“Who said being an assassin was fun?”

VI

She hated Grey. Yes, she was thankful to have a mentor. But still Rya hated Grey. Ever since Lilith’s death, he had grown cold and obsessed with proving his worth and has been attempting to take Gavin Lupus O’Gales’s place, as third in command. Before all of this Grey had been more like an uncle. Then Lilith died and it was her fault. Grey had turned cold and distant. Everything had turned, it all went downhill. 

 Rya shuddered as she left Venner’s cabin and walked into the cold. 

 She rubbed her hands together, trying to chase the sudden numbness out of them. Rya felt her lashes beginning to freeze, from the welling tears that had begun to form from the remembrance of Lilith. She yanked her bandana up over her mouth and nose, to provide some protection from the cold and hide the welting bruise on her cheek. She trudged off to get her supplies to sharpen Grey’s weapons. 

  Rya set up on one of the snow-coated wooden tables by the fire. Thankfully, Jon was no longer there. She gritted her teeth as she picked up a curved dagger, and a whetstone. Striking the whetstone against the blade, a shrill hiss resonated. Rya gritted her teeth. The raspy screeches of the sharpening blade tormented her ears. 

With the sound echoing in her temples, her head was spinning. She ground her teeth together as yet another screech sounded, shaking her tight muscles and throbbing through her clenched jaw. 

Taking a slight breather, Rya stopped. She panted slightly, relishing her break. Rya hated sharpening and maintaining weapons, especially ones that weren’t hers. Unfortunately, they were so dull that they could barely cut butter. ‘What good was that to an assassin?’ 

  Sliding the knife that she was working on, across the flesh of one of her fingertips- nothing. Rya pressed the blade down harder. The skin sliced, and blood welled up in the small cut. ‘Still not sharp enough’. 

 Rya set her tools and blade aside. She leaned back in her chair and propped her feet up on the tabletop. She pulled the hood of her thick woolen cloak up over her head, and dusted away the flecks of fallen snow from her clothes. 

 Rya watched as other Nightingale assassins made way with their camp work and day chores, all activities were done in more expedited speed as an attempt to keep warm. Two were hauling, in a deer carcass to the butcher. Healers and Poisoners were fussing over herbs; Rya huffed. ‘They should go see Venner.’  Scouts running pass, while informants scurried past in hunched secrecy with armloads of papers. The shouts and clanks of training were the loudest. While Elders were bending over tables, which were positioned within the halo of the warmth of one of the few fires, complaining about the young ones and their tactics in the art of the kill. There were others, who were searching for a way out of work while avoiding the supervisors and their punishments, preferring to stay close to the fires. 

 Turning back to her task, Rya sighed. Even though she wore leather gloves and it was the thawing time, her fingers were freezing. She felt tears form in her eyes again. She wished for her homeland. 

 Rya tried her best not to think about Canis Lupus. ‘What would she say?’ Rya anxiously tapped the table top. ‘Yes I am a Doryu. Dragon Slayer. What am I gonna be now, your secret weapon? Y'all already treat me like glass… well besides Grey. Y’all don't let me go on any missions. I’m too valuable.’ Lost in her thoughts, she did not see Grey approach. 

 “Rya, so you are being productive and sharpening my blades. Good. Go take your watch shift.” Snapped Grey, as he marched over. Rya nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘Some assassin I am…’ Grey picked up the blade that she had been working on, and inspected it. Grey grunted, “Not sharpened enough. When you come back, you’ll have to finish.”

 “Of course.” Answered Rya. She quickly bowed before running off, before he could give her another task, or gripe about how she fails at every task that she does. 

  Rya jogged to the edge of the camp. It was a soft vertical steep, coated in ice and frost. Quickly, before she completely left the camp, Rya counted the daggers strapped to her waist and vambraces. Beneath the vertical slant was a great pine forest that stretched down the seemingly gentle slopes of the mountain. She knew these woods, like the back of her hand. Rya had too. Every time she went to her post, she was required to take a different route. There were a total of five different routes that she took. Rya shuffled the order she took these five ways, every other week. It was all to fool anyone who may be trying to find the camp.  

 Reaching into her small satchel, Rya pulled out glentweed. It was a leafy sprout of an herb, that had a stem the colour of lavender. She placed it under her tongue and sucked. Its bitter taste helped wake her up. 

 Rya took off, sliding down the slope. The serrated rubber of the soles of her shoes, made this an easy task. She darted beneath the low hanging branches. It didn't take her long to trudge the three-mile hike to her watch post. With the thawing, the snow wasn't too deep.

She perched, upon a frosty snow-dusted boulder, that looked over a game trail. Wrapping her mottled grey-brown cloak tighter around herself, and being perfectly still, allowed Rya to melt almost seamlessly into the scenery. 

 After thirty minutes, Rya began to tense. There was almost no point to her sitting watch here for three hours. She watched, as the sun fell behind her and dipped beneath the shadow of the Flen Peaks. The glimmering orange stars graced their light down onto the slumbering trees. Matted brown pine needles peaked out from the white carpet, while their parents sagged from the weight of the snow. Frost cocooned ferns stood tall, as saplings shivered. Icicles hung from the tree branches and reflected the image of the forest. It was perfectly still, frozen. Everything was held in the quiet barely stirring slumber. 

 Rya smiled as a small red bird filtered through the branches. It glowed in stark comparison to the white and grey world. It looked at her, tilting its head and pointing its orange beak in her direction. It hopped down from the branches and to the snow a few feet away from her boulder. 

 “What are you doing here, little songbird?” Gently pondered Rya, as she slid off the boulder, dropping lightly into the snow. She landed on her knees. 

 The bird hopped toward her. A swoop of black overcame it. Rya gasped. Red feathers and small drops of blood in the snow. There was a soft snap, as the hawk’s talons broke the small bird’s fragile wings, and dug into its breast, tearing out more feathers. The hawk flew away carrying its limp meal. 

 The droplets of blood glared at Rya. A shocking menace, and a reminder to what she was. Rya repositioned herself in the snow so that she was sitting with her knees tucked beneath her. Gulping, Rya clasped her hands over her chest and sent a prayer to the dead gods. 

 She sat there, hood down, moving her lips in a silent manner, when pain bursting like stars flashed across her vision. She screamed. White light burned her vision, as the crackling sound of bone breaking snarled in her ears.  

 Scrambling and blundering in the wet snow, Rya fought back another scream. Her entire body was trembling as pain seemed to jabb her with white poker. Limply she held up her arm; choking and sputtering in pain. Ribbons of blood coursed down her forearm and dripped off her elbow. A crossbow bolt had sliced her upper arm open.