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The Waif pov :

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"But I would like to hear your version as well..." I heard the Old Man speak in his usual confusing way, and instantly, my thoughts were drawn to the pyromancer's mastery over flames. His surreal manipulation of fire reminded me of the early days of my own transformation, a time when the allure of power was intoxicating...

However, my mind remained serene as I considered the price I paid for wielding my abilities. The pyromancer, like me, had surely faced the consequences of manipulating unnatural forces. His dance with fire, while surely captivating, stood as a testament to the sacrifices made in pursuit of dominion over the elements.

As my gaze lingered on the wall where the pyromancer's face now resided, I couldn't help but acknowledge the shared agony embedded in the flames he once controlled. The very essence of his power carried a weighty toll, a reminder that mage craft demanded more than skill – it demanded sacrifice.....

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"𝗙𝘂𝗰𝗸..." I muttered as a sudden burning pain jolted through my hands, pulling me from the depths of contemplation. The Old Man's firm grip on the bandages sent waves of discomfort through me, and his smile, though persistent, failed to mask the icy detachment in his gaze.

'Ah, he asked me something, didn't he? I'm still a bit lightheaded' I thought as I slowly started speaking, my words echoing through the dim hall.

"It all began when I caught sight of something tearing its way through the temple's door..."

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"And then he finally fell, dead before hitting the ground" I finished my depiction of the events, gesturing towards the lifeless body of the intruder lying on the stone floor.

A profound silence enveloped the dimly lit hall, every assassin fixated on me with somber expressions. The Old Man was the one who finally broke the stillness with a weary sigh, fatigue etched on his face as he moved toward the fallen intruder's body.

Displaying an unexpected vigor for his apparent age, he grasped the cadaver's leg, effortlessly dragging it across the floor. A macabre trail of scarlet hues marked his path toward the fountain of death. Pausing for a moment, the Old Man gazed into the depths of the poisoned fountain before unceremoniously heaving the intruder's body into its crystal-clear waters. His countenance remained neutral, devoid of any semblance of care or emotion, as the sound of impact echoed in the dimly lit hall.

But the deadly waters, instead of splashing outward, seemed to engulf the lifeless body like the hungry maw of a beast. And despite the blood still oozing from the cadaver, the water retained its clarity, as if swallowing the intruder whole without a trace...

'Just what the hell is he thinking?' I wondered as I watched the actions of my fellow servant, but I did not voice my questions, content to watch the events unfolding. The reason for that was the face that particular Faceless was wearing...

No one knew why, but the Old Man's visage, older than anyone could recall, was reserved for the most senior Faceless in the temple at any particular time. Despite its age, the face exhibited no signs of wear and tear, unlike the normal faces, and the one who wore it was accorded higher authority during their stay inside the House of Black and White.

And so, I waited patiently, the dim light of the Hall of Faces casting shadows that seemed to dance along with the tension in the air.

'Clearly, I am not the only one who didn't expect such an act from him...' I thought as I glanced at the inquisitive expressions of my fellow assassins.

The Old Man turned slowly to face us, the authority of his worn face weighing heavily in the chamber. In a voice that cut through the silence like a frigid wind he proclaimed,

"It is the first time something like this happened in all our recorded history... And as such, a statement must be made. That the Many-Faced God is not to be disrespected in such a manner, not even by those able to bend elements to their will. The punishment of this heathen shall be to never find his peace, forever suffering for his actions. May his soul remain imprisoned in his body by the will of Death, and may his strength be siphoned into oblivion by the blessed water." The words, delivered with an icy detachment, hung in the air, a decree from the realm of Death itself.

'Fair enough...' I thought, glancing towards my two comrades who died against the pyromancer, their broken bodies still laying on the floor.

The silent assembly of assassins pondered the Old Man's proclamation, each face masked by contemplation. In the midst of the reflective quiet, the scar-faced man broke the silence with a heavy voice, "That is true, but shouldn't we have checked his body first? There might be clues toward the reason he attacked us." His words resonated in the dimly lit hall, introducing a practical concern amid the ritualistic judgment...

"...There were none. His clothes were common and his body didn't have any distinctive marks." I answered the veiled question which was clearly aimed at me, since I was the one who checked these things earlier while alone in the hall.

The scar faced man seemed to want to ask another question, but with a wave of the Old Man's hand, he was silenced.

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"The time for discussion will come, my brothers." He declared, his voice unyielding "For now, let us pray for our fallen comrades..."

