In a world where it's 'kill or be killed', Knox had lived his life with blood on his hands. Killing others meant living longer than anyone and for Knox and the rest of the boys in the Mythmire Shack, it has become a job that fed them every day.
With...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It was a normal day: gray clouds, smoke, and the salty breeze from the sea that surrounded Ernridge. Eighteen-year old Knox lay on his stomach on the rough cemented roof. He felt the trigger of his gun and trained his eyes around the area below him, ready to attack his target. There was a glint in his eyes, a hint of excitement. Today's commission was worth thrice as much as his regular jobs. That meant his team could upgrade their home and add an extension. The bar could also use some refurbishing.
But that also meant there were probably others who got the job from the request board. The target was one of the Quaestors from the District. He tortured the son of a rich aristocrat into admitting a crime he supposedly didn't commit and sentenced him to a lifetime in prison. Knox doubted the son's innocence anyway, but money's money. And a job's a job.
"No hard feelings," he mumbled, aiming as the man in question went out of the Ernridge Penitentiary Office.
But then something happened. It was fast. It all happened in a blink of an eye. There were many people on the streets, but there was definitely one of them who stabbed Knox's target on purpose. It wasn't clear who, as people had already mobbed the bloody figure of the tall old man.
Knox scrambled to his feet and raced down the stairs, heart beating fast, a crazed smile on his face. Whoever did that was bloody awesome. He reached the front of the penitentiary, tried to excuse himself among the crowd, but it just seemed to be growing.
"Neat, isn't it?" Someone spoke, and Knox whipped his head around toward the owner of the voice. He knitted his brows. The boy was young, maybe sixteen; but the grin on his lips was familiar, almost the same as his. His eyes glinted with danger, in amusement, and in success.
"You're the one who killed him," Knox said as if it still wasn't obvious.
"It's called misdirection," the teen said, playing with the curved dagger in his hand. "Neat, huh? They'd go back to their own minds later on." He pointed at the crowd behind Knox. "Not now. But long enough so we can watch him draw in his last breath without anyone helping him."
