Death is a friend to those stripped bare by the hands of fate. It is a reminder of the touch of mortality bestowed upon each human. Fate, as its accomplice, cruelly exploits weaknesses and watches with a sinister smile while one grieves loss. Countless encounters with death have turned the world into a desolate place. It is a strong weapon against those who eye it with fear and a great partner in the eternal waltz of life. This macabre dance with the inevitable is perhaps a way to taunt death. After all, it took everything but would not take me.

I am Poison. I am Death.

Life is dispensable for someone with nothing to lose. And what greater ploy for the opposition than to hire a hitman who fit those specifics. The cards were dealt and in their eyes, they were an ace away from a royal flush. I am that ace.

A masked figure sits on the opposite end of the table, shadows looming over me. The man jeers with a quiet rumble, “You do not look like much.”

“Care to elaborate?” I ask.

He shifts forward and taunts, “A woman dressed as you would fare better in a brothel.”

“How vile! I hold great affection for this dress,” I answer, a quiet laugh escaping my lips.

They might have expected me to be more conservative as people in my line of work often prefer the shadows. But I never liked operating from behind the scenes. Hiding from attention only ever delivers the opposite results. Other than the lower part of my face, my hands, and the more intimate areas of my body that are covered decoratively, I might as well be sitting naked as the laced shawl fails to actually conceal anything.

The man raises a hand and beckons one of his guards over. Whispers are exchanged and the guard positions himself by the wall. He arrogantly scoffs and says, “Give me your best shot.”

“Now, now. That is no way to ask for a duel,” I take off my gloves and walk towards him. His stance falters for a moment as a blush creeps into his ears and cheek. I smile and reach for his face in a gentle caress. Men are so easy. I distance myself, stopping a meter away, and watch as he falls to his knees shrieking. He clutches his face as it is slowly covered with blisters spreading from where I touched him a mere few seconds ago.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

The masked figure hurriedly stands and establishes space between us as his guards draw their swords, circling around me. One of them asks, “What did you do?”

“Did you hire me unaware of my expertise? I am quite literally a poison. Don’t fret, it’s nothing fatal and the pain should subside in a while. I don’t know about the scarring though,” I let out a small laugh as I sit back and wear my gloves.

“You played me,” the injured guard hisses.

“You asked for it,” I say, winking at him.

My method of practice relies on human error and their inability to resist the seven deadly sins. An eye full of lust is blind to foe. Just as a prideful man dare not harm a defenseless lady. Of course, everyone embodies a unique blend of these flaws so one must make calculated decisions.

“So, you truly are the infamous hitman who goes by no name? Isn’t that hard for business?” the masked man asks.

“I am happy to make your acquaintance. And with the imminent union of the two great nations, many people are wanted dead so I am quite high in demand. Well, let’s get to it, yes?” I answer as I play with my gloves. I have long lost count of how many times people have asked those same questions.

“It seems you’re well aware of the union so there’s no need to provide context,” he murmurs and reaches for his mask.

“Go on,” I pry.

He places the mask on the table and I clench my jaw to hide my surprise. He is a decorated man and among the few nobles known to all through numerous books, paintings, and parades held in his honor. To personally come see me is a risk in itself to the image he has built over the decades. How important is this request that he is here in the flesh?

He smiles and there is a dark glint to his purple eyes. As if reading my mind, he answers, “Your target is the bride-to-be.”

The room stills and I feel my adrenaline rising, “If I am understanding this correctly, you want your niece dead, General Rowe?”

“Yes, I want my dearest Lucille De Clare dead.”

This job always proves to be so entertaining, my smile turns into a grin as I say, “Very well, I offer my hand to your game.”