A Whisper of Night

21.2 || SCIROCCA 🍃

Scirocca had been in Polvena once before, approximately a week earlier. Then, she had been sent to kill a man with a salt-and-pepper beard. She'd taken him out with a cut to thigh, slit an artery before disappearing into the crowd. She'd learned from experience which veins and arteries were most inconspicuous.

The streets of Polvena were wide and dusty, paved with large flat cobblestones. Clotheslines streaked across the sky, clothes drifting like drab bleached flags. Men and women shouted at each other, a few women carrying jugs of wine and plates of spices on their hips, a few men leading horses and even camels through the streets.

It was nice, Scirocca thought, to walk the streets of a city without fear of identification. Although she carried her sword on her hip, she was far from noticeable - several other women also possessed weapons. She'd even seen a few with longswords the size of small saplings slung across their backs.

The first pub she reached was named the White Lion. Cautiously, Scira pushed the door open and peeked inside. It was near-empty at this time of the day. The bartender turned and gave her a frown as a crystal hung across the door tinkled; it would be suspicious for her to back out now.

She slipped inside and nodded. "One beer on ice." An inconspicuous order for a less-than-inconspicuous girl.

The bartender nodded. He resembled the picture she carried, with his head of scraggly hair and faint shadows of stubble, but his hair was curly, his eyes brown rather than blue. The black-robed figure never made a mistake when it came to her targets.

"What news?" she asked, taking a swig from the dirty glass he brought her. All of Scorvald's drinks were queerly spiced, but she'd taken a liking to the beer.

"Wha' d'ya mean?" he said roughly, producing a cloth and drying a glass on the counter. The crystal at the door tinkled faintly, letting in four men.

Scirocca's breath caught in her throat. There he was, her target. For a moment, the sun caught him as if presenting him to her....

"Hey," the bartender said. "From where?"

One of the four men - not her target - held up four fingers. "Whiskey," he called, his voice accented. The bartender nodded.

"Slagvald," she barely managed, tearing her eyes away from her target. "The Princess Merocca."

The man blinked in surprise, his hands freezing on the glass. "You...you haven't heard?"

"What?" Scira's eyes darted over to her target - he had sat down in a corner of the pub, conversing in low voices with his company. Why is he in a pub this early in the morning?

"She's dead."

It took a long time for the words to register. When they did, Scirocca almost spat out her mouthful of beer.

"What?"

The bartender blinked. "Suicide," he said simply. "She hung herself."

"No." Scirocca shook her head fiercely, her hands closing into fists. "Merocca? The Princess? You must be mistaken."

"It happened just yesterday - the entire kingdom has heard about it by now."

"No," she said. "No, no, no." She stood up, nearly shattering her glass as she slammed it onto the counter. "That can't be true - "

A hand closed on her shoulder, and she spun around, her eyes wide.

It was her target.

She stood there for a moment, her mouth hanging open. Everything seemed to happen slowly, grotesquely -