Assassin Aesthetic Novels & Stories

Her untied, long, straight, midnight black hair are laid beside her shoulder and it gave a faint glow as it imitate the clear beam of the bright moon in each strands. Gazing at the moonlight always takes her back of how the moon always guided her with its light through the night. It's always heartwarming to thought of those memories of how the moonlight touched her eyes with beauty. It's beautiful but also a painful burden, since it also reminds her of her parents and how she always stain its guiding light. In every assassination she does, a pool of crimson blood always will be formed, and the moon illuminated it with its crystal clear shine. It will always highlight the bloody pool of crims

he replied after a short pause. She blinked slowly and smiled. "Do you think I fear anything?" she asked and he chuckled lightly. This felt so wrong, she felt weird toward this man. (Just because he's acting like this doesn't mean he's not a man who killed thousands of people), she needed to remind herself. She's an assassin, and he's her target. Maybe this is why he's so dangerous. He can play with emotions like how he plays with guns. Killing him grants her freedom.

We locked the dungeon’s door and walked back toward the bedroom, making sure to walk in the shadows as we did, careful not to be seen. We entered the bedroom and I couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief when we did, wrapping my arms around Iris and pulling her in for a hug. The two of us were yet to grieve over who was once the best assassin of her time. She was known for her strength, power, and purity. The idea of her betraying the way she did would have never occurred to my mind had we not lived through it, and seeing that she tried hitting two birds with one stone, and that one of those birds was Iris and I didn’t come as pleasing to me.

I said as I gently picked up the knife that had fallen beside me. Before becoming a professional assassin, you must attend several training sessions in order to master all of the techniques that an assassin must know and study, and one of those techniques is that when one area of your body is vulnerable, you must think of another strategy to strike your opponent. "B*tch, don't be too arrogant or you'll end up at Satan's door!" My assailant had laughed at my confidence once more. "Oh please, don't joke about it because you'll regret it, I swear," I said to my assailant, "because you'll be the one to wind up on Satan's doorstep, honey," I said coldly.

Leanunya countered, not budging an inch. Wolferan sighed, before speaking, “I am asking as it will give me a better understanding of why you chose to become an assassin, a criminal” Leanunya huffed, “alright you want to know? Well, I was left with an old woman who didn’t even know how to take care of herself ok?”

Gabriel said, “I didn’t much want to be alive. Ten years of waiting, not knowing if the pull would ever lead anywhere. So I found the most dangerous work I could.” She waited. “I was an assassin, Honor. A professional killer. I took contracts — targets — and I eliminated them. That was my life for the better part of a decade.” She stopped walking. He stopped too, hands in his pockets, and let her look at him. Let her take the time she needed to put it together, to decide what she thought of it. He’d learned enough about her to know that rushing her to a reaction she hadn’t fully formed would only make it worse.

Moving in uncanny synchronization, silent as smoke. Each wore a mask carved like a hollowed skull—silver patterns swirling across its surface. Their garb was shadow-blend cloth, impervious to the dim lighting, their weapons glinting dully like wet fangs. Their scent—a mix of ash, wolfsbane, and cold iron—told me what I needed to know. Assassins. Not rogues. Not wolves. Trained killers. They had come for us. The leader, broader than the others, raised a curved blade... an ancient design serrated with twin rows of teeth, and crossed his arms. It was a silent signal. At once, they struck.

His eyes weren't their usual striking gold anymore; they were a terrifying, glowing crimson, burning with the promise of absolute death. In a display of terrifying, supernatural speed, Cassian intercepted the assassin before the man's boots could fully settle on the floor. He didn't just hit the man; he pulverized him. Cassian caught the assassin by the throat mid-air, the force of his grip snapping bone instantly, and slammed him down into the marble floorboards. The wood cracked under the impact. The threat was neutralized in a matter of seconds, the second assassin dropping like a stone, completely lifeless before he even knew what had hit him.

I feel my bones start to break the second the night air settles against my skin. I shift and run into the woods, feeling the adrenaline rush through my veins. Just like Kiera had said, I see a rogue staring at me like he’s been waiting there for me all along. My assassin instinct slams into me and I pounce on him, desperate to smell some flesh. It fights back, bruising me with its claws. But I heal almost immediately. And that’s when I see a mark too familiar to ignore. My mark. The one on my neck.

The light on my skin dimmed from a vibrant, living flame to a dull, bruised orange. Beside me, Rowan let out a sound that wasn't a roar, but a pained groan. His massive, ten-foot frame seemed to sag. The amethyst fire that usually rolled off his fur was being pulled toward the porcelain masks of the assassins, disappearing into the red slits of their eyes. He swung a massive claw at the nearest figure, but the assassin simply leaned back, the movement so precise it looked mechanical. The green needle in the assassin's hand hissed as it cut through the air, leaving a trail of poisonous vapor that made my lungs burn.