𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡'𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨 | 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐬

𝐈

'Don't you ever get tired?'

She sat on a roof, watching as the people of the kingdom went by, oblivious to the extent of the conflict within their home. Her ink-black hair fluttered around and her face stayed passive, devoid of the smirk she often possessed during the day. It had been a simple question, the inquirer being a baker's young daughter.

'Of what?'

It was during the day, so she mingled with the villagers as usual. Only two people who knew what she looked like lived, one of which she collaborated with on even the most wicked of schemes and the other who acted like a stranger, and the girl hadn't known she really was. But it made her think more than she thought she would.

'Of your work. You look exhausted.'

Was she tired?—no, she knew full well she would never be tired for more reasons than she could care to acknowledge.

Out of pure instinct, her vision zeroed in on a cloaked figure making their way through the crowd of salesmen, seemingly being shielded from sight by the people. She saw them from a distance, however, her reflexes having been honed to a level bordering on paranoia.

The woman wasted no time getting to her feet, crossing the roof in a couple of leaps before jumping off into an alleyway, expertly landing on her feet like a cat landing on its paws. She looked around a second time to make sure she wasn't seen and blended in with the people passing by at the right moment. She kept her eyes peeled, mentally cataloguing the information she had managed to gather from the figure.

Very likely to be male; lean ectomorph body type, probably a messenger of some type; experienced enough to put up a fight unless taken off guard; young but taller than his age. If the earlier information is correct, he is a royal messenger deducing from the faint outline of the crest on his sleeve.

She naturally picked off the implants in the district, tying up her hair and morphing her appearance to blend in so she could remain undetected before following the general flow of the hypothetical shield. Multiple people gave her brief glances, but most were men, as per usual.

Insignificant details didn't matter to her. She had given herself a mission, and that was enough for everything else to lose meaning.

***

She ended up in the district separating the commoners from the nobles, calmly waiting in the shadowed corners of the alleys. The messenger seemed to be waiting as well, likely hanging around until the receiver arrived. Logically, she should wait until they arrived, but that wasn't her goal here.

She waited a moment more before she finally stepped out, silently relishing in the messenger's astonished face. She approached slowly like a pantheress sealing her prey's fate until she was face to face with the messenger, staring straight into his wide, starstruck eyes. She smirked, twirling around him in one swift motion and putting a stiletto blade to his throat—she wouldn't slash him, but she needed to warn him nonetheless.

With her face out of his field of vision, the messenger awoke from his trance, immediately trying to free himself only to feel the cold and sharp blade pressed against his neck.

She chuckled, shushing the teenager when he tried to speak, "I'm not one for theatrics," she put the knife down so the messenger could let down his guard, "But this will hurt."

Quickly putting a lot of strength into her left hand, she stabbed the knife straight through the side of the messenger's neck, letting go of him to let him fall to the ground. She flicked the blood off of her stiletto blade and put it back in its holster, dusting her hands as she walked over the momentarily gurgling corpse and removing the bag from under its cloak. She opened it and hummed, creasing her eyes when she confirmed the letters within it.

She wasted no time in getting out of there, opting to return to her temporary home instead of going back to the merchant district.

Was she tired of her job? Absolutely not—it would never stop being so amusing to do.