The dripping of water on the cold stone floor was no different to the sound of blood falling delicately off the tip of a blade; she thought to herself as she rocked her body back and forth, trying to summon a shred of warmth to fend off the frostbite pricking at her exposed toes. Her dress, once a swirl of pink and black fabric, was now shredded in several places, reduced to a pile of tattered ruffles stained with dots of red—the blood she had recently shed. Somewhere along the path from the grand ballroom to the castle dungeons, she had lost her glass shoe. She no longer cared for it, though its only benefit would have been shielding her dainty foot from the icy breeze fluttering in through the high, barred windows.
The room around her was pitch black, save for occasional slivers of moonlight cutting through the window as the clouds shifted. The air was thick with the stench of rot, mingling with the sour tang of vomit and urine from a bucket by the cell door. Shackles—frozen, heavy, and bolted to the stone—hugged her ankle, thigh, and wrists, keeping her pinned in place. The chains clinked faintly as she rocked, filling the silence. She had lost all sense of time since being drugged and thrown into this dungeon. Days—weeks?—had passed since the winter ball. Her hunger gnawed at her like a cruel animal, her already pale skin growing more papery with each passing moment.
Her long pink hair was a mess, tangled and crusted with vomit and other unspeakable grime. The dim moonlight illuminated her pale green eyes, once vivid, now dull and hollow. She propped her chin on her knee, wrapping her trembling arms around her leg for warmth. The royal guards had even taken her prosthetic, leaving the stump of her right leg exposed to the bitter cold. At first, the chill had been unbearable, but as time dragged on, she had grown numb to it.
Squeak, squeak.
Her pointed ears twitched at the noise. Sliding her emerald eyes to the right, she spotted a small brown mouse weaving its way through the hay scattered in the corner. A sharp pain stabbed through her gums as her fangs extended, piercing her chapped lips. A black, blood-like substance oozed from the cuts, sliding down her chin. She didn’t bother wiping it away; her energy was too drained to heal even the smallest wounds. Hunger clouded her senses, driving her to lunge toward the mouse.
The sudden motion pulled her chains taut, a sharp, metallic clang echoing in the cell. Her frail body jerked to a halt as the shackles bit into her wrists and ankle. Before she could steady herself, a powerful force yanked her backwards with twice the strength, slamming her into the cold, unforgiving wall.
Dust rained down from the ancient stone as her bruised face met the floor. Pain throbbed distantly like it belonged to someone else. The room swam in and out of focus as she lay there, too weak to move.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, heavy and deliberate. Then came the unmistakable rhythm of three heartbeats—warm, alive, and painfully human. Delilah gritted her teeth, lifting her bruised face toward the door. The light of a torch stabbed into the darkness, blinding her. Tears filled her eyes as the brightness burned.
With a click, the door creaked open, and three men stumbled in, reeking of alcohol. Delilah’s chains rattled as she tried to push herself back against the wall, but there was nowhere to go. The men surrounded her.
A large hand reached out, forcing a cool metal mask over her nose and mouth. The edges bit into her skin, shocking her into immobility. Her lips trembled as she felt their hands on her, rough and intrusive, tearing at the fabric of her dress and leaving her body exposed to the freezing air.
Delilah squeezed her eyes shut as humiliation surged through her, tears slipping down her cheeks. She let out a strangled sob, then stopped herself. She couldn’t give them the satisfaction. Instead, she forced her mind elsewhere, clinging to a memory—a time long ago, when she hadn’t yet known this pain when her life had been different.
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1 Year Before
“Keep on moving!” The bark of the guard was gruff and impatient, echoing through the crowded city gates. The pink-haired assassin ignored the sound, her sharp, green eyes scanning the scene as the carriages crawled forward, one by one. Oxburr was buzzing with activity, the streets alive with the mid-autumn celebrations.
