Shadow Betrayal: An Assassin's Story

- PROLOGUE -

Raven POV:

Men. Immature little boys. All of them.

A phrase I repeat to myself daily, a mantra of frustration. My fists clench involuntarily as I watch the familiar chaos unfold before me. How I've endured this for so long is beyond me. I lift the goblet in front of me, taking a reluctant sip and curling my nose at the taste. Wine. Not my choice, especially in a place like this. Watered down, sour, and far from the rich, heady elixir it should be. It's a poor excuse for a drink, but then again, everything down here is a poor excuse for something better.

Another crash draws my attention, and I glance up, feeling a fresh wave of annoyance wash over me. Idiots.

I drain the last of the wretched wine, slamming the goblet down with a force that rattles the table. Tomorrow, we have another mission, and I can't afford to let these two knuckleheads ruin it by being hungover and half-dead from their brawling. As I rise from my seat, I hear the table splintering behind me. I don't even need to look to know what happened. 

I make my way toward the exit, but my path is blocked by a pile of bodies—two men, tangled together, grunting and cursing as they grapple on the floor. Their faces are flushed with exertion and drink, and the smell of sweat and cheap ale hangs heavy in the air.

"You're in my way," I say, my voice dripping with irritation.

They ignore me, too engrossed in their idiotic brawl to notice the danger standing over them. My lips curl in disgust, and my patience finally snaps. I bend down and grab a fistful of one man's hair, yanking his head back with a sharp tug. A cry of pain escapes his lips, and his eyes narrow in anger.

"You fucking bi—" His insult dies in his throat the moment he sees my face. His eyes fill with terror, his bravado evaporating like morning mist. The man beneath him looks up, realizing too late the gravity of the situation. He stares, his mouth moving but no sound escaping.

"I said, you're. In. My. Way." I repeat slowly, each word a hammer driving home my displeasure.

The room goes silent around us. Even the clamor of drunken revelry can't withstand the chill of my voice. The tension in the air is palpable, a collective intake of breath as everyone waits to see what will happen next. In this world, women are often seen as nothing more than tools, objects to fulfill men's desires or bear their children. But occasionally, a woman like me emerges—someone to be feared, someone who demands respect. This world was created equal, for both men and women, until some power-hungry fool decided otherwise. Well, I refuse to submit to anyone, let alone a man. I'd sooner be burned alive than bow my head in subservience.

"S-s-sor-ry," the man on the floor stammers, his voice trembling as he scrambles to disentangle himself from his opponent.

I shift my gaze back to the man whose hair I still have in my grasp. His face is a mask of pain, his body rigid with fear, not daring to move. I give his hair another hard yank, eliciting a strangled groan from his lips.

Finally, I release my hold, and he stumbles back, relief washing over him. But when he sees my narrowed eyes, he quickly moves aside, pulling his companion with him.

I scan the room one last time before continuing toward the door. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, everyone keen to avoid drawing my ire. As I reach the exit, a figure falls in step beside me—Foalan. The only one among my group with a semblance of sanity. Don't get me wrong, he's as dangerous as the rest, perhaps even more so. I don't know the full extent of his abilities, but they far surpass mine, and that makes me wary. Still, he's the one I trust the most.

The night air is thick with the scent of decay and desperation, the stench of a city that has long since lost its soul. Just as we step outside, two more figures join us: Kaemon and Nasir. The troublemaker and the general. They hate each other's guts, and more often than not, their animosity is the reason our missions go awry.

I glance at them briefly before turning my attention to the street ahead. It's filled with the usual rabble—cutthroats, thieves, and monsters disguised as men. Trust no one. The first lesson I learned when I arrived in this forsaken place.

"HELP!!!" A desperate scream pierces the night, a cry for salvation that will go unanswered. Not here. Not ever. This is the devil's playground, and we are merely his puppets, dancing to a tune we have no choice but to follow. Offering help is a surefire way to invite trouble, and in this world, trouble is something none of us can afford. It's too big a price to pay.

I close my eyes for a moment, sending a silent prayer for the woman whose voice echoed through the darkness. She will have to learn the hard way that no one is coming. No one ever does.

How many times have I dreamed of being saved? A prince on a white horse, riding in to rescue me from this hellish existence. But that's all it was—a dream. He never came. And so, I saved myself. I fought and clawed my way out, every step a battle, every breath a defiance. To hell with the prince on a white horse. Fairy tales are for children, and I left my childhood behind long ago.

This is my story—raw, bloody, and unrelenting. A tale forged in the fires of hell itself. Mine.

My name is Princess Raven, third child to Kratos, King of Darkshire.

I am the Scarlett Raven Assassin. And my blades will be enough to carve out a destiny of my own.

With each step I take, I etch my story into the annals of this cursed land, and I will make sure it's a story no one will ever forget.

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