Morning found her the way it always did—slowly, reluctantly, as if the world itself hesitated to wake her. Mirelle stirred beneath the weight of sleep, her body sinking deeper into the mattress before her mind clawed its way back toward consciousness. She exhaled softly, her breath warm against the cool linen of the pillow. The room was hushed but not silent; the faint hum of the city filtered through the shuttered windows, a low murmur of life beyond the walls. Somewhere, a kettle whistled in a distant apartment, a door creaked open in the corridor below, boots scuffed against stone. The world continued, indifferent to the fact that she was still caught between waking and dreaming. She rolled onto her back, the sheets slipping away from her bare shoulder, exposing skin marked faintly with the remnants of sleep. The early light, diffused through heavy curtains, traced the curve of her collarbone, the fine line of her throat. She lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, cataloging the sensations of her own body—the dull ache in her muscles, the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest, the lingering warmth where her pulse beat beneath the hollow of her wrist. She existed. That was enough.
The flat was small, sparsely furnished, but it suited her. It was not a home, not in the way most people meant the word. It was a space she occupied, nothing more. A single room and a narrow kitchenette, a wardrobe half-filled with clothes that blurred the line between practicality and disguise. The walls were bare except for a single bookshelf, the spines worn, the pages dog-eared and annotated in a careful, meticulous hand. A few belongings were scattered across the small wooden table—a wrist watch that did not work, a knife that did, an ashtray that had never held a cigarette. She had lived here for years, but it did not feel lived in. It felt like a holding place, a quiet between moments, a space where she could be alone with the shape of herself. She pushed the blankets away and sat up, raking a hand through her hair—a mass of dirty blonde but in the right light, gold caught at the edges, a trick of sun or candle flame. It fell in soft waves over her shoulders, unruly from sleep, half-wild. She tucked it back, her fingers trailing absently over the strands before reaching for the mirror on the nightstand.
A gaze that had been sharpened by too many nights without sleep, too many things seen that could never be unseen. There was something unreadable in them, something that did not quite invite interpretation. The kind of eyes that made people pause, as if they had seen them before in a dream or a distant memory. Her skin was pale, lightly freckled in a way that felt almost out of place—as if she had been made for a different kind of life, a softer one. But she was not soft. Beneath the delicate lines of her face, there was something built for endurance. Strength beneath fragility, iron beneath lace. Her brows were dark and defined, lending her an expression that was always just a little too severe when left unread. Her lips, full and unpainted, pressed together in thought before she exhaled and looked away from herself. It was a face people trusted at first glance.
She ran a damp cloth over her face, washing away the remnants of sleep. Her movements were deliberate, methodical. Every action felt like preparation. Even now, even in stillness, she was always preparing. She dressed in silence, the fabric cool against her skin. A fitted blouse, dark trousers, boots that had been broken in by necessity rather than time. She braided her hair loosely at the nape of her neck, letting strands escape where they wished. She did not dress to be seen. She disappeared. In the kitchen, she filled the kettle and set it on the stove. The gas flame flickered to life with a quiet hiss. Routine was a comfort, even when comfort was a luxury. She leaned against the counter as the kettle warmed, rubbing absently at the curve of her shoulder where the tension still lingered. The city hummed beyond the window, distant and unknowable.
The sound of her letterbox interrupted her throughs, The past arrived in a thin, crumpled envelope. Mirelle stared at it for a long moment, the paper soft at the edges, as if it had been passed between too many hands before reaching her. The ink of the address was slightly smudged, damp from the morning fog that had clung to the streets. She already knew what was inside. She bent, plucking it from the floor where it had been slipped under the door. No return address. Just the name of a man. Another name to carve into the city's bones. She didn't open it. Not yet. Instead, she turned her attention to the other letter—a different weight, a different history. The paper was thinner, sun-bleached along the edges. A postcard. A painted image of rolling hills, wildflower meadows stretching toward an endless sky. The kind of place where people grew old with soft hands and easy hearts. The kind of place Delphine and Thalia now called home. “The lavender is just beginning to bloom, " the message read, written in Delphine’s careful, looping script. The air smells sweet, and the village held a festival this week. It was beautiful—you would have hated it.”