The red and orange paper chains strung between the buildings and the lanterns glowing softly in the dusk gave the city a falsely inviting charm. She knew better. Beneath the cheer of the festival lay the cold reality of Oxburr—a place renowned not just for its academics, but for its ruthless trials and dangerous secrets.
Her fingers rested lightly on the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath her cloak as she shifted her weight on the edge of a rooftop near the gate. She crouched low, the black folds of her hood blending seamlessly with the shadows. Below her, the line of carriages snaked toward the city, carrying the naïve hopefuls who sought glory and knowledge within Oxburr’s stone walls.
The voices of the passengers drifted up to her.
“What’s going on?” a man’s voice asked. The vampire tilted her head slightly to catch the reply.
A girl answered, her tone polite but distant. “The mid-autumn festival marks the start of the school year. All current students gather to welcome the new starters with what’s called the Initiation.”
Initiation. The word left a bitter taste in her mouth. She had seen enough of Oxburr’s “traditions” to know the truth. The Initiation wasn’t welcome; it was a test of survival.
She smirked bitterly as she listened to the conversation continue. The man seemed curious, the girl tense. She didn’t need to see their faces to know the expressions they wore—hope, perhaps tinged with unease. Oxburr had that effect on everyone, but the vampire no longer felt its sting. Her purpose here was clear. Like every other mission, she would need to watch, assess, and eliminate.
She shifted slightly, the stone beneath her knees cold despite the warmth of the lanterns below. The carriages passed through the gate one by one, the chime of bells announcing each new arrival. From her vantage point, she could see the towering academia beyond the inner city—a monolithic, cathedral-like structure with sharp spires that seemed to pierce the darkening sky. Its windows were like eyes, unblinking and watchful.
The vampire’s focus snapped back to the present as the girl exited the carriage. A white-winged man entered the first, followed by a shorter woman with round, soft ears and weasel-like features. Behind her came a girl with narrow eyes, rounded glasses, and a pointed mole-like nose, clutching a quill and notebook, but the girl did not follow the trio. Curious. The girl wore a deep green blazer, her hair short like a boy, and her eyes as white as the snow of the west. She moved like someone trying to find purpose, her steps hesitant but deliberate. The vampire watched as she paused by the grand fountain, her pale eyes scanning the statues and inscriptions.
The girl lingered too long near the guarded paths leading to the academia. The vampire’s lips curled into a faint smirk. Foolish. She didn’t belong here, and her curiosity would only lead her to trouble.
From the shadows, she followed her, her movements silent and fluid. The girl’s gaze wandered to the rooftops, and the vampire pressed herself flat against the stone, watching as the girl attempted to climb. Her attempts were clumsy, her hands scraping against the rough surface. She was determined, though. She had to give her that much.
The girl finally perched herself on the edge of a nearby roof, her attention focused on the square below. The vampire shifted, her own vantage point giving her a clear view of the scene unfolding beneath them.
Two hundred initiates were crowded in the centre of the square, surrounded by the current students in their long, hooded robes. The stillness of the scene was eerie, the air thick with anticipation. Delilah leaned forward slightly, her fingers brushing the hilt of her blade.
A large bolt of lightning struck with a deafening crack.
Delilah didn’t flinch, her gaze locked on the chaos below. Screams filled the air as the bolt found its target—a boy with green butterfly wings. He collapsed instantly, his wings changing hue from green to silver as his body stilled.
An elderly man at the front of the square raised his arms, his voice booming over the panic. “Those who are unworthy shall match his fate. And so it begins. Those who remain will have passed the entry exam and are welcomed into the academy as one of our own.”
The corner of the vampire’s mouth twitched. She had seen this ritual before, but the spectacle never failed to amuse her. The academy dressed up its brutality of the ceremony, pretending it was all for the sake of tradition and progress. The truth was simpler: they were weeding out the weak.
More lightning struck, scattering the initiates. The guards drove the survivors back toward the centre, their cries lost in the chaos.
The vampire’s attention shifted as the light intensified. She straightened slightly, her sharp gaze catching the figure descending through the brightness. She didn’t need to see their face to know who it was.
