Before he was officially inducted as part of the Assassin’s Guild, the headmaster had given Aster a simple, yet impossibly daunting task.
“The Guild doesn’t care who you are, what you did, and what you’re still here for,” the man’s voice echoed in the dimly-lit chamber, so solemn and grave that Aster wondered if he was talking to the devil himself. “All that matters is if you can get the job done.”
The Headmaster is a crippled man that sits on a throne of hanging clothes – he called them ‘skins’ of every man, woman or child he had ever killed. Legend has it that he used to be a hunter in the North – close to where Aster lived – but he had come across no such person. All he knew was that the war took the man’s legs, while a stranger took his other eye. the
An eye for an eye, the Headmaster joked.
“Name it,” old Aster had snapped, never really one for theatrics and suspense. He had just clawed his way into the capital back then, all sharpened edges and gritted teeth. At this point, he’d taken odd jobs from any contractor he could find, from smuggling precious artefacts, intercepting and killing off messengers, the likes. There was little he couldn’t do, especially after what he did to survive.
The old Headmaster handed him a vial. Aster remembered it well – a small flask with clear, almost translucent liquid.
“That’s poison,” the Headmaster supplied. “It’s quick-acting, should give you enough time to slip it in a drink and make yourself scarce. Your target is named Remi Ferrand. The client is very particular about having this man killed without a trace, so no other methods of assassination will do. You have until the full moon to get it done.”
Old Aster took the vial, momentarily opening it to take a sniff. Hm. It was almost odourless, save for a faint hint of almonds. Aster quickly stuffed the cork back. Cyanide.
Normally, the Headmaster gave him background information for his hits. Even crippled, the man ran the underground networks within the palm of his hand – and his strings extended all the way to the golden throne and the people that held it up. The implications were clear: if Aster couldn’t find his target by name alone, then he wasn’t worth his salt as an assassin. He may as well have packed up and forgotten about the Guild.
***
Learning about his target took a total of three days.
He had a week until the full moon, and even before being officially inducted, Aster respected deadlines. He had professionalism, for fuck’s sake. So on the first day, he asked about his target within his contacts. When the contacts served so purpose, he went around town and pulled out old favours and debts. When none of them did shit, Aster reinstanded the validity of those old favours and debts, all while turning to his past clients. None of them knew a man named Remi Ferrand.
Looking back to it, the mission was deceptively simple.
The Guild had a wide range of clientele, from dignitaries, merchants, warlords, high-ranking officials, obscenely rich civilians, and the occasional commoner who saves up for vengeance. Not one of them knew about Remi Ferrand. And within Ambros, especially the underbellies, there was no such thing as an invisible man. If they can’t be seen, it meant that they were hiding in plain sight. If they can’t be known, then they must be the darkness behind the darkness.
Aster took another three days to decide whether or not being officially inducted was worth it. He was a man who lived by the sword – ambitions had no place for someone whose foot is already halfway to his grave. There was no such thing as suddenly developing a conscience, set of ethics, or a bleeding heart, either.
Aster remembered thinking back on his mother and sister. No one could pay for their deaths, not in a way that mattered, and Aster couldn’t just kill himself knowing what it took for him to survive.
Death has to be earned, his master told him once. For those who have sinned…it has to be earned.
On the seventh day, Aster walked back to the headquarters with a bottle of spitfire.
“Are you really sure you’re in the mood for a drink, boy?” The Headmaster scoffed at Aster upon entry. “Today is your deadline.”
Aster sat on his table. Pulled out two cups and poured both of them a drink.
“I distinctly remember you saying that I have until the full moon.”
“Mhm. That’s today.”
“But do you see the moon?” He asked, knowing full well that the sun was still out. This caused a small smile to crack from the Headmaster’s lips. The small smile turned into laughter, until soon, Aster was joining him.
In the end, the Headmaster was correct. Aster was in no place to drink – not when he had such limited time. He had perhaps an hour until the sun hides.