There was no malice in the words. Only a kind of light teasing, the same tone she had used when they were children, when she was too young to understand what it meant to be left behind. Mirelle traced the ink with the pad of her thumb, pressing just enough to feel the texture of the paper beneath her skin. They sent a card every month. Without fail. She had never sent one back. She told herself it was to protect them. That if she stayed silent, if she erased herself from their lives, they would never have to fear being found. But there was another reason, buried somewhere deeper, somewhere she did not like to acknowledge. She did not know what to say. How did you tell someone that your world had become a thing of cold streets and silent deaths? That you lived in the margins of existence, a footnote in a city that did not care whether
you breathed? They would never understand. Because they had left. Because they had been allowed to leave. A deep, familiar ache coiled in her chest, pressing against the place where she had buried the memory of that night. The night she had watched them go.
She had been twelve when her mother pressed a hurried kiss to her forehead and told her to be good. Twelve, when her father’s grip had tightened around her shoulder, anchoring her to the doorstep, his voice quiet but firm. "You will stay, Mirelle." Twelve, when she watched Delphine clutch Thalia’s hand, their faces wide-eyed and afraid as their mother bundled them into the back of a wagon, the wheels already creaking over damp cobblestones. "Papa, come with us." Delphine had pleaded, tugging at his sleeve. "Please." But her father had only shaken his head. "Go with your mother." "Then Mirelle too—" "No." The word was final, spoken without hesitation. Mirelle had understood, even then. Her father had been a man of work. A man of duty, of stubbornness, of walls built too high to climb. He could not leave Erelis, could not abandon the life he had built. And if he could not leave, then neither could she.
Her mother had not argued. She had kissed Mirelle’s hair, but there was a distance in her touch, something more of obligation than of love. Mirelle had always been too much like him, too sharp at the edges, too difficult to hold. It was easier to take Delphine and Thalia, with their soft hands and lighter hearts. Easier to leave Mirelle behind. She did not cry when the wagon rolled away. She did not run after it, did not reach for the only family she had left as they vanished down the rain-slicked road. She stood still. Silent. And when her father sighed heavily beside her, muttering something about the wind, she had simply turned and walked inside. That was the last time she saw them.
Her father lasted four years. Then his name appeared in the ledger. Mirelle had not been surprised. He had always been a man too proud, too unwilling to bend. He had spoken against the wrong people one too many times. And in a city like Erelis, resistance was an invitation to the grave. She had found his body in the street. No name. No ceremony. Just another tally in the Syndicate’s quiet war. She had buried him herself. Then she disappeared.
Mirelle blinked, the present settling over her like a weight. The postcard was still in her hands. The lavender fields still stretched toward an open sky, painted in careful brushstrokes. She set it down, tucking it inside the small wooden box beneath the bookshelf. Another fragment of a life she no longer belonged to. Then, finally, she picked up the letter. She slit the envelope open with a flick of her knife, unfolding the single sheet inside. One name. A man she did not know. But soon, she would. Mirelle exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the paper settle in her hand. The past was a thing of postcards and open fields. The present was here, in the ink and in the silence. She had work to do.
The chamber was vast, hollow with wealth. Marble and polished obsidian, woven through with veins of red. Columns rose high above them, reaching toward a ceiling shrouded in shadow, its artistry lost to the dim flickering light of the gas sconces lining the walls. The air was thick—not just with incense, but with something heavier, more oppressive. A presence. This was a place not built to house men, but to remind them of their insignificance. At the center stood the table—long and black, carved from a single slab of polished stone, its surface cool enough to frost the breath of those who sat too near. It had been here for centuries, as had the ledger that lay open upon it, inked with names that had once belonged to the living. The ledger once served as a suggestion, something that was to guide the people of Erelis through its written destiny, now it served as a death warrant. The men and women who gathered around it did not sit easily. They were not equals. Some of them still pretended to be. Kallias did not. They sat at the head of the table, the embodiment of something cold and vast, a mind sharpened by years of wielding life and death as numbers in a balance. Their posture was relaxed—deliberate—while the others carried an edge of tension, a stiffness in the shoulders, a darting of the eyes toward one figure that lingered at the farthest edge of the room.
The Last Witness they called him, whispers in the shadows. He stood apart, not yet taking a seat, his silhouette cutting sharp against the low firelight. He was taller than all of them—broad and quiet, a figure carved from the same stone that had built this chamber. Even without the mask, his presence alone was enough to draw unease. But with it— his sharp cheekbones, the way his eyes were shadowed but ever-watchful beneath it—He was an executioner incarnate. The air shifted as he leaned against the stone pillar beside him. He did not speak. He did not need to. The others did not meet his gaze. Not yet. Kallias tapped two fingers against the ledger, breaking the silence. "This problem is not so little anymore, it is getting worse."
