The blood was sticky already, but the assassin didn’t grunt or even slump, barely recognizing the gash in the side’s existence. He was a trained killer, a master of his trade, dangerous and always present and alert. His heart had calmed, the adrenaline back in its stores, ready to rush through the killer’s veins again, give him the extra strength, focus, even luck needed in times of need.

Like a minute ago, when the ambush had closed around him, three guards rushing out of the protection of curtains. Someone had talked, obviously, otherwise they hadn’t been ready for him.

Then again, they really hadn’t been ready. Before the first guard had reached him, he’d been mortally wounded by a thrown dagger, protruding from his throat, stuck in to the hilt, scarlet blood appearing black in the gloomy dark of the corridor outside his victim’s quarters.

The assassin had faced the other two with a dagger in one hand, the other behind his back. He had nimbly sidestepped the first sword thrust, and deflected the second to the ground with his dagger, forcing the tip to hit the rug on the floor. Flipping it up with his foot, the killer could stomp down on the blade with the protection of the thick skin and fur, snapping it with his foot.

That was when the first guard had managed to slash his side, the assassin’s sidestepping motion being a tad too late, too slow, too lazy.

He had taken his revenge on the swordless guard, who tried to stab the killer with his dagger. Obviously he wasn’t used to the combination, the attack was poorly executed, and the assassin’s hidden hand could easily twirl around, revealing his claw knuckle, slashing the guard in the face, and then driving the point home with his dagger in the enemy’s side, in the joint of the breast plate. The killer knew where to strike, how to do it effectively, and how to do it sure.

The last guard was on the retreat, realizing that the fight was lost. He was calling for help, but the assassin made the words die in his throat with another well-aimed thrown dagger.

He finished off the dying guard with a quick slash over the throat.

The killer wasn’t bothered by the gloomy light in the room he entered, facing the lord of the house. It was an old man, holding a thin sword with a two-handed grip, shaking a little. The assassin could see that he knew how to use it, muscles rarely forget something that has been honed with years and years of practice.

It didn’t matter, the killer moved with the speed of a Zaranthian panther, getting close and around the blade, firmly digging his knuckle-claws into the man’s unprotected chest. He met his victim’s eyes, respecting the old man’s calm. Not many could meet the yellow flare of his demon eyes without quivering, but this old warrior’s steely gaze accepted his defeat, his death, with grace.

The blood was already sticky on his daggers and knuckle-claws, and in his side, as he calmed and cooled down in the room. The mission, the contract, was completed. Now to collect the reward.

Ke’Malon Brizabrazni took a deep breath. He realized he had just entered the politics of the Empire, taking the stage in something that would echo throughout the world.

He didn’t care. He left the house in the noble district unseen, and unmoved by his actions.