CHAPTER FIFTEEN: The Big Fight
Milani perched on a thick log, its surface worn smooth with time, high enough to serve as a makeshift bench. Her gaze was locked onto the full moon, a silent guardian that loomed over the night sky like a celestial sentinel—watching, unblinking, as if it alone bore witness to the secrets of the world.
Or maybe not. Maybe it was just a moon, and she was just a woman staring at it.
In her arms, Lenora slept soundly, her small frame rising and falling with steady breaths. A half-eaten orange rested in her lap, forgotten the moment sleep claimed her.
If only I could be as free as the wind… life would be worth living. The thought drifted through Milani’s mind, carried by the same breeze that whispered through the trees.
She wondered if there truly was a deity—one who heard silent pleas, one who could make this mission swift and merciful. A memory surfaced: a sister-in-arms who had prayed earnestly to the god in the sky, begging Him to stop her from committing further atrocities. The prayer had been answered. She was taken out of the system. But her body had remained behind.
Milani sighed, shifting slightly to keep Lenora’s head from slipping from her arms. The child, so innocent, so unbothered, slept with the peace of one who trusted completely.
“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” she murmured, brushing stray strands of hair from Lenora’s face. “I only need information. I won’t hurt you… or your uncle.”
A small smile ghosted her lips. She has a head full of hair, doesn’t she? She’s going to be beautiful someday…
A voice sliced through the stillness, cold and edged with quiet accusation.
“You’ve done well, turning that little one’s heart against me.”
She looked up to find Blade sitting across from her on a lower log, the wind kicking up a flurry of sand between them. They both shut their eyes against it, and when it passed, he dusted his face off with the back of his hand.
She smirked. “I should be thanking you. If you hadn’t been so harsh, maybe she wouldn’t have found comfort in me.”
Blade’s gaze lingered on Lenora, cradled so easily in Milani’s arms. “Was she your original mission? You two seem… unnecessarily close.”
Straightforward. No pretense. He wasn’t in the mood for games.
Milani’s lips curled into a crooked smile. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”
“If I told you I did, would you believe me?”
She chuckled. “I’d find it odd if the infamous Blade of the Robe Citadel placed his trust in a simple smile.”
His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he gave a slow nod, looking away.
The wind returned—not with sand this time, but with silence.
And yet, she refused to let it settle. “What age did you start going on missions?”
“Ten.” He answered as though it were trivial, but Milani felt the weight of it ring in her ears.
“And training?”
“Three.”
Her stomach clenched.
She hesitated before asking, “Have you ever… regretted a target? Ever felt guilt?”
His back was to her, the moon’s glow catching in his long black hair. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then…
“We’re trained not to feel. We kill without knowing our targets’ pasts, without questioning the orders. Guilt and regret are luxuries never afforded to us.”
She nodded slowly, though she doubted she could ever agree.
“So—”
“Enough about me.” He cut in smoothly, turning to face her fully. “Let’s talk about you. Hopefully, this time, there won’t be lies.”
Milani raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Ask away.”
The wind softened, as if drawn in by the shift in conversation. Overhead, the moon shone brighter, its silver light casting them in stark relief.
“Is this your first mission?”
The question caught her off guard.
She blinked. “Why do you ask?”
Blade’s expression didn’t waver. He was waiting for an answer, not a deflection.
She exhaled. “Yes. It is. Why?”
His lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile but held the weight of amusement. Obviously.
No seasoned assassin would be so careless—leaving trails so visible that even the target could follow them.
“This mission… it must be personal,” he mused. “A wager? A test?”
Milani let out a slow breath. “That’s enough questions for one night.” She rose to her feet, shifting Lenora carefully so the child’s head rested securely against her shoulder.
Blade smirked. “Didn’t realize my questions had sedative effects. If I’d known, I would’ve used them on my targets.”
She ignored him, disappearing into the small house without another word.
Alone once more, Blade leaned back against the log, resting his arms behind his head, gaze drawn to the night sky.
Why would they send a rookie after me?
The thought gnawed at him.
Unless… there was no one else for the job.
He exhaled, pulling his legs in slightly.
Then he noticed…
Something wasn’t adding up.
The whisper of footsteps reached him through the shifting sands, their rhythm distinct. He listened intently. Firm yet swift, but with a slight lack of precision…definitely not from the Citadel. His ear twitched slightly as he focused.
Then came the faint sound of wind brushing against metal.
A weapon. Likely a knife.
The breathing was controlled, not erratic. Physically trained, perhaps a man. But the two-second gap between footfalls suggested otherwise. A woman, then.
The moment he sensed the presence behind him, he adjusted his posture.
The blade came fast, slicing through the air toward his back. He dodged, pivoting swiftly as he shot to his feet. In one fluid motion, he seized the assailant’s wrist, yanking them closer. His fingers found their throat, tightening with effortless precision as his left leg kicked the weapon from their grip.
His voice was a lethal whisper. “Has no one ever told you…” He leaned in, his grasp constricting. “Never attack an assassin from behind?”
A sharp crack split the air.
Her heel—three inches of solid block—drove into the back of his skull with pinpoint accuracy. A numbing jolt surged through his body, his grip weakening for a fraction of a second. She capitalized on it, slamming a fist into his jaw. The force sent him reeling, knocking him off balance. The log beneath his feet became a cruel betrayer as he tumbled.
Before he could even hit the ground, a vicious kick struck him square in the chest, sending him hurtling through the air. He crashed into the decrepit woodshed, the impact rattling his bones.
Through blurred vision, he saw her silhouette standing firm, her breathing ragged.
“Pride, they say…” she murmured, her voice unsteady but victorious. “…Comes before a downfall.”
He blinked against the dizziness, his pulse thundering in his ears. Every nerve in his body screamed in protest, but the fight was far from over.
Then, he saw her.
A child’s small hands clung desperately to the assailant’s back as she bolted toward the house.
Lenora.
The haze vanished. Pain became irrelevant.
A raw, unrelenting force surged through him as he propelled himself forward, chasing the attacker with relentless speed. He was on her in seconds, seizing her by the shoulder. She turned sharply, her knuckles colliding with the bridge of his nose. White-hot pain erupted, his eyes welling up instantly, vision fragmenting.
But he wasn’t stopping.
Calculating. Timing. Waiting.
The sand was his ally.
He dropped low, sliding between her strides just before her foot met the ground. In one swift motion, he kicked up a burst of dry sand, blinding her. Then his elbow crashed into her ribs, sending her stumbling. Her head met a jagged rock with a sickening crack—but not enough to knock her out.
That didn’t matter.
Lenora was in his arms now, her small body pressed firmly against his chest. He adjusted her carefully, ensuring she was secure, her head nestled against his shoulder.
The wind howled, lifting the sand into a swirling storm.
His opponent was still dazed, her vision compromised. He didn’t wait.
His free hand seized the back of her head. The first slam against the rock left her dazed. The second left her barely conscious. The third…
The sharp edge pierced her skull. A rush of crimson spilled forth, dark and unrepentant. Her hair, like a silent conspirator, masked the evidence of her death.
Blood spattered his face. A few droplets stained Lenora’s clothing, but that was inconsequential.
He crouched, rifling through the woman’s black jumpsuit. No insignias. No notes. No clue as to who sent her.
Useless.
Adjusting Lenora’s weight in his arms, he turned toward the house.
“Now that we’ve handled the distraction,” he muttered, voice a lethal calm. “It’s time to deal with the real problem.”
His eyes flicked toward the house.
Milani had been watching.
And whether she was innocent or guilty, she had no proof either way.