Azel's eye pressed against the crack in the compartment door, viewing the world through a thin strip of light that revealed his father's study.
He could see Lyanna standing three feet away, the ceremonial dagger clutched in her small hands. She'd positioned herself exactly as their combat instructor had taught them—weight on the balls of her feet, knees bent, blade in proper guard position.
She looked like a warrior. She looked like a Rashdov.
She looked like a nine-year-old girl about to die.
The three assassins stood just inside the shattered doorway, black figures in their masks and leather armor. For a moment, none of them moved. They seemed almost surprised to find a child standing between them and their objective, as if they'd assumed the study would be empty.
Then one of them laughed.
It was a wrong laugh, too casual, too amused. It echoed off the book-lined walls like an aural mockery of everything this room had stood for. This was his father's sanctuary, a place of learning and strategy and careful planning. Now it was full of killers who laughed at a little girl with a blade.
"Step aside, child."
The voice came from the assassin on the left—woman, judging by the pitch, though her features were obscured by the black mask. Her voice was gravel grinding on gravel, harsh and edged.
"We're not here for you. Just need to search this room."
Lyanna didn't move. Didn't even flinch.
"Why are you doing this?"
Another assassin—male, taller than the woman—shifted his weight.
"Orders, girl. Nothing personal."
"Nothing personal?" Lyanna's voice broke on the words. Blood still ran from the gash on her forehead, dripping past her eye. She had to blink it away to keep her vision clear.
"You're killing my family and it's nothing personal?"
"Your father made a choice," the woman said. Her casual voice had shifted to something harder, colder.
"A choice that wasn't his to make. Choices have consequences."
"What choice?" Lyanna demanded. Azel could hear the desperation in his sister's voice, the need to understand why this was happening.
"What did he do?"
"Doesn't matter now." The woman took a step forward.
"Last chance, child. Step aside. We have no orders concerning the children. You can live through this if you're smart."
Behind the bookshelf, pressed into his cramped hiding space, Azel's small hands balled into fists.
They were lying. He knew they were lying.
Kieran had been a child too, and they'd killed him without hesitation. These people weren't here to search the study. They were here to eliminate everyone with Rashdov blood.
Lyanna must have known it too, because she didn't move.
"What did my father do?" she asked again, her voice now stronger.
"Tell me. Tell me why you're killing us."
The woman's laughter died like a candle snuffed out.
"Your father tried to change things that should never be changed. He thought he could break old oaths, expose old secrets. He was wrong."
"He's the best man I know," Lyanna said, and Azel's heart broke at the present tense. His sister still thought their father might be alive. Still had hope.
"He was a fool," the woman said flatly.
"And now everyone pays. Last warning, girl. Move."
Lyanna's response was to shift her stance, blade rising slightly.
"No."
The assassins moved.
But Lyanna moved first.
She lunged forward with speed that even the trained killers didn't expect. Rashdov blood ran true—their father always said that, and it was apparent in the way Lyanna's small body burst into motion. No hesitation, no fear, just pure explosive action honed by training drilled into her bones since she was old enough to hold a wooden practice sword.
The ceremonial dagger flashed out in a perfect arc. The woman assassin tried to dodge, but she'd underestimated the nine-year-old girl.
The blade caught her across the forearm, slicing through leather and into flesh. Blood sprayed.
The woman cursed, stumbling back.
For one impossible moment, Azel thought his sister might actually do it. Might actually fight them off. She was so fast, so precise, moving exactly the way their father had taught her—
Then the other two assassins reacted.
They were professionals. They'd been surprised, but surprise only lasted a heartbeat.
The tall male moved left while the third assassin—shorter, more compact—moved right. Flanking positions.
Lyanna tried to pivot to face both threats, but she was too small, too young. She didn't have the reach or the experience to defend multiple angles simultaneously.
The tall assassin's blade came in low. Lyanna saw it, tried to parry, but her ceremonial dagger wasn't balanced for real combat. The heavier weapon knocked her blade aside.
The shorter assassin struck from behind.
Azel watched the dark blade punch through his sister's back and emerge from her chest.
The metal was so dark it seemed to absorb light. Red fanned around it, staining Lyanna's nightdress.
Seven seconds.
That's all it had been. Seven seconds from her first lunge to the blade emerging from her chest.
Lyanna looked down at the metal protruding from her body. Her expression was dazed, as if she couldn't quite process what she was seeing.
The ceremonial dagger slipped from her fingers and clattered on the wooden floor.
"I'm sorry, girl," the shorter assassin said quietly.
"You were brave."
He withdrew the blade.
Lyanna collapsed like a puppet with cut strings. She hit the floor hard, her small body making a sound that would echo in Azel's nightmares forever.
Blood began to pool around her, spreading across the polished wood, seeping between the floorboards.
Moving toward the bookshelf.
Moving toward him.
Azel's hand clamped over his mouth, squeezing so hard his lips crushed against his teeth. A scream was building in his chest—a sound so vast it felt like it would tear him apart from the inside.
But he couldn't let it out. Couldn't make a sound. Lyanna had died to keep him hidden. He couldn't waste that sacrifice.
Through the crack, he watched his sister's blood creep closer.
Dark red, almost black in the low light. Steam rose from it in the cold air. Lyanna's eyes stared at the ceiling, already glassy. Already gone.
"Search the room," the woman assassin said, pressing a hand to her bleeding forearm.
"Quickly. We need to make sure there's nothing here that can cause problems later."
The three figures spread out through the study.
They moved methodically, professionally, checking drawers, examining papers on the desk, running their hands along the walls looking for hidden compartments.
They knew what they were doing. They'd done this before.
One of them—the tall male—moved toward the bookshelf.
Toward Azel.
The assassin's boots stepped over Lyanna's body without ceremony, leaving bloody footprints on the wood.
He reached the bookshelf and began examining the spines, pulling out random volumes, checking behind them for hidden spaces.
Azel couldn't breathe. His lungs had seized up, refusing to take in air.
The scream in his chest pressed against his closed throat, demanding release. His hand stayed clamped over his mouth so tightly he could feel his pulse hammering against his palm.
The assassin moved along the shelves, getting closer to the section that concealed the compartment.
Three feet away.
Two feet. Close enough that Azel could smell him now—smoke and copper and something else, something sharp like metal or blood or death.
One foot away.
The assassin stopped directly in front of the hidden door.
His gloved hand reached toward the books that concealed the mechanism.
If he pressed the right spine, if he noticed the slight gap where the door didn't quite seal…
Azel's heart hammered so hard that he was certain the assassin could hear it. Could hear the terrified beating of a five-year-old's heart three inches away through a hidden door.
The assassin's hand hovered near the seventh book on the fourth shelf.
The trigger book. The one Lyanna had pressed to open the compartment.
His fingers brushed the spine.
Then he stopped.
Turned.
Looked directly at the bookshelf.
Azel's heart stopped.
Through the crack, the assassin's dark eyes seemed to stare straight into the compartment, straight through the hidden door, straight into Azel's soul.
Could he see the crack? Could he see the gap where light leaked through? Could he sense something wrong, something off about this particular section of shelving?
The assassin's hand moved toward his belt. Toward a blade.
Azel's world contracted to that single moment.
The assassin's hand on his weapon. The dark eyes fixed on the bookshelf. The scream still trapped in Azel's chest. His sister's blood spreading across the floor three feet away.
Everything hung in perfect, terrible balance.
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End of Chapter 3