Yves swipes at the throat in one viciously fluid move, but even handicapped, the assassin is just a little too fast and his own arms just a little shorter than he remembers. He makes a frustrated sound when the blade only nicks the man, when blood only spills down the line of his throat instead of spurting forth in a way he knows intimately would be fatal. 

This damn body of his. Not even his pilfered paring knife, as meagre as it is, is enough to  extend his pitiful reach. At least it was sharp.

The assassin wobbles on his feet before collapsing to the floor, hand clasped to his throat, but still frustratingly alive. Bright red spills between desperate fingers, and he knows intimately the war with dizziness and sense of emptiness is one that cannot be won, not with an injury like that. The cold will set in soon enough, not that it’d matter in the blissful peace that would follow in its wake.

He’s lived through it before. Died from it.

Still, the blood running down his throat doesn’t seem to be flowing nearly as fast as he’d like. At this rate, reinforcements could be called at any second, and Yves would not have the advantage of surprise at his side this time. No matter. He would end it soon enough. 

The assassin may be crippled, but their sword still points unwaveringly at Yves as he approaches. Yves eyes the blade, the much longer reach it has over his own. How annoying. 

This is why he’s always preferred fighting from a distance.

The ground erupts from underneath him, and he tilts his head, watching as the assassin’s eyes widen at the sight of inky tendrils that slither towards him, curling over his limbs and tightening. A frightening sight to the unfamiliar, one that is unfortunately more for show than it is of any practical use. For now, at least. 

It'll last only for a few more seconds, but that is all that he needs. As irritatingly weak as his powers are now, they are still enough to briefly hold someone down. Yves watches him pull at his limbs, watches as he fails to struggle out of them. 

Watches as he steps forward and brings his own blade down. This time, he does not miss. The carotid artery isn’t that far from the surface, and his pitiful knife is more than suitable to do the job.

It takes one, two, several stabs before the body under him stills. One good nick is more than sufficient, but he wants to be certain. No, he corrects himself, watching the man bleed out from underneath him. This is just pure vindictiveness. One of the several people who have done him wrong in the past; the first of many who he will wreck vengeance on.

He’s not sure if minutes or hours have passed, only that he is the only one left breathing in the end.

“This would’ve been a quicker death if you’d just stayed still,” Yves repeats mockingly. Would've been a relatively painless way to go, too. He tries to wipe the blood from his face, frowning when it smears instead. He knows the sight he makes, a small child drenched in macabre paint, sticky knife still in hand. His hair is more red than white at this point. Maybe he finally looks more like the vengeful ghost he is, half dead, half living.

The assassin doesn’t reply. Of course he doesn’t. The dead don’t speak, after all. Not unless they came back from the afterlife like he did.

In another world, he would barely escape the assassination attempt by the skin of his teeth, scrambling from the palace clutching a long bloody line on his shoulder that would later turn into a pale scar, an all consuming fear snapping at his heels. Death would not catch up to him until years later, when the fear turned to rage that dragged the kingdom to ruins. 

This is not that world. He will make certain of it.

He pushes his hair that falls in front of his face away, frowning when his hands grasp at empty air behind him. Right. 

His hair is shorter than he is used to. He’d grown used to the comforting weight of hair that lay heavy behind him, and there is a prickling sense of vulnerability in the cool breeze that tickles the back of his neck. His hands are soft, missing the calluses and scars built up over years. 

Everything is wrong, wrong, wrong.

The smart thing to do would be to lay low, to cease searching for the truth behind his mother’s death.

Except he thinks of long white hair and gentle hands that cradle his face, of a soft voice that hums lullabies. Of that hair, the same snowy shade as his own, soaked in blood, how the puddle spread to his trembling feet.

The smart thing would be to leave things be, to let go of the past and live a peaceful life.

Unfortunately, he has never been one to let things go. Not in this life or the last.

Something bumps against his hand, chillingly cold and emanating vicious satisfaction at the dead body before him. Even without hearing a single word, the sheer strength of the emotion so distinctly separate from his is enough to distract him from his thoughts.

If he was less experienced with the almost alien sensation, Yves would’ve jumped at the sudden disturbance in an otherwise empty room. As it is, he only glances down at the writhing pool of shadows underneath his feet, almost curling around him like a particularly needy animal. Though it has no eyes, nothing resembling a head or body even, he can practically feel its expectant look as it sits primly at his feet. Akin to a dog waiting to be praised, he thinks.

“You did good,” Yves agrees, reaching out to the shadow that presses against his hand, almost purring at his touch. He frowns when his fingers pass through it instead, and the shadow dissipates like smoke. That barely lasted anything. 

How long will it take for it to mature into a more corporeal form? It’s not as if his magic is as undeveloped as it was when he was last this age, he can feel that much, but there seems to be a disconnect between it and his body. There’s a certain lag to his movements, minuscule but very much still there. A sense of wrongness, as if he were wearing something a size too small. 

Or, he thinks, it could just be the blood leaking from his nose, dripping down his chin in steady drops. Yves wipes it away in disgust, studying the resulting stains on his hands. He squeezes his hands a few times, wondering at the soft, unmarked skin. 

Weak. This body is so weak, much more so than he’s ever remembered it being. Even accounting for his younger age, his constitution is simply too frail for his liking. How’d he get a nosebleed from something this minor?

 Before, he could easily wield shadows like a well honed blade. He was feared for his ability to turn something normally incorporeal into something that could kill. As long as there was some sort of light source, he was never left without a weapon. In fact, if it hadn’t been for that thrice damned sword of legends, he could’ve overwhelmed the hero. 

Stupid thing with its stupid ability to nullify all magic.

Now look at him. So tired from such a minor use of his powers, as if his limbs were made of lead. In a place like this, weakness is not something he can afford. He'll have to fix it somehow.

Not now though, Yves thinks, turning back to the body at his feet. There are more pressing concerns to take care of.

.

.

.

Sunlight begins to leak through the windows when the maids arrive to wake their frail prince. Aside from the chirping birdsong, the morning is quiet, not quite stirring awake just yet. There is only the softest knock, muffled calls to announce their arrival before the door creaks open.

The screaming starts soon after.