Love is a momentary sensation bound to end in suffering. It leads to an emptiness that stretches for eternity. Indeed, in the deepest passageways of my heart, echoes of love linger as grief takes primary residence. Grief is a testament to the pangs of sorrow each time I am reminded of my vulnerability—of the depth of emotion I once allowed myself to feel. I detest love. But weddings celebrate it as if it were the best feeling in the world.

The hall is heavily adorned with meticulously arranged flora and the guests are wearing the latest fashion. A tower of gifts is stacked near the entrance and a grand banquet awaits after the celebration. It is a large celebration that nobles from all over the continent came to attend; some even call it the wedding of the century. Some of them I recognize from portraits and literature, while others I had met through far more sinister circumstances.

What a waste of time and circumstance.

Everyone rejoices as the ceremony is sealed with a kiss between the bride and groom. They are hard to miss with their bold red attire and sheer visuals. From the distance, I watch as General Rowe stands to their right and whispers to Lucille. He exits the crowd and I slip away in an attempt to follow him.

I find the general walking down a staircase and say in a sweet voice, “May I provide you company?”

He looks around to check the surroundings and once satisfied, beckons for me to follow him further down the set of stairs.

“I didn’t need your help,” I say to him, rolling my eyes.

“Aren’t you glad I stepped in? I wasn’t expecting Serevin to follow Lucille,” he dismisses.

Even before the week-long palace staycation, I had my own informants study Lucille’s schedule and movements. Not one mentioned Serevin’s tenacity. Marriage truly does change people.

“Why thank you for your service,” I say dryly, “But I could have done without. And it isn’t so out of character, they are a pair of lovebirds.”

The key to successful missions is to always act the deed alone. The fewer witnesses, the better. But the general did make everything easier.

“Are you sure it is done?” he asks, pacing back and forth, his hands tapping the hilt of his sword.

Is he nervous? Or perhaps a sense of remorse is taking hold. You never know with clients; he may well be one of those who act impulsively only to regret it later. Not my problem.

“You saw me take action with your own two eyes. Do you doubt my abilities?” I smirk.

“That arrogance of yours had better guarantee success,” he says, reaching for his inner pocket, “I will reach out should anything go awry.”

General Rowe, with a deft motion, uses the hilt of his sword to pass me the pouch containing my dues and I could not help but let out a giggle. He is right to keep distance, one touch from me and Lucille will not be the only Rhyrinian noble featured in tomorrow’s headline.

“You don’t want to shake on it?” I jest, waving my gloved hands in the air but the teasing is cut short as a set of footsteps is heard from above.

“I shall take my leave first,” says the general, eyeing me with disdain. As his footsteps fade, I also make my way upstairs.

“You were the dancer from the garden,” a deep voice speaks. It is the crown prince.

“What business do you have with General Rowe?” he questions.

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“Greetings to the crown prince,” I bow, “The general merely asked a humble dancer such as myself to accompany him. It appears I caught his eye at the garden earlier today and during the performance.”

“What were you doing alone in the garden?” Another question.

“I finished preparing for our dance earlier than the rest so I wandered out. The garden caught my eye with its beauty and I could not find my way back to the guest chambers,” I mused.

“Alright.”

The prince lets out a deep sigh and leaves. Our two encounters make me wonder why he is so worried.

Oh, right. Two people want his wife dead.

And I happen to be the hitman in charge.

I can at least give him credit for his sharp senses and intuition. If the afterlife were real, Lucille would come to know of his honor as well.

The palace halls stretch for eternity and the walk back to the banquet feels endless. On my way, nobles whisper to themselves, their eyes laced with curiosity, admiration, and desire. The fabric of my costume sways with every step and accentuates the curves of my body— lust is enough to make even the most austere of nobles cast aside dignity and bed a peasant. But, with the prince’s earlier suspicions, I must regretfully shy away from the spotlight. I sigh, pulling out the silken veil that came with the costume and walking faster as I tie it around my face.

I pass by the garden and see the prince crouching near a flower. It is the same rose I touched earlier today. Only that, the rose has wilted from my poison. He stands and his eyes flicker across the room. I quicken my pace and take a detour towards an empty hallway. The cleaning closet should be around here.

His sharpness exceeds my expectations.

It is time to make my grand escape and ditch the blonde look. I find the closet a few doors away and go inside. I remove the veil and pull my now straight, ginger hair into a low ponytail then take out a mirror from my pocket to check my eyes. Green irises work best with red. Stepping out of the closet, I keep my head low even as the maids ask if I am looking for something.

“I apologize, I mistook that for the toilet,” I say to one.

A clear lie. But believable enough as the doors in the area all look so similar.

“You there, one of the dancers! Come with me,” a guard grabs me by the arm and leads me to the prince.

“Your highness, this one was conversing with one of the maids,” he tells the crown prince.

“I was merely in search of the toilet,” I say in my most pitiful voice, mimicking a noble I heard at the banquet earlier.

“It is true, I was about to point her that way,” the maid backs me up and I try not to smirk. How nice of her to help a terrified dancer yet what insolence to speak in such a manner towards a noble. I did not even realize she had followed us as everyone else in the hallways surrounding the garden started to flee when they saw me getting dragged. What courage. She must be new.

“You have no business here, maid. Leave at once,” the guard hisses, drawing his sword and glaring at her. The maid comes to her senses and scurries away.

Serevin examines me, eyes brimming with silent fury, and says, “The woman had blonde hair and blue eyes. She could be in disguise, check her for any spells.”

You were almost correct, prince. My abilities cannot be dispelled for they are not exactly from cosmetic potions— one guard yanks at my hair while another throws cold water at my face. Great, my makeup is ruined.

“Her appearance remains the same,” they say.

Obviously.

“Round up the other dancers and fetch her a towel,” he sighs. Is he feeling sorry for me?

“I-I don’t know what’s happening but, if you’re looking for a b-blonde, I saw one by the s-staircase earlier in that direction,” I cry. If I am right, he will take pity on my poor, confused, unfortunate soul caught up in this mess.

The guards let me go and I fall to the ground, keeping up the pitiful act until the prince and his men leave. Once they are gone, I get up and keep my body hunched until I am far enough away from the scene.

I find the maid from earlier and ask her to guide me somewhere quiet, a place where it would be just the two of us. I sob into her arms and say that anywhere will do, as long as I would not have to stand in shame. She eyes me with concern and I follow her into one of the rooms in the maid’s wing.

The rest of my escape is an easy walk out of the palace wearing her clothes.