Chapter 6: Failed Assassination

N Y X A R A

I don’t move. That’s the first mistake. Or maybe the last clean one. The gathering continues as if nothing has changed. Voices low. Bodies shifting in slow, deliberate ways. The kind of movement meant to look casual while staying ready.

I stay at the edge. Exactly where I was. My breath is steady, but I’m too aware of it now. On the way my chest rises. Of how my weight favors my back foot, prepared for motion I haven’t chosen yet. The scent hasn’t faded.

If anything, it’s closer. Sharper. That same cold-metal bite, sitting heavy at the back of my throat. I swallow and keep my gaze lowered, fixed on the ground just ahead of me. I don’t search for him. I already know where he is.

The knowledge sits wrong in my body. Like a misaligned joint. Subtle. Constant. I tell myself I’m still observing. That nothing has happened yet. That being seen doesn’t change the task. But the space feels narrower now. Not physically. Intentionally. As if the clearing has decided I belong to it.

I’ve already confirmed it. Height. Build. The way the others defer without looking like they are. The stillness that doesn’t come from fear. There’s no reason to delay. Waiting only sharpens mistakes. The vial is warm against my wrist, hidden beneath leather and cloth. I haven't touched it yet. I don't rush. Rushing is how hands shake. Mine don’t.

This isn’t anger. It isn’t doubt. It’s a task. In. Administer. Out. I don’t think about what comes after. That’s not part of the job. I adjust my path step by step. Then another. The edge of the gathering opens where it needs to. No one stops me. No one looks twice.

The cup is passed hand to hand. All eyes followed the cup, not the hands passing it. Wood, not metal. Carved with symbols I don’t recognize and don’t need to. When it reaches him, I’m already close enough. Close enough to feel the heat off his skin. Close enough that the scent spikes, sharp and clean, like the air right before a storm breaks.

My fingers brush the rim as the cup tilts. A practiced motion. Nothing flashy. The vial empties cleanly. Colorless. Odorless. Gone. The cup moves on. That’s it. My attention shifts immediately. Exit routes. Shadows. The place where the trees are thin enough to run without breaking stride. I don’t watch him drink. I don’t need to. I’ve done this before.

 He drinks. Once. Steady. I count without meaning to. One breath. Two. The gathering holds. No cough. No hitch. No break in posture. He lowers the cup and hands it off like nothing has changed.

Something tightens behind my ribs. It’s not fear, not yet.  Like a door that should have opened and didn’t. I slow my breathing again. Force it back into rhythm. Sometimes it takes a moment. Another breath passes. Then another.

The silence deepens. It doesn’t belong to the ritual anymore. It belongs to the ground. The trees. The bodies standing in it. I become aware of my pulse. Too loud. I flex my fingers inside my gloves to bleed it off. Still nothing.

He stands. Just enough movement to redraw the space without touching it. His gaze lifts. Straight to me. There’s no searching in it, no confusion. Just confirmation, settling into place. The same look from before, completed now. Like the last piece clicking into a pattern I didn’t know I’d made.

My breath stutters. I corrected it too late. He doesn’t speak. The space between us tightens, pulling thin and sharp, and I know, with the same certainty that warned me earlier that observation ended the moment he drank. And whatever this is now, it’s mine.

I don’t wait for permission. The moment stretches one breath too long and something inside me snaps into motion. Reflex. I turn. The edge of the clearing is closer than it should be, or maybe my stride is shorter. My foot catches on uneven ground. I correct, but it costs me time. A fraction. Enough to notice.

The rule surfaces then, uninvited. The one that never mattered before because I never failed. No interrogation. It lands wrong now. Sharp. Suspicious. If I’m taken, I don’t make it back. The forest doesn’t open the way it should. Branches snag at my cloak. Roots press up through the soil like they’ve shifted since I last mapped the ground. My breathing breaks rhythm. I try to fix it but can’t.

I don’t look behind me. The sound dies first. Not gradually but all at once. My body stops before my mind does, locked by something deep and old that recognizes the pattern before I can name it. The scent crashes over me, close enough now that it feels thick. Heavy. Storm-metal and heat and something alive beneath it.

I lift my head. He’s there. Not blocking the path so much as owning it but close enough that the space between us feels deliberate. Chosen. I don’t reach for a blade. I don’t calculate angles. For the first time tonight, I don’t have one. The clearing behind me feels far away. Like a place I already left.

He doesn’t speak. His posture changes first. A subtle adjustment. Weight settling. Spine aligning like something inside him has finally decided to stop pretending. The air tightens. Bone moves beneath skin. Controlled in a way that’s worse than violence. His silhouette breaks its own rules, growing, reshaping, the man I was meant to kill folding inward as something else takes his place.

The ground vibrates under my boots. I take a step back. Then another. There’s nowhere to put my weight that feels safe. When he finishes, the wolf stands where the man was, massive, silent, watching me with the same steady gold gaze. Seen. Judged. And very much alive.