Candlelight pooled across maps and sealed contracts, casting long shadows over Sylas's chamber. Soren stood with his back straight, hands relaxed at his sides, watching as the assassin leader's finger traced a route across a yellowed parchment.

The familiar scent of beeswax and ink hung in the air, undercut by something sharper, the metallic tang of blood from a contract recently fulfilled.

"Protection, not blood." Sylas looked up, those unsettling green eyes reflecting candlelight like a predator's in darkness. "You'll guard Lady Aveline Kareth on her return to Velrane territory."

Soren blinked, the only outward sign of his surprise. For months, his blade had served one purpose, ending lives with clinical precision. The shard against his chest remained neutral, neither warming nor cooling at this unexpected directive.

"Why me?" he asked, the words falling into the chamber's hushed atmosphere.

Sylas's perfect mouth curved slightly. "Because she expects a guard who looks forgettable."

From her position against the wall, Mira shifted slightly, her tattooed face half-hidden in shadow. Her dark eyes missed nothing as they flicked between Sylas and Soren, measuring the exchange with professional detachment.

"She's valuable to us," Sylas continued, his cultured voice carrying an edge that hadn't been there before. "The House she serves has ties worth keeping quiet. Keep her breathing. Keep yourself unseen."

Soren understood what remained unspoken. This wasn't a favor. It was a test, different from the kills he'd performed, yet somehow more significant. He nodded once, a single economical movement that conveyed acceptance without enthusiasm.

Sylas's gaze sharpened, those green eyes narrowing slightly. "This will tell me if you can follow orders that don't end in death."

The implications settled around Soren like a cloak. Since joining the Veiled Hand, he had become a weapon, precise, lethal, unquestioning. This assignment asked for something else entirely, restraint, discretion, the ability to exist in the world above without leaving bodies in his wake.

Mira pushed away from the wall, approaching with silent steps. She carried a bundle wrapped in plain cloth, which she set on the edge of Sylas's desk before unwrapping it with methodical care.

"Civilian gear," she said, her voice neutral as she displayed each item. "Dark traveling clothes, a plain cloak, and a short blade disguised as a noble's guard weapon."

Soren examined the offerings. The clothing appeared unremarkable, deliberately so, designed to blend rather than impress. The blade, however, caught his attention. Shorter than his preferred weapon, its hilt wrapped in leather dyed the deep blue of noble house colors, its pommel set with a false gemstone that would mark him as retainer rather than assassin.

"You'll travel under her banner as hired protection," Mira continued, watching as he tested the blade's balance. "Speak only when necessary. Watch everything."

The weapon felt lighter than he was accustomed to, though well-crafted despite its decorative appearance. He adjusted his grip, muscle memory adapting to the new weight distribution. His movements remained fluid, unburdened by the change, though the absence of his usual armor left him feeling strangely exposed.

'A blade hidden is sharper than one drawn,' Valenna's voice drifted through his mind, cool and thoughtful.

Soren gave no response, though the shard pulsed once against his chest, a brief acknowledgment of her wisdom. He resheathed the blade in its ornate scabbard, then gathered the clothing with economical movements.

"The caravan leaves at dawn," Sylas said, attention already returning to the maps spread across his desk. "Don't disappoint me."

Dismissal delivered, Soren turned to leave, Mira falling into step beside him as they exited the chamber. The corridor beyond stretched dark and familiar, blue-green lanterns casting their perpetual twilight over ancient stone.

"She's not what you expect," Mira said as they walked, her voice pitched low enough that only Soren could hear. "Watch your words as carefully as your back."

Before he could ask for clarification, she had slipped away into a side passage, leaving him alone with his preparations and the weight of Sylas's expectations.

–

They left through one of the Veiled Hand's surface exits, a narrow tunnel that emerged beneath the twisted roots of what had once been a massive tree, now blackened and dead like everything else in the Wastes. Soren climbed out first, his movements careful as he tested each handhold in the pre-dawn gloom.

The world above felt alien after so long underground. Sound traveled differently here, sharper, less contained, carried on wind that tasted of ash and distant decay. Light pressed against his eyes despite the early hour, the eastern horizon already lightening to pale gray where it met the jagged silhouette of distant ruins.

Soren adjusted the plain cloak around his shoulders, settling it more securely against the bitter chill. The civilian clothes felt wrong against his skin, too soft, too loose, lacking the reassuring weight of armor or the familiar constriction of assassin's garb. He touched the hidden blade at his hip, its presence the only comfort in this exposed position.

He knew without looking that Mira watched from somewhere in the shadowed outskirts. Her presence lingered at the edges of his awareness, not visible, but certain nonetheless. She would observe his performance from a distance, reporting back to Sylas on whether he could function as something other than a killer.

The meeting point lay at a border post north of the Wastes, where the blighted landscape gradually gave way to scrubland, then forest. Soren set off at a steady pace, boots crunching softly on glittering sand. Each step took him further from the underground sanctuary that had become his world, closer to an assignment that required skills he wasn't certain he still possessed.

'You remember more than you think,' Valenna murmured, the shard cool against his chest. 'Before the blade, there was the boy.'

Soren didn't respond. That boy felt impossibly distant now, separated by blood and necessity from the weapon he had become.

Yet as he walked, he found himself noticing details beyond tactical assessment, the way early light caught in dewdrops clinging to withered grass, the call of some hardy bird that had adapted to the Wastes' harsh conditions, the gradual softening of earth beneath his feet as dead sand gave way to living soil.

His senses, honed for killing, found discomfort in peace. Every rustle in the undergrowth registered as potential threat. Every distant sound demanded evaluation.

His body remained in the constant state of readiness that had kept him alive through months of training and missions, muscles never fully relaxing despite the absence of immediate danger.

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