Quinn watches Ana walks away under the cover of her cloak, undetected by the guards standing in front of her door. The very same guard who doesn’t bat an eye as Quinn strides out without her robe.
Surely, they must have known the cloak was magical in nature. Failing that, it should at least be quite obvious that I hold a feeling for Ana? Quinn thinks as she studies the man. Why the reaction, then? Or rather, the lack of it? Are they really this arrogant to think themselves invincible?
Perhaps so, unfortunate that Quinn couldn’t play that angle. For while her target was indeed the crown prince, this was no assassination; it was a distraction. And she pities the man that was about to be her first target.
With such a feeling in her heart, then, she puts on her best smile. “Howard!” And greets him, pulling him back to reality as he grumbles before he corrects themselves when he sees Quinn in full.
“Ms. Nathair!” he replied, his voice clearly surprised.
“A long night, is it?”
“It is, Ms. Nathair.”
“When are Renard coming to replace you?”
“Two hours or so from now, Ms. Nathair.”
“So, not long.”
“Yeah, not long,” he echoes, no longer paying attention to the pleasantries.
Taking it as her opportunity. “Hope you’re still alive by then, then!” Quinn pulls out one of her mundane daggers and strikes at the man’s chest, pushing him back into the cell floor.
The man looks up at Quinn with surprise, clutching his breast, hesitant to tear out the dagger in fear of blood loss. An informed man, Quinn note, allowing him to observe the now empty room before gazing back to Quinn.
An easy puzzle to solve, with an answer that stirs him to open his mouth and alarming the palace to treason at hand. Before his voice can ever escape, though, Quinn kicks him in the throat, just strong enough to temporarily disable his ability to beg for help after Quinn manage to move far.
After all, she indeed wanted chaos, just not this early. She intended to give Ana time to get used to her surroundings, to find her way and bearing before the fire consume the path she traverses.
Still, she’s sure such a sound logic wouldn’t persuade the guard, so she went for a slightly different approach.
“Don’t worry, Howard! If everything goes well for you: your child won’t lose a father, nor your wife a husband.” A mocking promise as she seized the prison key from his belt. “Just don’t pull out the serrated dagger and scream for help once your throat feels better, huh?” Patting him in his back before she finally retreats out of the room, locking the man behind bars and throwing the key away without much care.
She takes a deep breath, four of them in total, each of them in tandem with the activation of a higher function of a different prosthesis of hers.
The first one was her left leg that became as strong as a horse, swifter than a hare, and lighter than the very wind. Dexterity and power she would need against so many sharp implements and spells.
The second was her left arm, whirring with the sinister purple glow of arcane energies, filled to the brim with maledictions waiting for targets, and more than capable of movement outside of the human’s range. The sort of flexibility Quinn would want against a horde of enemies.
The third was her left eye, etched with esoteric scripts of a dead tongue it shimmers in a gentle light, granting her the ability to see the world as it truly was, is, and will be, teeming with life and death both.
The last was her hammering heart, a gift from the goddess that has managed to rule over her head. It beats, thrums with life ill lived and now seeking redemption with a final act of heroism.
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The energy that has been stored in it explodes, inspiring her body to ultimately move, prepared for the challenge to come, she took a step forward. It took an effort from her to make her walk natural, to make herself not bounce as high as she should have been.
The rising sun approaches, the servants have been awoken for quite some time now to ready the baths and food of the nobles that makes the palace their home. Most of them are familiar with Quinn, greeting her on her way.
And Quinn replies in kind, injecting her words with magical suggestion for them to stay as far away from any sound of fights that might break out and to not report it, a protocol she doesn’t have before.
But she also doesn’t have Ana before. Filled with such a thought, she throws a punch to the chin of the first guard she founds, quickly incapacitating him, with the noise of his armored body falling to the floor begin bait for another two to come.
Losing the element of surprise, Quinn hurls a dagger coated in acid to melt through one of the guard armors and poison their nerves while she rushes the other with her left hand to cover his mouth, slamming his head against the rack then the walls as he struggles to escape.
Unwilling to give him the chance to do so, Quinn’s hand grew warm then hot as its palm spits out fire that burns the young man’s throat, convulsing wildly with eyes begging for mercy that never came.
His death arrives in an opportune time, for the moment Quinn pulls away, she catches the other guard surviving her attack enough to attempt to take a shaky shot at her neck.
A sure hit if she didn’t dodge them and throw a dagger to the woman’s neck in return, quickly ending her suffering. Spotting no more guards coming her way, Quinn makes a move forward, occasionally stopping to murder every armed person in her path in the most discreet fashion she can possibly find.
Some of them she takes time to kill with drowning, others are only wearing gambeson, solid but not enough to resist a precise cut to the neck. As she climbs, her opponents and method got more creative.
She was no longer facing the regular guards, but the royal house guards, trained and fed from the crown’s coffer to ensure their safety during events such as this and to serve as a center for an army.
In the field, they’re a heavy infantry, feared by some as the best in the north. High up on a palatial ground, however, they’re suits of armors to be thrown off balconies and pummeled to death with her left arm, enchanted to be heavy with the help of gravity.
Some of them manage to fight back, obviously, dropping their halberd with practiced and repeated swing, a quirk of professional military training to make sure every soldier has no need to think.
After all, thinking in the battlefield is a source of doubt, a sign of weakness, a moment to consider your enemy as humane and unique. Something unimportant when you simply need to kill for your liege, for your cause, for whatever it is you chose to believe.
In a one-on-one struggle, though, it was of the utmost import to view your opponent as humane, to catch their blow with your heavily bewitched left hand and make use of their shock by pulling their weapon away from them, then wielding the dull end to once more beat them to death before pushing their body of the balcony.
Slowly but surely, the fights attract more and more attention just as she planned, yet nobody manages to escape to sound the alarm yet, only at marring Quinn’s body in new slashes and bruises.
Attacks that sometimes hamper, daze, and even rarely surprise her. However, none of them succeed at stopping her from arriving to their precious prince’s room, locked but has lost their guards on the end of the hallway.
Looking back to make sure no-one was following her, Quinn reaches out to touch the door and dispel the crude magic that protects it before she picks its lock and enters, bolting shut the door with a better enchantment.
The very same one she has used on Ana.
The sound of the device exploding and ensorcelling the room startle the young ruler awake. He surveys around with wide-eyed worry that turns to annoyance once he spots Quinn, unable to see her injuries on the dim light of his room.
“Snake?” he asked, his voice full of contempt. “What exactly are you doing in our room?” Unwilling to panic or drop the royal pronoun, even when the murderer of his parents has appeared in front of him.
Quinn stays silent, wondering about the why. Surely, the boy understands that this is his end. So how come is he so confident? Is it misplaced? Or does he truly have a trump card just for me?
When Quinn doesn’t respond—as if reading her mind—the crown prince continues. “We both know you can’t kill us due to our contract, so do leave our room and let us have our rest until the sun rises once more.”
Ah. Quinn realizes. It’s the third option: arrogance from ignorance. Quinn’s favorite to destroy. “Oh, my,” she starts, tone lilting. “What an interesting theory, my king.” And teasing. “Just one problem!” As she walks forward and show herself covered in gore. “I never promise you life, my king. Only death.” Wielding a bloodied dagger in her hand.
“Wha… what are you—ah!” Quinn cuts him off by throwing a knife right past his head, encouraging the fear, encouraging him to move and calls for help. And like any desperate child, he does.
The silent alarm sounded, Quinn slings her dagger to his hand with force enough to nail him to his bedside table and falls to the floor with another scream of pain.
“I am here to deliver death, my king.”