The words slithered through the room like a blade unsheathed. "An anomaly." The council members stirred—Syvena, Mistress of Contracts, exhaling a quiet breath through her sharp nose as she folded her arms, her eyes glowing in the dark with silver flame; Thelwin Vaere, the industrialist, leaning forward in his chair, hands clasped together too tightly; Lord Varcen, with his ever-watchful smirk, a man who only truly enjoyed a meeting when someone else was about to die. A problem. An anomaly. That was not what they called this when the deaths were orderly. When the balance remained undisturbed.
And yet names had been crossed from the ledger too soon—without permission, without price, without order. The deaths had not been theirs. Kallias’s fingers brushed the paper, resting upon the most recent name. Casvian Dain. His name should have remained in the ledger for another six months. Another six months of deals struck, of debts amassed, of influence shifted before he was meant to be erased. Instead, he had died in a gutter, his throat slit in an alleyway, his secrets lost before they could be properly siphoned. "Someone," Kallias said, calmly, coolly, irrevocably, "is playing with our ledger." Syvena spoke first, leaning back in her seat with a slow, almost amused tilt of her head. "A rogue killer is not uncommon."
"No," Kallias agreed. "But a killer who only strikes those in our books, whose work is clean—too clean—and whose pattern suggests intelligence rather than instinct?" They exhaled, soft but sharp. "That is uncommon." A murmur rippled through the table. Syvena smiled faintly. "You're saying this is an assassin."
"An assassin we did not authorise," Kallias corrected. Thelwin Vaere scoffed, shaking his head. "This city breeds killers like rats in a trench." He gestured to the ledger, dismissive. "What does it matter if one takes a few names off the list? Less work for us, isn't it?" "A rogue blade is a cheap tool," Lord Varcen mused, "but a useful one, if sharpened correctly." Kallias did not move. But their voices cut through the murmurs. "Whoever is doing this is not a cheap tool. And they are not interested in working for us." They let the words settle. Then, a final blow. "They are not following the balance. They are tipping it." Silence. That was the true offense. The deaths themselves were nothing. But the economy of them—the value in when and how they occurred—that was everything. "Someone," Kallias murmured, "is breaking the laws of death itself." The weight of the words made the room colder. Thelwin scowled. "Then find them." Syvena, always entertained, arched her brow. "Do you have someone in mind?" Kallias did not answer.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Instead, their gaze flickered, just briefly, toward the man still standing at the edge of the room. Solmiris had not moved. He had been silent throughout the discussion, watching, waiting. But now, he felt the weight of the room shifting toward him. A stillness. A moment suspended between decision and order. Kallias did not smile. "You will find them," they said, and the words were not a request. Solmiris tilted his head. He did not refuse outright. But he did not agree. "Whoever they are," he said, voice smooth, "they seem to be doing your work for you." Kallias exhaled. "Is that what you think?" He pushed away from the pillar, stepping forward into the dim light, the full weight of him settling into the room, making the air shift. "That is what I know." The silence that followed was heavier than the marble beneath their feet. The other council members sat motionless, unwilling to interfere in what had just become a battle of will. Solmiris knew this game. Knew how Kallias played it. But this time, the move was different. Because this time, Kallias reached for the ledger. Their fingers barely brushed the cover, but it was enough.
Solmiris tensed. It was such a small reaction—a flicker of something unseen, a tightness in his shoulders, a shadow crossing his stance—but in a room full of predators, no movement went unnoticed. A pause. The Kallias’s voice, as soft as it was final. "You will find them," they repeated. "And when you do…" A final turn of the page. A closing of an unspoken deal. "You will erase them." Solmiris did not respond. He did not need to. The weight of the ledger had already been decided for him.
The city was restless tonight. Mirelle could feel it in the press of bodies moving through the night, in the way the lanterns flickered as if the air itself was uneasy. She moved through the veins of Erelis with the quiet certainty of someone who belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once. The city was vast—a sprawling labyrinth of old stone and quiet ruin, where ancient spires stood shoulder to shoulder with glass towers, where carriages still rattled over uneven cobblestones even as neon signs hummed faintly in the deeper districts. The world had not chosen between the past and the future. It had simply decided to keep both. Mirelle understood
that. She had long since stopped believing in clean lines, in clear definitions. The world did not divide neatly into light and dark. It blurred. It bled. And tonight, someone else would bleed with it. Her target had a name, but it did not matter.
She had followed him for a week—long enough to map his habits, his weaknesses. Long enough to know that his absence would not be mourned by anyone who deserved to grieve. His kind always thought themselves untouchable. They walked with the confidence of men who had never feared the night, never understood that the dark had its own predators. Mirelle had no use for arrogance. She was patient. She was inevitable.
