“What the hell.”

Talking out loud is a terrible mistake to make as an assassin, but he thinks he’s allowed a little leeway after seeing this.

Candles line the edges of the bedroom windows, over every available surface. Was the target afraid of the dark? He’d heard the eldest prince was a bit of an oddball, especially after his mother’s death. The boy had become a recluse, refusing to speak any more than a few quiet words to people. 

Understandable, really. If his mother, bless her withered soul, were murdered as the rumors said, her death quickly swept under the rug and talk of it becoming forbidden, he’d be pretty quiet too. 

Though, that had allegedly changed recently. 

Apparently, the prince had lost his mind overnight just a few weeks ago, having awoken with such a screaming ruckus, the servants had thought he was being murdered. An unfortunate coincidence, really. If there were a night where the princeling would be killed in his sleep, it’d be this one. 

Now, any sounds of struggle will be brushed off as the kid going mad again. With the way he’s been acting lately, there’d be even fewer who’d be willing to check in on him. Not since the previously gloomy kid had inexplicably transformed into an irritable and sullen child, liable to lash out at his surroundings at the slightest excuse.

Lucky him. 

He’d never say no to an easier commission. Not when it was already such a pain to sneak past the security patrols just to get in here. And now he has to deal with some kid with an excessive fondness for candles. Where does one even procure that many, anyways? Assassin he may be, there are just some things he steers clear from. 

People clearly off their rockers, for starters. 

He nudges some of the candles aside, making way for his entry. Judging by the wax dripping along the sides, it’s clear they’ve been burning for some time. What a waste of perfectly good candles. Was this some custom the rich partook in, some lavish display of their wealth in such luxuries? He wouldn’t put it past them. And here he thought people would be more reserved with their resources, especially considering the recent famine they’d managed to scrape past.

He wrinkles his nose at the sickly sweet scent, near overpowering from the sheer number that adorn the room. Yeah, he has got to get this commission over with, if not for the fact that being caught in the imperial palace is a certain death sentence, than for some fresh air. Maybe the lack of it is the reason so many of the royal family have gone stark raving mad. From the previous ruling family, to the current king, to now this princeling, madness must really run in the bloodline. 

At least the number of candles provide more than enough light for him to spot the large bed, and consequently, the small lump under the covers. Pulling his dagger out with a quiet hiss, he takes a moment to pause. What has this kid done for someone to put a hit out on his head? Irritable and spouting nonsense he may be now, surely that wasn’t enough for someone to want him dead. 

In the end, he is only a child. Young, alone, and grieving the loss of his mother. 

…No. It’s not his place to question his contractor. Prying too much into things never bodes well for those in his trade. They were nothing more than a weapon for those who hire them, and weapons do not question the hand they are placed in. Nor do they have the luxury, the right to feel guilt over their targets.

Though he’s never quite liked dealing with kids, a job is a job. With this, he’ll be set for life. He’ll never have to risk his life again after this. In fact, he’ll donate some of the reward money to an orphanage or something as atonement.

Poor lad. At the very least, he’ll offer some condolences. 

“Sorry, kid. May the gods grant you better luck in your next life.”

With that, the blade plunges down, and—

Feathers explode in a bewildering storm. 

What? 

He pulls the dagger free. Yanks the blankets away and blinks at the mess that lay before him. Pillows ripped to shreds, soft goose down still floating gently to the ground. But no red stains his blade, no small prince lay gasping under the sheets. 

Did he get the wrong room? 

No. 

He had made sure to watch the target walk into the room, had made sure that no one had left. There’s no way he’d missed them slipping out of the room, not when the target had such conspicuous coloring. He’d memorized the patrol guard’s schedule that he was given, and he knows that there should be no one around for hours yet.

So then, where is the little princeling? 

A quick glance around his surroundings reveals nothing. The room is large, as befitting of a member of the royal family, even one as neglected as they were rumored to be. Nothing is out of place, besides the excessive candles of course. With the flickering light throwing long shadows against the walls, there’s almost an eerie feeling in the relatively sparsely decorated room. 

He flinches.

What was that? For a moment, the shadows seem almost alive, twisting in a way that isn’t quite natural. He blinks and squints at them, but the odd movement doesn’t appear again. This damn place. There were rumors of it being a place of misfortune, what with the bloodshed that took place here so many decades ago. 

Nothing good ever came of familicide, after all. Even if it was a necessary act. 

The kingdom had just recently gotten used to the hard won years of peace when blood spilled on the palace grounds once more. What a terribly unlucky place. Perhaps it truly is haunted. There were whispers of a pale ghost slipping through the hallways, disappearing whenever someone tried to get a closer look. He had dismissed them before, but with the way the lights flicker in an oddly unnatural manner, perhaps there was some truth to those words yet.

Even more reason for him to quickly get this over with and leave. 

He turns to look at the closet, the ornate doors left ajar just enough for something to poke out of. Ah. 

“This would’ve been faster if you’d just stay still,” he says, starting towards the large closet. Now he has to deal with the screaming. 

He never makes it, of course, because his ankles explode in pain. 

“Fuck!”

Even as blood gushes from his ankles, he manages to blindly stumble away, but his feet refuse to work properly. Tendons, the tendons have been severed, he notes distantly, when his attention lands on the small child crawling from under the bed. As if he were hiding from fear of thunderstorms, instead of lying in ambush. Because this was one, there is no doubt about that. 

Not even their youth could detract from that fact. With the soft, curly hair and pale cheeks rounded with youth, the combination lends an angelic appearance to the child.

At least, it would have, had it not been for the bloody knife(was that a paring knife?) still clutched in a small hand as pitch black eyes glare back at him. No, not quite pitch black. There’s something odd to it, something not quite human.

There’s a particularly uncanny feeling that shivers up his spine at the sight. It’s as if this were something wearing the skin of a person, something that couldn’t quite hide its origins in their eyes. Something is wrong, he realizes belatedly. This is not the simple child he was expecting. Nothing like what his assignment described.

Too little, too late, and all he can manage in the face of this revelation is a dumb mumble.

“…What?”