I finally release a long-held breath as I lean back against a mossy fallen log.

The metallic stench of blood is overwhelming. The crimson scarf I wore as a makeshift mask did what seemed to be nothing to obstruct the odor’s progress.

On the ground, the young man clutches at his ruined throat, gurgling in his death throes at the center of the clearing. Taking the blood-stained glove off of my right hand, I tug the portion of the scarf that loosely rests on my forehead further down over my eyes before I begin to root through his satchel.

More than a dozen gold marks come spilling out, eliciting from me a quickly-stifled cry of alarm. That was more money than I had had my hands on in my entire life. As much as I was relishing the thought of what riches could be purchased with such an amount, there was a much more important matter on my mind. I kept fishing through the satchel… a ceremonial dagger, spare outfits…

There.

A sealed letter of introduction for one Frederick d’Osteille, for a position as a groundskeeper at the Academy at Aven. Not that I could read the letter even if there was a way to open it without ruining the seal. My hands quiver. This was the first step, and it had been so easy.

The drunken self-proclaimed master thief had loudly announced before the entire tavern his intent to rob the boy of his coin in a transparent attempt to impress the barmaid and get into her skirt.

Wisely, the young Frederick left while the “master thief” was still drunkenly tripping over himself on the way to his quarry.

Unfortunately for him, he didn’t notice you slipping out of the tavern, out of the town, stalking him in the dying light. He chose to break off the main road, making camp in the woods instead of pushing the rest of the way to the next town over before nightfall. Not that he had any reason to be concerned, but in these parts, it was almost trivial to keep up with someone on horseback if you know the terrain. The roads winds back and forth needlessly, another product of the old kingdom’s incompetence.

I can’t help but scowl beneath my mask.

It was that incompetence that allowed Raykir’s coup to overthrow it.

Like a needle pricking into the back of my skull, I could feel the hatred welling up.

“Why?”

I was shaken out of my internal struggle by a tattered whimper from the somehow still-dying Frederick. I couldn’t help but be impressed at his tenacity. Or perhaps it’s your lack of practice at killing men. You had honestly thought it would be more difficult.

My eyes met his, locking with them for just a moment, then slowly drifting the bloody hatchet that had gotten me this far.

I replace my bloody glove, tenderly taking the hatchet from its resting spot on the fallen log. I twirl it in my hand, refamiliarizing myself with its weight, its heft. The still-wet blood flicks off of it, spattering Frederick’s face as I stand over him and meet his eyes once again.

Just like chopping wood.

-

Satisfied that nobody had followed me, I finally tugged down my scarf to get to work in becoming, to anybody who didn’t know him, Frederick.

As my fingers brushed across my lips in the process, I felt a chill as I realized something:

I was smiling.