Her own hood slipped back as her pink hair tumbled free, catching the faint glow of the lightning. She smiled, the gleam of her dagger reflecting in the light as she dropped effortlessly into the square. The scissors in her other hand felt warm against her palm, the weight familiar.
She didn’t hesitate. The elderly man’s eyes widened as she approached, but he didn’t have time to speak. Her blades found their marks, slicing through his abdomen and neck in a single, practised motion. Blood pooled at her feet as his body crumpled.
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The guards rushed her, but the vampire moved like a shadow, darting between them with lethal precision. Her scissors flashed, her dagger spun, and one by one, they fell.
When the last guard hit the ground, the vampire raised her gaze to the rooftops, her emerald eyes finding the girl who had been watching. A faint chuckle escaped her lips before she turned and vanished into the night.
She moved swiftly through the twisting streets, the thrill of the hunt still humming in her veins. When she finally slowed, it was only because she sensed something—or someone.
The pink-haired vampire scaled another rooftop, her boots silent against the stone. She found the girl where she had left her, her pale face illuminated by the distant glow of the lanterns. The vampire’s blade slid silently from its sheath as she crept closer, stopping just behind her.
The tip of her dagger rested against the girl’s throat.
“Don’t move,” The vampire whispered, her voice low and smooth.
The girl stiffened, her breath hitching audibly.
“Who are you?” She pressed.
“L-Lynn,” the girl stammered.
The vampire smirked. “Full name.”
“Lynn Albert.”
“Why are you here? On this rooftop?”
“I… I wanted to watch the Initiation,” Lynn admitted, her voice trembling.
The vampire tilted her head, amused. “Do you know who I am?”
“No…” Lynn flinched as the blade pressed into her neck and broke the skin, releasing a trail of red.
The vampire chuckled softly, leaning closer. “You’re clueless,” she murmured. Her finger dipped into the blood trickling from the girl’s neck, bringing it to her lips. She licked it clean, her green eyes gleaming. “Delilah Dagon. All you need to know is that you should be very afraid of me.”
“Understood,” Lynn mumbled quickly.
“You’re lucky I don’t just kill you here.” Delilah sighed, withdrawing the blade and swiping the blood off.
“Why won’t you?” Lynn asked without thinking, still not turning to look at the vampire.
Delilah laughed slightly at the question, sheathing the dagger at her side. “Your blood’s too special to waste on these tiles.”
“What does that mean?” Lynn questioned, turning to face Delilah. But as she did so, the vampire was gone.
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The wind carried the faint scent of blood as Delilah moved across the rooftops, her steps light and deliberate. Her weapons were back at her side, the weight, comforting, the faint smear of Lynn’s blood still lingering on her lips. She could taste it — clean, untainted by greed and desperation, yet electrifying as if the owner was writhe with magical capabilities. The blood tickled her tongue, filling her with immediate relief.
She crouched at the edge of a gabled roof, her emerald eyes flicking back to where she’d left the girl. Lynn was still frozen, her pale fingers trembling as they clutched the edge of the rooftop. A faint smirk played at Delilah’s lips. What a strange little thing, she thought, watching as the girl finally found the courage to lower herself back down to the safety of the streets.
Delilah leaned back against the stone, her sharp nails tapping softly against the blade’s hilt. She hadn’t expected to find anyone like Lynn tonight—someone so ill-suited to Oxburr’s darkness, yet determined to wander through it anyway. Most of the newcomers were either starry-eyed fools or shivering wrecks, clutching their dreams as if they might shield them from the academy’s brutality. Lynn was different. She wasn’t naive, but there was something raw in her, something that Delilah couldn’t quite place.
Why did you climb that rooftop, Lynn? Delilah wondered, her gaze drifting to the square below.
The Initiation had ended, the surviving initiates herded off like sheep to the slaughter. Their tear-streaked faces haunted the edges of the courtyard, but none of them dared to glance back. Delilah’s grip tightened around her dagger. The academy’s rituals had always felt theatrical to her, a polished veneer to cover the blood-soaked truth.
