Chapter 1: The Assignment

N Y X A R A

The training wing is colder than the rest of the compound. They keep it that way on purpose. Cold slows reaction time. Cold makes mistakes visible. Stone drains heat through the soles of my boots. The air smells like metal and antiseptic. Clean enough to sting if I breathe too deep.

I stand at the edge of the hall with my hands behind my back and my eyes forward. My breathing settles without instruction. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Four counts each. A habit from early training, back when panic still needed managing.

Two Candidates spar under a handler’s supervision. One hesitates. The correction comes fast. A baton strike, short and controlled. Not enough to break skin. Enough to teach. Pain here isn’t punishment. It’s information. The boy grunts. He doesn’t cry. That matters. I don’t watch long. Watching invites comparison. Comparison wastes focus.

The walls are stone reinforced with steel ribs. No windows. No clocks. Time in the Guild isn’t measured in days. It’s counted in assignments and recovery cycles. Someone once mentioned, casually, that the compound was built over something older. A fortress. A grave. The Guild favors foundations with history. It helps sell the illusion that this place will last.

A door opens at the far end of the hall. My name isn’t called. It never is. A green light flashes once. I move immediately. Obedience isn’t fear. Fear drags. This feels lighter. Automatic. Like stepping where the ground has already been mapped.

They call me a Ghost. It simplifies things. Ghosts don’t leave witnesses. Or questions. Or parts behind. Conversation thins as I pass. People shift their footing. I registered the looks without meeting them. Curiosity from the younger ones. Calculation from the handlers. Something closer to superstition from the rest.

I am twenty-two years old. I’ve been killing since I was fourteen. The numbers don’t settle into pride or shame. They sit like inventory. A medic steps aside as I pass. His eyes drop to the insignia stitched inside my collar. Black thread on gray.

Ghost-class. No rank. No trajectory. Ghosts burn out quickly. Everyone knows it but no one says it. I’ve outlasted the last three in my tier. Not because I’m stronger. Because I’m efficient. I don’t pause when the moment arrives. I don’t ask why a name appears on a slate or why it’s later crossed out in red. I’m not exceptional. Just reliable.

The Guild prefers reliability to talent. The injection room is narrow and overlit. White light. No shadows. A chair bolted to the floor. A stainless tray already prepared. I sit and roll my sleeves up without being told. The medic doesn’t speak. They never do.

The serum burns. Not sharp. Just steady. Pressure builds behind my eyes. I focus on a crack in the wall across from me. Hairline. Forked. Like a vein.

“Clear,” the medic says. The word hits its mark. A minor trigger. Something loosens. Aligns.

“State your last assignment,” a handler says through the glass.

“Target neutralized. No witnesses.”

“Method?”

“Environmental failure.” My voice is flat. Approved. Accurate.

For a moment, something presses at the edge of my awareness. Not a memory. The outline of one. Light catching eyes. Too bright. Wrong. I blink. The pressure folds in on itself and then gone.

“Good,” the handler says. Dismissed. The serum did its job. I don’t resent it. Resentment requires attachment. The briefing chamber is circular. One table. One suspended slate, dark for now.

Thorne Maddex stands opposite me with his hands folded. No smile. I stop at the marked line.

“Sit,” he says. I do. The slate activates. Terrain overlays bloom into view. Borders. Elevation. Old trade routes long forgotten. The western edge pulses faintly.

“Rumors have resurfaced,” Thorne says. “Persistent. Unverified.” The image shifts. Forest. Mountains. Borderlands.

“Wolf activity.” The word lands like a diagnosis.

“Organized,” he continues. “Led.” A tightness hits my chest. Quick. Sharp. Gone. Wolves are a classification. Not a fact. Monsters officially. Myths, unofficially.

“Your target is believed to be a leader,” Thorne says. “Charismatic. Difficult to access.” The slate freezes on a river bend where paths converge. I assess entry points. Sightlines. Exits. The tightness fades as function takes over.

“Cause of death?” I ask.

“Make it look like an accident,” he says. “No witnesses.” The slate goes dark. The room feels smaller. I nod once. I straighten and speak the embedded response trained into me before language carried meaning.

“I acknowledge the assignment. Parameters received.” Thorne watches closely. Listening for deviation. A breath. A pause. There isn’t one. That part of me was stripped early.

“The departure window opens at dawn,” he says. “You’ll travel alone.” I nod. Alone reduces variables. He studies me a moment longer. A final check. Confirmation that I’m still functional. Still his.

“Dismissed.” I stand and turn toward the door. The green light blinks as I pass through. No relief follows. Relief assumes tension. This is a sequence. Input. Output. Assignment accepted. The door doesn’t close.

“Nyxara.” My name stops me mid-step. Irregular. I turn. Thorne hasn’t moved, but his voice is lower now. Less procedural.

“One more condition,” he says. I wait.

“This target is not to be interrogated. Not recovered. Not studied.” He slides a data slate across the table. Red seal. High clearance.

“Make it look like an accident,” he repeats. “No witnesses.” I retrieve the slate. It’s lighter than I expected. The file opens. A blurred image. Height estimate. Build. Movement patterns. Then the name resolves.

Kaelor Voss. A sharp pull in my chest. Immediate. Gone before I can name it. I don’t recognize the name. That should be enough.

I look up. “When?” Thorne’s mouth shifts. Not quite a smile.

“Soon.” I nod and turn again. This time, the air doesn’t settle the way it did before.