This man was like the others, Her tip- offs were never wrong, she never questioned them, But sometimes she dug deeper, just in case. Not this time, she had watched long enough to know exactly what he was. A Predator. On Tuesday afternoon, she had followed him across the river to a small ballet studio, its front window glowing warmly against the grey - spun light of the evening, The kind of place where parents lingered in the Doorway, where laughter and music blurred together in soft, golden harmony.
He was greeted with flurries of smiles. The little doves in their pink tutus flocked to him, their satin ribbons trailing behind them, their tiny feet tapping eagerly against the polished floor. Mirelle perched on the other side of the road, the studio visible. The lesson began. He was a ballet teacher, a flicker of doubt ran through Mirelle, but she had seen many men hide behind titles and it had not taken long to see past his. Wandering hands. A grip that lingered too long. A correction that did not need to be made. It was enough.
When he finally left The Red Room, she followed. The rain had started again, fine and misting, turning the streets into slick ribbons of light. She kept her distance, her pace perfectly timed with his. Not too close, not too far. Just another footstep in the night, another part of the city's rhythm.
He turned down a narrow street, one of those half-forgotten arteries where the walls leaned too close and the gutters swallowed the light. Good. She let him walk deeper, let him pull further away from the main roads. And then she moved Not rushed, not frantic. Just fast enough.
She reached him just as he was lighting a cigarette, the brief flare of the match illuminating the moment his expression shifted—the flicker of recognition, the slow dawn of too-late understanding. She did not hesitate. Her hand clamped over his mouth, the other sliding the knife beneath his ribs, upwards, precise. A single thrust. No excess. No wasted movement. His body jerked, a half-strangled sound swallowed by her palm. She held him there, feeling the quick, desperate pulse beneath her fingers. The body fights even when the mind knows it has lost. It did not take long. When she eased him down, guiding the weight of him onto the wet stone, he was already stilling. She withdrew the blade. The blood ran hot over her fingers, steam rising faintly in the cold night. She did not wipe it away. She let the city take the moment, let the quiet return. And then she turned to leave.
But the feeling was still there. That weight. That presence.She had not imagined it. Mirelle exhaled, slowly, carefully, turning her head just enough to scan the street behind her. Nothing. No figure in the rain. No movement in the shadows. Mirelle walked, but she did not go home.
She let the city swallow her instead, the rain misting against her coat as she moved through the arterial streets, the pulse of Erelis shifting around her. The feeling of being watched had not faded, but she ignored it. Or tried to. A low fog curled between the buildings, clinging to the wooden beams of old merchant halls and the iron railings of winding staircases. She cut through an alley, past the quiet shuffle of beggars counting their coins, past an old woman selling cloves and dried sage from a cart. The smell of spiced liquor bled from the taverns that lined the street ahead, filling the air with warmth despite the bite of autumn. She found herself at The Wren’s Hollow. It was older than it looked, tucked beneath an overhanging row of townhouses, built low into the street as if trying to sink into the city’s spine. The entrance was marked only by a brass lantern, its flame flickering behind a warped pane of glass. It was a place for people who didn’t want to be found—criminals, informants, debtors looking for a way to disappear. But it was also one of the few places where Mirelle could sit and not be looked at too closely. The warmth hit her first. The air was thick with aged whiskey and the faint ember-smoke of charred wood. The lamps were low, casting golden shadows across the oak beams, the worn leather seats, the faces of those who spoke in hushed tones over half-drunk glasses. Mirelle eased through the space like she belonged, because she did. She slid onto a stool at the bar, elbows against the counter, letting her damp coat fall loose from her shoulders. Behind the bar, Iosef was polishing a glass. He was built like a man who had spent his younger years breaking ribs for coins and now preferred breaking them over a bottle instead. He didn’t greet her. Didn’t need to. Instead, he placed a glass in front of her and poured. “Good evening Mirelle” She took the drink and tipped it against her lips, letting the burn settle against her tongue before swallowing. Iosef hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t press.
He rarely did. That was why she liked him. The world outside demanded answers—every interaction a calculation, every conversation a knife hidden in silk. Here, there was only silence and drink and the understanding that some things were not meant to be spoken. And then, a
voice behind her.Low. Familiar. “You’re still alive, then.” She didn’t tense, didn’t turn right away. Instead, she took another sip before glancing sideways, her eyes landing on Luthien.