The wind shifted, rustling the loose strands of her pink hair. She pushed herself to her feet, stepping lightly along the sloping roof. From here, she could see the dark spires of the academia towering over the city, their jagged silhouettes cutting through the moonlit sky. Oxburr had a way of pulling people in, its grandeur hiding the cruelty within. It had pulled her in once, too.
But those days were long behind her.
Delilah dropped silently into a narrow alley, her boots landing with barely a sound on the damp cobblestones. The streets had grown quieter now, the hum of the mid-autumn celebrations fading into the distance. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze, their flickering light casting long shadows against the stone walls.
Her fingers brushed the edges of her cloak as she slipped into the crowd, her presence unnoticed. She moved like a ghost, her green eyes scanning the faces around her. Most were too drunk or too distracted to notice the predator in their midst. Good. She wasn’t in the mood for interruptions.
She thought of Lynn again. There had been fear in the girl’s eyes, yes, but there had also been something else. Curiosity. Resolve. It wasn’t the usual brand of foolish bravery she despised. It was… different.
A faint chuckle escaped her lips. You’ll get yourself killed, Lynn Albert. But perhaps not tonight.
Her path brought her back toward the academia’s gates, their iron bars glinting faintly in the moonlight. She stopped just short of the shadowed archway, her gaze lingering on the tall spires that loomed overhead. This place had claimed so many lives, so many souls desperate to prove their worth. Some survived. Most didn’t.
And then there were those like her—creatures who walked the line between life and death, who refused to be tamed by Oxburr’s cruel hands. She had no loyalty to this place, no illusions about its promises of greatness. But it was useful, and she had long since learned how to use its darkness to her advantage.
The gates creaked faintly as a gust of wind swept through the courtyard. Delilah’s grip tightened on her dagger. She had other work to attend to tonight, but for now, she lingered, her thoughts returning to the girl with ghostly eyes.
You don’t belong here, Lynn, she thought, her lips curving into a faint, amused smile. But perhaps that’s what makes you interesting.
With that, she turned, her cloak billowing softly behind her as she disappeared into the shadows.
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Present Day
When Delilah opened her eyes, she was back in the cold, suffocating darkness of the castle dungeon. The faint trickle of water dripping onto the stone floor filled the silence, echoing like the ticking of a distant clock. The haze of her memory faded as pain surged through her body. The burns on her arm stung viciously where sunlight had touched her skin. She hissed through clenched teeth, dragging herself back into the shadows to escape the weak ray of light filtering through the barred window.
Her dress had been hastily repaired, the shredded fabric now pieced together poorly. Her pink hair, once vibrant, hung limp around her face, strands sticking to her damp forehead. Someone had scrubbed her skin clean and tucked her hair neatly behind her pointed ears, but she felt no comfort in the gesture. It was mechanical. Empty. A way to prepare her for something she couldn’t yet name.
The sound of boots on stone broke through her thoughts. Heavy, deliberate steps echoed down the stairwell above, growing louder with each passing second. Delilah sat frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs. This wasn’t the timid servant who brought her water every few hours. This was something else. Someone else.
The footsteps stopped just outside her cell. A tall man stepped into view, flanked by four guards. His blonde hair was combed perfectly into place, and his pale blue eyes gleamed with a cold, calculating malice. His presence was oppressive, filling the small space with an air of authority. He knelt just outside the bars, his lips curling into a slow, cruel smile.
“Delilah Dagon,” he said, his voice sharp and mocking. “Renowned assassin of Zilah. You’ve been sentenced to death.”
The words struck her like a blow, yet she didn’t flinch. She had been expecting this. They’d brought her here to rot, to starve, to break. Still, hearing the sentence spoken aloud sent a chill down her spine.
