❝ when she looks into his eyes, she feels the gripping temptation to tell him all her darkest secrets; the names of the men she has killed, but she learned a long time ago that the only people who can keep secrets are resting in overgrown graveyards...
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I'm running out of time. It's all that's on her mind as the cheering crowd of men fades into nothing, Calliope's fingers twisting around the handle of her sword. She breathes in deeply through her nose, closing her eyes and slowing her heartbeat. This is her art, the lethal dance of swords, and she is as calm as still waters.
This is a distraction. Underneath Drak's nose, her mother is getting the women and children in the house ready to flee. As soon as the slaver's lifeless body hits the floor, all hell will break loose because Calliope will kill his chosen champion...And then, she will kill Drak. Adding his name to an endless collection of fallen souls, their last image being the tip of her singing blade. Death doesn't scare her; it never has. If anything, Death holds her other hand, urging her on as it's own executioner. They are one in the same. Veiled in darkness and an ethereal mystery.
The blood around her side oozes slowly. She can feel the spell ticking away with each passing second. The strenuous movements will take a toll, but she's faced much worse odds and injuries. Drak's eyes are glued to the spot on her body where he pierced her with the dagger, smirking—thinking it will be enough to stop her.
At last, Calliope sizes up her opponent. He's burly and tall, his bare chest rippling with hard muscles. His face is scruffy and his dark eyes graze over her exposed skin as she still wears the dress she stole from outside a brothel. No armor, no other weapon on her except a guard's disarmed blade. This will be her final stand, even if she uses all her strength to get to Drak and end his horrible existence, it will be enough for her—to know she at least did some good by wiping the vile creature from these lands; to know her mother will be free. It's enough. If the spell ends, and she bleeds out on the floor, it will be more than enough.
The assassin turns, her eyes narrowing on where the slaver stands.
"Alright, assassin," Drak extends his arm. "Let's see if you live up to your name."
From the shadows, she can feel Arthur's eyes on her and sense the worry beneath them. He wants to reach out for her, to help her through this moment, but Calliope must fight this battle alone.
Her opponent strikes first, his blade quick and coordinated as the high-pitched slice of steel encompasses the room. She deflects the blow, jumping to the side and meeting his blade again near her chest. The man pushes down, his superior strength causing her stance to slip, but Calliope spins out of the way and knocks the handle of her sword against the side of his head.
Drak's champion shakes his head in a daze, but comes to his senses just in time to dodge a deadly attack to his neck. The claps and cheers from the men around them encourage him to try to land a blow on the assassin, but she's quick and agile.
His frustration seeps into the fight. Calliope grins, descending upon him with full force despite the protest of pain in her side that grows with each movement. A hiss leaves his lips as she ducks away from his blade and slices her own across his shins. Blood pools on the floor beneath him. The cuts are deep, and he struggles to stand. Too easy. He falls to his knees. Calliope grips her sword for the killing blow—
