The room was cold. It always was. The stone walls of the underground chamber seemed to drink in every ounce of warmth, leaving nothing but a biting chill that crept under my skin. My father stood across from me, his silhouette sharp against the dim light of the single flickering lantern. His face was as unreadable as ever-hard lines carved into stone, eyes like shards of ice. He wasn't the kind of man who softened, not even for his daughter.

Especially not for his daughter.

"You've been given a mission," He said, his voice low and clipped. No preamble. No warmth. Just business.

I straightened my back, forcing myself to meet his gaze even though my knees felt like they might buckle under me. I'd been waiting for this moment-dreading it and craving it in equal measure. A mission meant I was no longer just a tool in training. It meant I was ready-or at least he thought I was.

But it also meant I couldn't fail.

"Your target is Crown Princess Ophelia," He continued, pacing slowly around me like a predator circling its prey. "She's the same age as you-ten years old-but don't let that fool you. She's clever, spoiled, and surrounded by guards who would kill you without hesitation if they suspected anything."

I nodded once, keeping my face blank. That's what he wanted to see: composure, discipline, obedience. Inside, though, my stomach churned. A princess? My first mission wasn't some nameless noble or corrupt merchant-it was her, the heir to the throne. The girl whose face was plastered on every coin and tapestry in the kingdom.

"And?" I asked quietly, though I already knew the answer.

"And," he said with a faint smirk that didn't reach his eyes, "You're going to become her most trusted friend."

Befriend her. Of course. It wasn't enough to slip into her bedchambers under cover of darkness and end it quickly. That would be too simple, too merciful. No, this was about infiltration-earning her trust so I could destroy her and the rest of the family from within.

"You'll spend time with her," He said, stopping in front of me and leaning down so we were at eye level. His breath smelled faintly of whiskey and something metallic-blood, maybe. "You'll make her believe you're her friend. Her *only* friend." The paragraph where the 2,000th word is down.

"And then?" My voice didn't waver, though it took everything I had to keep it steady.

"And then," he said softly, cruelly, "you'll kill her."

The words hung in the air between us like a blade poised to strike. My chest tightened, but I didn't flinch. Flinching would only earn me his disdain-or worse.

"If you succeed," he continued after a long moment of silence, "you'll earn your place among our Assassins' highest ranks." His lips curled into something that might have been a smile if it weren't so devoid of warmth or pride. "You'll finally make us proud."

Us. He always said us when he meant himself and my mother-the woman who had given birth to me but barely acknowledged my existence beyond barking orders or correcting my form with sharp slaps to the back of my head when I faltered during training.

Pride. That word twisted inside me like a knife. It wasn't love they wanted from me-it never had been-but pride? Acceptance was something they dangled just out of reach like a carrot on a stick, always promising but never delivering.

"Yes, Father," I said quietly.

He straightened and turned away without another word, leaving me alone in the cold chamber with nothing but the sound of my own breathing and the weight of what he'd just told me pressing down on my shoulders.

---

Later that night, I sat on the edge of my cot in my small room-a cell more than anything else-and stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall. A ten-year-old girl stared back at me with wide green eyes and dark hair that fell in uneven strands around her face. My cheeks were hollow from years of strict rations; my hands calloused from hours spent training with blades and bows.

I didn't look like a child-not really. Not anymore.

I reached up and touched the scar that ran along my jawline-a reminder from one of my first sparring matches when I'd been too slow to block an attack. My father hadn't even looked at me when they stitched it up; he'd simply told me that pain was a lesson and walked away.

"Ophelia," I whispered to myself, testing the name on my tongue.

I'd seen her once before-from a distance-during one of her many public appearances at the palace gates. She'd been dressed in silks and jewels that sparkled in the sunlight, her golden hair braided into an intricate crown atop her head. She'd smiled at the crowd like she belonged there-like she was untouchable.

But no one was untouchable.

The next morning came quickly-too quickly-and before I knew it, I was standing outside our compound with nothing but a small satchel slung over my shoulder, and instructions burned into my brain like brands on flesh.

"Get close to her," My father had said as he handed me forged documents declaring me an orphan from a distant province seeking work as a companion for the princess. "Learn everything about her-her routines, her weaknesses-and strike when she least expects it."

Simple enough on paper. But simple doesn't mean easy.

The journey to the palace took two days by foot-a test in itself since I wasn't allowed to use any resources beyond what I could carry or scavenge along the way. By the time I reached the gates of the palace, my legs were aching and my stomach growled with hunger, but I ignored both as I approached the towering walls that loomed above me like silent sentinels.

"State your business," one of the guards barked as I approached.

"I'm here for Princess Ophelia," I said calmly, holding out my forged papers with steady hands even though my heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird desperate for escape.