The guards moved swiftly, unlocking the door to her cell with a loud click. As they stepped inside, Delilah pressed herself against the wall, her fingers curling into the damp stone. The shackles scattered around her body clinked as she struggled, but the guards were faster. They descended on her, securing heavier chains to her frail limb and thin waist. The cold metal bit into her skin, tighter and harsher than before.
She screamed a raw, desperate sound that echoed through the corridor. She kicked and twisted, her remaining strength fueled by panic, but the guards overpowered her easily. They dragged her out of the cell, her bare foot scraping against the rough stone floor.
The tall man stood, watching the struggle with detached amusement. “You know,” he said casually, “I expected more from someone with your reputation. Aren’t you supposed to be dangerous? Lethal? A legend?”
Delilah glared at him, her green eyes blazing with fury despite her weakened state. “Coward,” she spat, her voice hoarse. “You talk about legends, but all you can do is hide behind your guards.”
The man’s smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew sharper. “I don’t need to dirty my hands with you, Dagon. That’s what executioners are for.”
The guards pulled her forward, her body jerking with each step. Delilah’s breath came in short, ragged bursts as she was dragged through the dungeon corridor. Her mind raced, grasping for any plan, any escape. But there was nothing. No allies. No strength. No hope.
The stairwell loomed ahead, the faint light of the world above filtering down through the cracks. Each step they climbed felt heavier, as if the weight of her chains was growing, dragging her closer to her inevitable end.
At the top of the stairs, the cold wind hit her like a slap, biting into her exposed skin. The sky above was a dull, slate grey, clouds swirling ominously as if the heavens themselves were watching. The courtyard was empty save for the scaffold in the centre, its wooden frame stark and foreboding. A noose swayed gently in the breeze.
Delilah’s legs buckled, and she stumbled. The guards hauled her upright, their grips like iron. Her gaze locked on the scaffold, her stomach twisting in fear. She’d faced death countless times before, but this was different. This was final.
As they dragged her closer, she clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. Not like this, she thought. I won’t go like this.
The tall man followed behind, his voice ringing out for all to hear. “Let this serve as a warning,” he called, addressing an unseen crowd. “Even the greatest killers cannot escape justice. Delilah Dagon, the infamous assassin, will meet her end here before the eyes of the gods.”
The guards forced her up the steps of the scaffold, her chains clattering loudly. She felt the rough wood beneath her feet, the icy wind cutting through her dress. The executioner stood waiting, his face obscured by a dark hood. He held the noose in one hand, the other gesturing for her to step forward.
Delilah’s breathing quickened, her pulse pounding in her ears. The tall man stood below, his smug expression etched into her memory. Her gaze flicked to the crowd that had begun to gather at the edges of the courtyard. Their faces blurred together, but she could feel their stares, their curiosity, their judgment.
The metal noose slipped over Delilah’s neck, the steel biting into her skin like a brand. Her breathing hitched as the executioner tightened it with cold, deliberate movements, each twist of the rope sealing her fate. The scaffold creaked beneath her as the wind howled, tugging at the frayed edges of her dress.
From below, the tall man smirked, his pale blue eyes fixed on her like a predator savouring his prey. “Any last words?” he asked, his tone mocking, as if he’d already won.
Delilah forced herself to steady her breathing, her green eyes narrowing as they locked onto his. Her heart thundered in her chest, but her defiance burned hotter. If this was the end, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.
Her lips curved into the faintest, bitter smile. “I’ll see you in hell.” she rasped, her voice hoarse but unyielding.
The man’s smirk faltered, just for a moment.
Delilah’s gaze darted to the edges of the courtyard, where the crowd lingered in silence, their faces blurring into a sea of indistinct shapes. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, not like this.
The executioner stepped forward, his gloved hand gripping the lever. The tall man raised a hand, signalling him to wait.
For a heartbeat, Delilah thought she saw hesitation in his eyes, a flicker of doubt. Then it was gone.
“Proceed,” he said, his voice cutting through the wind.
The executioner pulled the lever.