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In the dimly lit Hall of Faces, candles flickered with a pitiful glow, casting shadows that danced across the walls adorned with countless faces. The mutterings of prayers echoed softly, creating an eerie symphony in the solemn space. As we knelt in a circle, our fallen comrades at the center, their lifeless, skinless faces seemingly serene.

The faces on the walls seemed to watch with cold detachment, their silent presence bearing witness to the rituals that unfolded.

We then rose as one, the solemnity of the ritual lingering in the air, a moment of complete silence enveloping the hall like a shroud...

And we kept a moment of silence, in honor of those that served the God of Death with their utmost being...

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'Not today' I thought...a though most likely mirrored by all the other faceless ones.

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After a brief while, the Old Man's voice reverberated through the solemn hall once more, shattering the silence, "Let us now deliberate upon the identity of the probable transgressor..."

The scar-faced man, his voice rising with unconcealed anger, interjected before the Old Man could finish his speech, "It's evident, my brothers. How many pyromancers exist in Essos unaffiliated with the Red God Church? It must have been them."

The homeless man offered a comforting gesture, placing a hand on the scar-faced man's back while gently stroking his unkempt beard. "Indeed, they seem the most likely suspects. However, one must ponder their motives. What would they gain by setting our temple ablaze? Sending a lone priest seems an odd strategy, and their goal remains unclear."

"No, his goal wasn't to burn down our temple," I stated with a resolute voice, earning a wide-eyed stare from the Noble. The others looked at me inquisitively, waiting for further explanation, which I readily provided.

"Despite what he claimed, his mission wasn't to burn down our temple. His flames didn't set anything on fire, despite having ample opportunity to do so...every time they touched a structure, they fizzled out by themselves. I can't shake off the feeling that this was intentional... The man had ulterior motives." I stated my opinion, the one I felt crawling through the back of my mind, telling me that something was deeply wrong about the whole situation...

The Old Man gazed into my eyes, acknowledging my opinion. "Indeed, it seems very suspicious." He muttered softly. "Nevertheless, we can't know for sure what the man's motives were..."

The man with calloused hands, his face carved in stern lines as if from stone, spoke his thoughts, "I reckon the intruder was a lone actor. We've not stirred trouble with the red church lately, and his audacity seems more individual than a larger conspiracy. If part of a group, I doubt it's connected to the red church."

The young boy with a chirpy voice chimed in, his demeanor strangely upbeat despite the gravity of the situation. "I don't think it was revenge either. He seemed pretty laid back, even waited for you to finish your prayer," he said, his gaze directed at me. I responded with a subtle nod of acknowledgment.

*Ahem*

The one wearing the face of a portly noble cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. With a sheepish smile, he ventured, "While I doubt it has anything to do with this event, in the upper echelons of the nobility, there are many rumors of a new king in Westeros wielding the powers of the seven fake gods. It is undoubtedly nonsense, but I hear that there are many people on that continent worshiping him as a god, as blasphemous as that sounds." He added quickly as he saw the veins on the scar faced man's head bulge at hearing such heresy.

"But what are the chances that a pyromancer from our continent decided to change his faith towards this new god-king?" He added a slight sarcastic giggle, perhaps hoping to alleviate the heavy atmosphere with a small jest. However, his attempt at humor fell flat, and no one in the hall even cracked a smile.

The old man fixed a stern gaze on the noble, his expression unwavering in its seriousness. "The chances are almost nil, but thank you for the information," he declared with a dismissive nod, prompting the noble to feign flinching back slightly, the smile on his face unblemished.

The old man surveyed each of us in turn, his gaze unwavering. "Alas, it doesn't matter," he declared, his eyes briefly flicking towards the lifeless bodies in the middle of the circle. "Whether it was the Red Church, another group, or a single mad warlock, it doesn't matter. We will continue to serve our roles as we did until this day. And should we discover more culprits for what happened here today," he added with a steely resolve, "𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗽𝗮𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲."

'Indeed, they will...' I thought, feeling something I hadn't felt in a long time...desire.

'How very unexpected...'

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*Step, Step, Step*

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Alas , the sudden sound of footsteps echoed through the hallowed halls, and our hands instinctively found the hilts of our weapons. With senses heightened, our gazes pierced through the enveloping darkness of the hall, seeking the elusive origin of the approaching steps.

