrate. A small orb of light forms between my fingers, pulsing gently with my heartbeat.
I manipulate the light orb, compressing it until it glows with the intensity of a small star, then letting it expand into a diffuse cloud. Control exercises, taught by my first mentor in the Order. Focus and precision—the foundations of both magic and assassination.
The truth about my magic is more complex.
While most Light Court practitioners channel their magic externally—creating light beams or healing wounds—mine manifests internally, enhancing my reflexes to preternatural levels and allowing me to sense magical threats before they materialize.
The Order discovered this rare form of light magic when I was seven and immediately marked me for training.
The orb flickers slightly as I manipulate it, reminding me of the fundamental principle every Light Court mage learns early: shadow and light magic aren't merely opposites—they're complementary forces.
Where they meet, they create a reactive boundary that can either nullify both powers or amplify them unpredictably.
It's why border skirmishes between our courts are so dangerous; the magical discharge when shadow meets light can level buildings or create tears in reality itself.
It's also why a marriage binding between a shadow mage and light practitioner is so potent—our combined powers create something neither court fully understands.
I continue my exercises for what feels like hours, losing myself in the precision and control required.
The familiar routine helps settle my mind, bringing clarity to the chaotic emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
As twilight deepens outside my window, I sense my time alone is coming to an end.
The Shadow Court would not leave a new prize unwatched for long.
A sharp knock interrupts my practice. I dissolve the light instantly, turning toward the door as it opens without waiting for my response.
An elderly woman enters, her spine straight despite her years, her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun. Behind her trail three younger women carrying various items—fabrics, jewelry, cosmetic pots.
"Lady Nesilhan," the older woman says with a perfunctory bow. "I am Mistress Varin, keeper of the Shadow Lord's household. I am here to prepare you for tomorrow's ceremony."
"And if I refuse to be prepared?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
A thin smile crosses her wrinkled face. "Then we will prepare you regardless, and it will be considerably less pleasant for everyone involved."
I consider my options. Fighting now would be foolish—it would achieve nothing except perhaps injuring some servants and alerting Kaan to my true capabilities. Better to appear cooperative. Compliant.
"Very well," I say with as much dignity as I can muster. "What does this preparation entail?"
"First, you will bathe," Mistress Varin says, gesturing to one of the younger women, who disappears through a side door I hadn't noticed.
The sound of running water follows. "Then tomorrow you will be dressed in the ceremonial gown Lord Kaan has selected for his high bride—a title given only to the most politically significant wives of Shadow Lords, those whose unions seal major alliances," Mistress Varin explains with cold formality.
"We need to make sure the fit is right, so once you have bathed, we will try on the dress. "
High bride. The term makes my stomach turn. I want to refuse, to fight, to run. Instead, I nod coolly.
"And this gown?" I ask. "I assume it's black?"
"It is the ceremonial wedding gown of the late Lady Morvaine, Lord Kaan's grandmother," Mistress Varin says, a note of reverence entering her voice. "It is considered a great honor. The gown has not been worn in three generations."
"How fortunate for me," I say dryly.
The bath is drawn, the water scented with unfamiliar herbs and flowers that leave my skin tingling slightly.
I submit to the ministrations of the servants, letting them wash my hair and scrub my body while I retreat into my mind, reciting assassination protocols and escape routes to keep myself calm.
When they finally bring the gown, I can't suppress a reaction.
It's beautiful in a dark, disturbing way—black silk and velvet with silver embroidery depicting constellations and shadow symbols.
The neckline plunges indecently low, and the back is almost entirely open.
It's designed to display the wearer like a trophy.
"I will not wear that," I state flatly .
Mistress Varin's eyes narrow. "You will. Lord Kaan has commanded it."
"I am not yet bound to obey his commands," I counter.
"Perhaps not," she agrees, her voice softening strangely. "But consider this, Lady Nesilhan. Your position here is precarious. Your family's safety depends on this alliance. Is a dress really the battle you wish to choose?"
She's right, of course. This isn't the hill to die on, not when larger objectives are at stake. But surrender, even on something as trivial as clothing, grates against every instinct.
"Fine," I concede finally. "But know that I do so under protest."
"Duly noted," she says dryly.
The dress fits as if it were made for me, which is unsettling in itself. As the servants arrange my hair—partially up with elaborate braids threaded with silver wire, partially down in loose waves—I stare at my reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing myself.
The woman who stares back at me is beautiful in a dangerous way, golden eyes bright against the darkness of the gown, skin pale and luminous. I look like a Shadow Court consort, a worthy match for the monster who will soon claim me as wife.
The thought should disgust me. Instead, I find a strange resolve settling over me. Let Kaan think he's won. Let him believe I'm just another political pawn, a reluctant bride cowed by his power and reputation.
He'll learn his mistake far too late.
I recite the Assassin's Creed silently as I move toward the door:
Swift as shadow, still as stone, Heart untouched and duty known. Life for life and blood for blood, Justice served when daggers flood.
Tomorrow I will become the bride of a monster. After that, I begin working toward becoming his widow.