The Council called Cleo their greatest assassin, as though this was a generous compliment. In truth, however, Cleo wasn’t just their greatest assassin, she was perhaps the greatest assassin in all of Alterra.

Such a line of work was a dangerous game. Just one mistake, just one, likely spelled the end of the assassin. They would be captured. They would be put to death. But Cleo had never made a mistake, and she had worked jobs numbering in the hundreds.

As head of the Council, Tana preferred to operate within the guidelines of the law whenever possible. The less attention they could draw to their world-ending misdeeds, the better. But it wasn’t always possible to operate without drawing blood, especially now that Yusef’s Cult of Ascendency had disbanded, Cleo suspected. Now that they had no church to manipulate—and now that there were whispers in the streets about the Players not being quite what they appeared—Cleo’s work would only get more important from hereon out.

Alterra’s greatest assassin had tracked her targets across half a world, always one step behind them. She had come close to catching them in the Tundras, but a stolen ship had caused her to lose her tail. And then, later, she’d heard rumours of half of them being in one place, and half of them being in another. But this could not be true; a team of elite Player-slayers would surely know that they were stronger together.

It was the death of a non-Council Player that had finally drawn Cleo’s attention back to the team in question. She’d rode from Westbara, her horses’s hooves pounding against the dry sand as she’d rode north.

And when she’d reached Coldharbour, she’d discovered a city less hospitable to Players than ever before. Cleo kept her hood up, her identity secret. Surely few would recognise her even without her shielding her face, but the assassin was not one to take any chances. That was how she’d survived for so long.

Cleo asked around the city, a greased palm here, a knife-to-the-throat there, seeking out the location of the five adventurers she’d been sent to kill. The answer was one that she’d not expected: that these five were considered heroes, that the city had given them chambers in the palace itself for as long as they required. And “as long as they needed” seemed to include a wedding between two members of the team. This was not good news; the palace would be heavily guarded, and her targets less accessible.

Still, she had killed in palaces before. Guards hadn’t stopped her.

Cleo rode to the palace, her best dagger and strongest poisons at her side, her cloak of illusions wrapped around her shoulders, but with no magicks yet flowing through it. The wedding was not hard to find, being that so many of Coldharbour’s business leaders and government had turned out for it. And with so many faces that were surely unfamiliar to the targets, Cleo could easily slip in.

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The assassin saw the bride first, a beautiful woman with long black hair, harbouring the secret of her Witchcraft abilities. Cleo would kill her last—it was the strongest of them, the Bladespinner and the Warrior, with whom she was most concerned. But then the assassin caught sight of the groom. The Bladespinner. One of the men she was obliged to kill.

Her son.

Cleo’s stomach lurched.

He’d grown up so much since she’d last seen him. He’d been a kid back then, back when she’d last passed through that small farming village. His father was gone already, his grave unkempt, and her son was already on his path to becoming a fully fledged criminal. Like mother, like son, she supposed.

Cleo had never intended to call in on him. She knew she had a son, of course, but she had practically forgotten during all those years on her mission in the Badlands. It was only as she’d passed through that town once more that she remembered, and her curiosity got the better of her.

The assassin had expected to feel nothing for the boy she’d left on his father’s doorstep, but upon seeing those eyes—the same eyes that she saw every time she looked in the mirror—she found something stir within her. Not love, not quite. But certainly something. A fondness, perhaps. Maybe even a connection.

When Cleo had turned and left the village immediately, she’d told herself that it was to avoid the boy recognising her. But in truth—and she knew this deep down—it was because she feared what would happen to her if she stayed too long.

She’d never expected to see him again, and yet here he was. The man she’d been paid to kill. Not “Styk”, really, but Riley. That was the name she’d given him. That was the name she’d written in the note for his father. Yet he’d opted for a different one—what did that say?

It was cruel, to kill a man on his wedding day, but cruelty had never been an issue before. As little—not so little, anymore—Riley took his bride to the floor, Cleo stepped through the crowd.

And then Cleo felt something she’d never felt before. Not on a job, at least. She prided herself on operating free of emotion, of killing without guilt. But here, presented with the truth of her targets’ identities, that pattern was broken.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the dagger that hung at her side. The knife felt heavier than ever before.

After scouting her for the Council, Tana had asked Cleo only one question: just how far would she go to secure them their new world?

It was time to find out.

Cleo stepped forward through the joyous crowd just as her son turned away. She prepared to draw her blade, ready to strike at the others in the chaos that followed, ready to end the lives of her five—

‘Hello,’ the bride said, her eyes upon Cleo. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘I…’ Cleo started, and she felt her hand release her dagger. ‘I…’

Deep brown eyes stared curiously back at her.

‘I just wanted to wish you happiness,’ Cleo said. Before the bride could reply, she turned, and hurried from the palace grounds.

What had she become?