He had not changed much. A lean build, dark blonde curls that never quite stayed in place, a mouth that always seemed on the verge of something between a smirk and an insult. He still wore his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his coat hanging loose over broad shoulders. An old habit. An old ghost. “I could say the same for you,” Mirelle murmured, setting her glass down. Luthien eased into the seat beside her, drumming his fingers against the counter. “You’re never here this late.” She didn’t answer. Because he was right. The Wren’s Hollow was a place she visited, but never lingered. Yet tonight, she had lingered. He watched her, the way he always had. Not like prey, not like something to be conquered. Like something to be understood. She had hated that about him. “What are you running from, Mirelle?” His voice was too smooth, too easy, slipping past the cracks in her careful control. She turned fully then, leaning on her elbow. “Who says I’m running?” Luthien’s smirk deepened. “You forget I know you.” She held his gaze, She had shared a bed with Luthien one night after erasing a name from time, he was handsome, not bad in bed, and maybe in another life they would have been lovers. “You don’t know me.” A flicker of something passed over his face. Not quite amusing. Not quite hurt. Just recognition. Or maybe he knew exactly who she had become. The Wren’s Hollow had started to fill in more, the quiet hum of conversation deepening into the coarse laughter of men who drank too fast and too much. Luthien settled beside her, his shoulder brushing hers—not an accident, never an accident with him. “Funny,” he murmured, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Last time I saw you, you swore you’d put a knife in me if I breathed near you again.” Mirelle took a slow sip of her drink. “Maybe I got soft.” Luthien’s grinned. “Doubtful.” She exhaled through her nose, amusement flickering, even as she tried to smother it. It came through the door in the form of three men. Not Syndicate. Not rich enough. Too Rough at the edges, too eager in their stance. Mercenaries, maybe. Sell-swords looking for easy money. They were loud, blunt instruments of men, the kind that had never been taught to move quietly through the world. The kind that had never needed to. They took up space like they owned it. And they noticed her. One of them—broad, leather-braced forearms lined with faded scars—tilted his head, his mouth curving with something half-amused, half-unsettling.
“Well, well. Thought I recognised that face.” Mirelle didn’t tense, but Luthien did. Not obviously. Just the smallest shift—his fingers wrapping loosely around his glass, his weight settling forward on his elbows. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge the brutes, either. Not yet. She tipped her glass toward her lips, taking her time. “You must have me mistaken for someone else.” The brute huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Doubtful.” Luthien’s grin returned, sharper now, hungrier for a fight. “You have a lot of admirers, Mirelle?” She exhaled, slow. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” The brute took a step closer.
Not threatening. Testing. Mirelle finally turned her head, meeting his eyes for the first time. And he hesitated. Not long. Not much. But enough. It wasn’t because she looked dangerous. Not in the obvious way. It was because there was something in her that did not flinch, did not shrink. A woman like that made men uneasy. Luthien leaned back against the counter, watching, waiting. He wanted to see what she would do. The brute’s smirk returned, but it was thinner now, forced. He lifted his hands, mock surrender. “No trouble here. Just didn’t expect to see the White Veil in
a place like this.” Mirelle went still. Just for a breath. A heartbeat. Luthien noticed. The brute’s grin widened. “Ah. So you do know the name.” Mirelle lifted her glass, took a slow sip, swallowed the burn. And smiled. Not the kind of smile that softened. The kind that sent prey running. Luthien had seen that smile before. So had the brute, apparently. Because he took a step back. Not even realising he had done it. The others said nothing. Mirelle tilted her head. “Still want to talk?” A long pause. Then, the brute laughed, the sound was rough. He turned his hands outward, stepping back toward his friends. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your little date.”
Luthien snorted, shaking his head. Mirelle did not correct him. She only watched as the men moved on, found a different table, and let the moment dissolve. Luthien’s exhaled, tipping his head toward her. “So,” he murmured, low and teasing. “White Veil?” She turned toward him, slow, her lips still faintly curved. “Still breathing?” Luthien’s grinned. “Looks like it.” Mirelle clinked her glass against his. “Then don’t ask.” She drained the rest of her drink. The drinks kept coming. She wasn’t sure if it was one glass or three before the edges of the room began to blur, soften, distort. Iosef had left them alone. The tavern had thinned out, the night deepening, wrapping its arms around the city like a lover. Mirelle let herself sink into the warmth of it.
The walk home was a blur, the steps up to her apartment were a blur and the slow crawl to her bed was a blur. All of it a blur, a deep pit to forget. She told herself tomorrow she would train, lay off the late night booze for a while.