The guard frowned as he scanned the documents before nodding reluctantly and gesturing for me to follow him inside.

---

The palace was everything I'd imagined-and nothing like what I'd known growing up among assassins and shadows. It was bright and warm and filled with colors so vivid they almost hurt my eyes after years spent in darkness.

And then there she was: Ophelia.

She sat in a sunlit garden surrounded by flowers that seemed to bloom just for her touch-a picture-perfect princess straight out of a storybook. Her golden hair shimmered like spun gold; her blue eyes sparkled with curiosity as she looked up at me from where she sat cross-legged on the grass playing with a small white kitten.

Her golden hair catching the sunlight as if it were spun from the rays themselves. She was impossibly radiant, like something out of a fairy tale. The kitten in her lap purred contentedly as she stroked its fur, her delicate fingers moving with absent-minded grace.

"You must be Lyra," she said brightly when she saw me-the name on my forged papers slipping off her tongue like the honeyed poison it was as she smiled up at me without suspicion or hesitation.

"Yes," I said quietly-because what else could I say? Lies came easily enough after years of practice; they slid off my tongue like second nature now.

"So," Ophelia said, tilting her head to look up at me with her impossibly blue eyes, "You're to be my new lady-in-waiting?"

I swallowed hard and forced a small smile before answering. "Yes, Your Highness." I said with a curtsy. If I was to keep up this charade I would have to remember my training.

Ophelia giggled, the sound light and musical. "You don't have to call me that. You can call me Lia when it's just us. I've always wanted someone I could talk to like a friend." She set the kitten down gently and rose to her feet, brushing off her skirts. "You'll be by my side all the time now, won't you? Helping me get dressed for balls and teas and all those boring court events?"

"That's my role," I replied evenly, though the words felt foreign on my tongue. Though I'd practiced this persona-meek and eager to serve-standing here now, face-to-face with my target, it felt strange. Too easy.

Ophelia clapped her hands together, clearly delighted. "Oh, this will be so much fun! I've always wanted someone close to my age around. The other ladies-in-waiting are so dull-always fussing over my hair or nagging me about posture." She wrinkled her nose in mock annoyance before breaking into another bright smile. "But you're different. Real."

Different. The word hung in the air like a warning bell in my mind. If only the eager monarch knew how different I truly am.

"I'll do my best to serve you well," I said softly, lowering my gaze in what I hoped looked like humility.

Ophelia reached out and took my hand without hesitation, her touch warm and gentle. "Oh, don't be so formal! We're going to be like sisters, you'll see."

My stomach lurched at the word sisters. I forced myself to keep still, though every instinct screamed at me to pull away from the princess's touch. This girl-this naive child who spoke of friendship so freely-had no idea that she was holding hands with her own executioner.

The thought should have brought me satisfaction. After all, wasn't this what I had trained for? To slip into someone's life unnoticed, earn their trust, and strike when they least expect it? But as Ophelia smiled up at me with such unguarded warmth, I felt something unfamiliar stir within me: hesitation.

"Come," Ophelia said suddenly, tugging me toward a nearby bench shaded by a flowering tree. "Sit with me for a while. I want to know everything about you."

I faultered for only a fraction of a second before following obediently. I perched on the edge of the bench as she settled beside me, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

"There's not much to tell," I said, choosing my words carefully. Father had drilled the backstory into me over and over again until it was second nature-a fabricated tale of orphanhood and hardship designed to elicit sympathy without raising suspicion.

"Nonsense," The girl said dismissively with a wave of her hand. "Everyone has a story."

I glanced at the princess out of the corner of my eye. She seemed so... open. So trusting. It would be easy-too easy-to slip a blade between her delicate ribs or lace poison into the cup of tea she so eagerly offered.

But not yet.

"I grew up far from here, in a small village near the mountains." I told her reluctantly.

Ophelia's eyes lit up with curiosity. I suppose they don't involve the young ladies of the court in the nation's affairs.

"What was it like?" She asked, curiosity radiating off of her.

"Quiet," I replied simply. That much was true-my real childhood had been quiet in its own way: silent training halls, hushed whispers of orders passed between assassins, the muffled cries of pain when I failed to meet expectations.

"And your family?" She said, leaning in.

"They're gone," I said flatly, hoping that would be enough to end the line of questioning.

Ophelia reached out and placed a hand on my arm, her expression softening with sympathy. "I'm sorry."

I stiffened under her touch but didn't pull away. Sympathy was good-it meant Ophelia was already beginning to trust me.

Foolish.

"It's all right," I said after a moment, forcing myself to meet the princess's gaze with what I hoped looked like gratitude. "I'm here now."

"Yes," Ophelia agreed with a bright smile that made my chest tighten inexplicably. "And we're going to have so much fun together."

Fun. The word felt strange on my tongue as it echoed it back in my mind.