The Scarlet Assassin

Chapter Nineteen

I was eighteen when I met Rafe.

It had only been a year since I was made Ravaryn's assassin, and the city was still foreign to me. I was trying to learn the streets and the names of all the businessmen and merchants. Most slipped my mind, some I'd remember for a few hours, but only a handful would I remember for days. I had even gone to the extreme measure of writing the important ones down on a crumpled piece of paper, one I found abandoned at the bar, a half-written note on the backside. I could barely afford food, much less paper.

For three months now I've been living outside the castle. I couldn't stay there anymore. The air was too suffocating, every room full of painful memories... memories I was too cowardly to face. I was dying there slowly, drowning even slower. At least here, there was a glimmer of color underneath the dirt and grime. At least here, I could breathe.

In the castle, I could do nothing but wander -wander and wait for whatever crude task the king wanted next. I've never met a man with a kill list as big as him. Every day it seemed I was tasked to kill a new person or steal a new gem. Every day, I had no choice but to listen and shove down my conscience to complete it. The other option... I couldn't, wouldn't take it.

After a year though, I've grown accustomed to it. I've learned to shove down my protruding guilt, to not think about the lives I'm ruining with every swipe of my blade. It was the only way to survive here...  though sometimes I wondered why I didn't just let myself drown.

Walking on Beran street- wait, no, Helen road- I was continuing my daily walk through town when sounds of grunting and punches landing broke me from my thoughts.

I halted.

The fight was in an alleyway to my left. From the looks of it, it seemed to be between a young boy -maybe only a few years younger than me- and two other men. The older men had their backs to me, but I could tell they were drunks just from the way they looked.

My attention turned suddenly to the boy. He was tall for the age I predicted -around 16- and the muscles on his exposed arms made me think he worked somewhere that required lifting or carrying heavy things around. With black hair that was stuck to his forehead and pale skin, the boy staggered back, having just taken a punch from one of the men.

His other features were blocked by the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, his nose, and from a cut just above his brow. He clutched at his chest, breathing deeply, but still looking pissed, pissed enough the lunge forward toward the man on his right.

It was a noble effort, but so clumsy and stupid, that the drunken fool was able to slip behind him and grab his arms, restraining him against his chest. The drunk was smiling disgustingly, his equally revolting teeth, baring. The other, a blonde-haired man, walked in front of the two.

"This'll teach ya to disrespect me, ya little shit," he said, pulling a fist back and striking the boy in his stomach. The black-haired boy groaned and his head fell forward.

Seeing enough, I turned ahead again. Brawls weren't uncommon. The Core Defense will step in if they see it necessary (which unless you hold a fancy title, they don't) but they go otherwise unnoticed.

I had taken one step before I caught myself. I knew what it felt like... I realized. To have everyone watch you suffer, know you're dying, and do nothing. The blonde-haired man punched the boy again. His groans of pain and coughs made me hesitate. It wasn't right -leaving him.

I glanced down the alleyway again, and I don't know why I did it, or what my body was thinking, but I took two steps into the alley and said,

"Two to one? That hardly seems fair." The two men -both the blonde and the darker, brown-haired man- looked at me. Slowly, the black-haired boy picked his head up, one of his eyes beginning to swell shut. The blonde scoffed and waved me off.