Kaelen stood over the assassin's corpse, his heaving. The exertion of channeling the Weave through an untrained body left him feeling as though he had run a marathon a blizzard.
He looked down at his own hands, pale, slender, almost translucent under the moonlight streaming through the high arches.
They were the hands of a scholar, or a pianist, not a killer.
He turned his gaze to the intruder. The assassin was a wiry man wrapped in layers of matte-black leather that seemed to swallow light.
A hood obscured his face, but Kaelen nudged it back with his foot. The man had a scar running from his left ear to his chin, and his skin was a sickly gray, marking him as a "Dust-walker,' a low-castle human often hired for dirty work in the slums.
"Heavy," Kaelen muttered, assessing the mass.
He grabbed the assassin by the collar of his leather tunic. Kaelen gritted his teeth, his muscles burning as he dragged the dead weight across the polished marble floor.
He opened the massive wardrobe made of dark Ironwood. Inside hung rows of extravagant clothing, silks in violet, teal, and silver, embroidered with pearls.
Kaelen shoved the body inside, pushing aside a row of velvet doublets to make room. He locked the door with a satisfying click.
"Step one: Containment," he whispered, his voice smooth and detached.
He walked to the full-length mirror again. He needed to understand the vessel he now inhabited.
He looked frail. There were dark circles under those eyes, and his collarbones were prominent beneath his nightshirt.
"A broken instrument,"
"Beautiful to look at, but unable to hold a tune," Kaelen diagnosed, touching the cold glass of the mirror.
He needed to rest now, if he passed out now, the Queen would win. He climbed back into the four poster bed, the silk sheets feeling cool against his skin, and forced his breathing to slow, counting the rhythm of his own heart until sleep took him.