Aster took out the vial and poured its contents into one of the cups.
“Death is earned, you always told me,” he lined the cups next to each other. “Today, it is freely given.”
One cup to live, one cup to die.
The Headmaster – no, Remi Ferrand – snickered.
“That’s quite the direct approach. One point for honesty. But as for the ability to meet objectives…what makes you think I’ll drink this?”
Aster lays down all of his weapons on the table, a clear indication that he had no plans of forcing poison down the old man’s throat.
“Who said it’s for you?” Aster took the poisoned cup, watching the Headmaster’s face go slack.
***
When Aster came to be, another person had already occupied his spot.
His temple pounded with a vengeance, as if the Imperial Army had decided to abandon their post and make a home out of his head. It seemed that Florence had moved him somewhere closer to the corner as he slept his drunkenness away. It was almost thoughtful, for His Highness to think of allowing Aster enough time to rest.
But then, Aster’s bleary gaze honed in on the man who took up his seat. Florence and the stranger seemed to be engaged in lively conversation–too lively for someone like His Highness. In a matter of minutes (or maybe hours, Aster didn’t know, he lost track of time), His Highness had gone from a typical sheltered capital-dweller fearing for his life in the outskirts, to someone completely at home and way too comfortable making friends in a time-sensitive mission.
So maybe Aster had overestimated his current body’s alcohol tolerance. Who could blame him–with his memories intact, it's easy to forget that his body has yet to catch up with the age of his soul. But younger or older, it should be common courtesy that drinking partners – or mission partners, in general – are not to be abandoned in times of need. Especially when they are most vulnerable!
“You–you sly man,” Aster slurred out, tongue still heavy on his mouth. He got off his chair and crawled over to Florence, swaying. “You really, I can’t believe—”
Florence, at least, had the gall to look embarrassed. “Aster! How are you—hey, watch out—!”
But Aster didn’t have time to watch for anything. The world spun, almost as if someone had chopped off his head from the second time. He still had vivid recollections of how it was like when his head rolled onto the floor.
“I got him,” a pair of hands steadied Aster, gripping him by the shoulders.
Aster scowled.
“You stole my chair,” he accused the man. Aster swatted the hands off him, almost falling flat on his back had it not been for Florence finally, finally meeting him halfway. He could feel His Highness’ hands sneak up on his waist, and in another time, perhaps when he was sober, Aster would ponder on the intimacy of it.
But today, His Highness was just another prop to lean on. He narrowed his eyes at the intruder, unable to shake the tingles running down his spine. A vague memory prodded at Aster, like an itch that he couldn’t quite scratch.
Beady black eyes. A predatory gaze. Aster covered his other eye, as if that would somehow cut the man’s image by half in his mind. Something wasn’t right.
“Who’s this chair-stealing fuck,” Aster asked Florence, his eyes never leaving the intruder.
“Aster! Don’t be rude–!” Florence slapped a hand over Aster’s mouth. “Please forgive him, he’s still a little drunk…”
“It’s okay,” A slight pause. “Technically, I did steal his spot.”
The man doesn’t sound anywhere near apologetic. He simply smiled, hopped off his stolen seat, then packed it up so he could leave. It’s only when he finally stood up that Aster noticed the man was taller than him. He slung a ragged coat over his shoulder.
“It’s been nice meeting you, Sir Scribe,” he told Florence. “For both of our sakes, I hope you keep our conversation off the records.”
He stopped next to Aster’s ear, voice barely a whisper.
“Oh, and by the way? You better watch out for your partner. Been getting poisoned left and right. It’s not good to leave people like that on their own, you know.”
Aster had half a mind to register what the man just said.
Poison? What–
He ran over to check their cups. No strange smell, no hint of any discoloration. The deadliest poisons always did work like a charm.
Panic seized Aster’s throat.
“Hey, old man! What the hell is this—” Aster turned behind him, but the man was already gone.
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