The Old Man instantly gestured for silence, even though there was no need. With unheard steps, he advanced to the front of our formation, his long staff poised for action. As I looked forward, uncertainty lingered in the air.

'Could it be a second warlock? Most likely...There shouldn't have been any more assassins in Braavos, apart from those present in this room...'

The mystery of the approaching footsteps deepened.

Suddenly, a figure cloaked in shadows entered the hall. The torchlight on the walls seemed to freeze, but the newcomer's presence was unmistakable. His face was pale, as if powdered with snow, and his hair bore a reddish tint. Clad in the attire of a jester, adorned with red and blue stripes, he held three juggling balls in hand, poised as if ready to begin his act. Despite the whimsical appearance, he moved with an unexpected grace, and his friendly gaze met ours with a welcoming smile.

And yet, the Old Man's stern expression remained unyielding as he questioned the jester's presence. "How come you are here, Jester? Last time I heard, you were in Slaver's Bay," he inquired with suspicion, prompting me to maintain my guard. A faceless one adopting such a thematic appearance was an unfamiliar sight, even considering my years in service to death.

With a merry smile, the jester responded to the pointed inquiries with only a smile and a slightly high-pitched voice. "Oh, don't be like that, Old Man. I had been tasked with offering the gift to a target here in Braavos, and then I heard the secret message some of you sent through pigeons towards all the Faceless in the city." He continued, "Now can somebody explain to me what is happening around here? I hope I'm not too lat..."

*Swoosh*

The jester's merry expression abruptly shifted from amusement to confusion and then horror in a mere heartbeat.

A thin bloody line manifested on his neck with startling speed, an unseen force severing the connection between his head and body.

In an instant, as the jester halted his speech, my senses, honed through years of harrowing training, screamed at me to 𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲, to 𝗱𝗼𝗱𝗴𝗲, to 𝗿𝘂𝗻, or face certain death...

Adrenaline surged through my body, propelling me faster than ever before. Every muscle strained as my heightened senses revealed the slow-motion descent of the jester's head, detached from his body, falling toward the cold stone floor below.

In the surreal chaos that unfolded, the old man, once stern and composed, now wore an expression of bewilderment as the red line materialized on his neck.

The Beggar's hollow eyes widened in shock, the despair etched on his haggard features.

The Noble's attempt at a sarcastic smile twisted into a horrified grimace, and the Young boy's cheerful visage contorted with fear, feigned innocence stripped away in an instant.

The Worker, usually stoic, revealed a flicker of fear beneath his rugged exterior and the Scar-faced man, known for his unyielding countenance, now displayed vulnerability, his scars accentuating the terror etched across his face.

My own horror deepened as I witnessed their heads descending, severed from their bodies, drawn inexorably toward the cold, unyielding stone floor.

...And then, a disorienting sense of vertigo overcame me as the world itself tilted, every detail spiraling into confusion. I lost touch with my body—no sensation in hands, legs, or any other part. Powerless, I witnessed the stone floor looming closer, the impending impact unavoidable.

My severed head rolled haphazardly upon making contact, a witness to its own final descent...

Unable to comprehend the surreal events unfolding, I clung to the fleeting vestiges of consciousness.

My eyes, still wide open, beheld an unbelievable scene—the pyromancer's lifeless body stood upright on the edge of the poisoned fountain...

His skinless face bore a haunting smile, more chilling than any sight I had ever witnessed.

The hole in his head, a result of my very own knife, oozed white brain matter, and a missing wrist revealed the wrongness of his being. Despite it all, he stood unbothered, gazing at the fallen assassins.

'So...it was 𝘁𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆, after all...'

In my last moments of coherent thought, as even my eyes ceased to function, I sensed rather than heard the 𝗗𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻'𝘀 whispered assurance...

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"D̷̛̲o̷͓̓n̴̻̓'̸͉́t̵̩̉ ̶͍̈́ẉ̵͑o̴͕͐r̶̠̊r̵͋ͅy̶̨̏,̴̘̓...ÿ̷̦́o̶̬͐ȕ̶̦ ̵͚̅a̶͉̋r̶̃ͅr̴̫͝i̶͎̓v̵͚̿e̵͙͌d̷̰͗ ̶̖͠j̶̼͋ú̵̟s̴̮͗ṯ̶͊ ̶̪̀ḯ̸̹n̷̳̉ ̷̪̋ṫ̷̗i̸̜̅m̸̜̒e̴͕͋.̵̈́͜"