He failed his mission || Injured Assassin

The world dissolved into searing white light and screaming pain.

One moment, Grisha had been a shadow, a silent breath in the opulent darkness of Prince Azariel's bedchamber. The next, a web of defensive magic, something new, something brutal and unfamiliar, had erupted from the headboard itself. It wasn't a shield; it was a retaliatory strike. The force threw him back against a marble pillar, the impact a sickening crack against his ribs. Agony, sharp and electric, blinded him for a precious second. The prince bolted upright, shouting for the guards.

Failure was a cold stone in his gut, heavier than any injury. He had to move. Pushing through the dizzying pain, he’d scrambled to the balcony, his movements clumsy, uncharacteristically loud. He heard the thunder of armored boots in the hall, the shouts closing in. He didn't look back, just launched himself over the balustrade, his body a dark comet against the moonlit spires of the palace.

The fall was a controlled, painful series of grabs and drops down ivy-covered walls and lower roofs. Each landing sent a fresh jolt of fire through his side. His vision swam, the permanently dilated pupil in his right eye making the darkness pulse and waver. He could hear the alarm bells now, a dissonant chorus spreading through the capital. They were hunting him.

He couldn't go to ground in the city; the gates would be sealed, the Arcana safe houses too risky. His only option was the sprawling, mountainous royal grounds. He ran, a limping, desperate sprint through manicured hedges and across moon-dappled lawns, the sounds of pursuit a constant, distant drumbeat behind him.

Finally, his legs gave out. He stumbled through a break in a high, wild hedge and collapsed into a small, secluded garden. It was unnervingly quiet. The air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth. No torches, no guards. It felt forgotten. Using the last of his strength, he dragged himself into the deep shadows beneath a sprawling, thorny rose bush, the branches clawing at his shirt, tearing at the wounds on his back. He pressed a hand to his side, his fingers coming away slick and dark with blood. He was bleeding too much.

He tried to steady his breathing, to listen past the roaring in his ears. The hunt was still active, but the sounds were more distant now, focused on the main palace. Here, there was only the rustle of leaves and the frantic beating of his own heart. He fumbled for a throwing knife, his fingers trembling slightly as he gripped the cool hilt. It was a pathetic defense, but it was all he had.

That was when he heard it. A soft, almost silent footfall on the gravel path.

His head snapped up, every muscle tensing. A figure stood there, silhouetted against the pale moonlight. Their features obscured by the gloom. They just... watched him. They made no move to call out, no sound of alarm. This was it. He was cornered. A wounded animal in a gilded cage.

A low, guttural sound ripped from his throat. "Don't come any closer." His voice was a ragged whisper, layered with a threat he didn't entirely have the strength to back up. He shifted, the movement sending a fresh wave of nausea through him, and lifted the knife. The moonlight caught the steel, a single, dangerous gleam in the darkness. His blood-red eyes, one pupil wide and unseeing, fixed on the silent figure. His mind raced, calculating, discarding options. Fight was unlikely. Flight was impossible.

"Who are you?" he snarled, the words clipped and harsh. He was exposed, vulnerable, and he hated it more than the pain. Every instinct screamed that this calm, observing presence was a predator in its own right.

The memories came to Grisha in sharp, unwelcome fragments as he watched from the shadows of the ballroom.

That first night months ago—crashing through the thorny roses of the secluded garden, his blood staining the pale marble pathways. The failed assassination. The new defensive magic that had torn through his defenses like parchment. He remembered the shock of seeing a royal face leaning over him, not with fear or anger, but with a frustrating, quiet curiosity. He remembered the cool hands tending his wounds, the silence more unnerving than any interrogation. He should have killed the royal brat then. A clean cut. A solved problem.

Instead, he’d lingered.

Months. He’d watched from high ledges and dark corners. He’d seen them reading in the library, tracing the lines of the text with an absent finger. He’d scoffed at their terrible taste in music from the rafters of the grand hall. He’d left a polished, dark river stone on their windowsill after a particularly rainy night, a sleek black feather after a fight with a courtier, a perfectly sharpened new quill after noticing the old one was splintered. Pathetic. Gifts for a royal. For the blood he was supposed to spill.

And tonight. The Grand Ball. The air thick with perfume and political ambition. He’d stood in the corner, a stain of darkness in the glittering hall, his red eyes tracking every movement. He watched as a procession of eligible nobles—all smiles and empty compliments—were presented. He saw the polite, distant curve of their mouth, the way their eyes remained tired and unimpressed.

But it didn’t matter. A hot, corrosive poison had begun to burn in his veins with each introduction. That one’s hands are too soft. This one’s laugh is like a dying chicken. That one is only here for the title. The thoughts were a snarl in his mind. His fingers had twitched, longing for the familiar weight of a knife, imagining the pretty silks stained crimson.

This is stupid. They're a job. A failure. Royal blood. Everything you despise.

Yet, the possessive urge was a physical ache. Mine. The thought was traitorous, terrifying. He denied it, crushed it, but it blossomed again every time someone else looked at them for too long.

Now, hours later, the palace was quiet, sleeping off its indulgence. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows of the private study, illuminating dust motes dancing in the silver light. The scent of old books and their perfume hung in the air.

He moved like the shadow he was, slipping into the room soundlessly. The door clicked shut. He saw them standing by the desk, having just shed the more cumbersome layers of their formal wear.

In three swift strides, he was upon them.

His hands were not gentle. One fisted in their hair, yanking their head back to expose the column of their throat. The other arm banded around their waist, crushing them against the hard line of his body as he bent them forward over the polished wood of the desk, scattering carefully arranged documents.

A low, animalistic growl rumbled in his chest. He didn't give them a chance to speak, to react. He dropped his head and sank his teeth into the tender junction of their neck and shoulder, a sharp, claiming bite meant to bruise, to mark. The metallic taste of their skin—royal blood be damned—flooded his senses.

"Those simpering fools at the ball," he hissed against their ear, his voice a ragged, venomous thing. His grip on their hair tightened. "Did you enjoy their fawning? Their pathetic attempts to court you?" He ground his hips against the curve of their backside, the hard ridge of his erection a blatant press through his trousers. "All those empty words. All those pretty, useless faces."

He released their hair only to grip their jaw, forcing their head to the side so he could see their profile in the moonlight. His thumb stroked over their lips, a mockery of a caress.

"Don't get any ideas," he snarled, his breath hot on their skin. "This doesn't mean a thing. I'm not some lovesick puppy following you around." His other hand slid from their waist to their hip, fingers digging in possessively. "I just can't stand the sight of anyone else touching what I've decided is mine to break."