Aubade

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

An assassin's greatest fear is unpredictability.

But this was Zahir's greatest flaw.

He sat perched on a balcony overlooking the grand ball, his eyes locked on a specific woman. He watched carefully, as she danced and laughed, her wine colored dress swirling around her. She threw her head back, baring the skin of her neck, brushing her long hair from her shoulder. Her movements were as light as the fall of snow, and small and graceful as the steady flow of water of a stream. Zahir drew back his arrow, aimed for her bosom, aimed to kill. He pulled back the string, his gaze trained on her. The orchestra's music soon faded, and she was left alone on the dance floor. She swayed from side to side, glancing up at him. For a few minutes she held his gaze, an eerie silence that seemed almost deafening, however she broke it, startling him with a wink, and disappearing through the carefully sculpted entrance. Blood rose to his cheeks, and his heart thumped fearfully. He slinked off the balcony, tucking his arrow into his quiver and slinging his bow over his shoulder. Zahir crawled to the edge of the window, leaping down from the rooftops. He hid behind a pillar, concealing his body, his gaze never wavering from the woman in the wine colored dress.

"I know you're there." She called out, laughing. Laughing? He thought to himself, quickly slinking to the other pillar, as footsteps approached. He turned his head to the other side, listening intently for footsteps.

"Think you're so inconspicuous, don't you?" She asked, her eyebrow raised, and her fist grabbing the back collar of his shirt. With ease, he flipped her over, blocking her legs with his knee, and dagger to her throat within seconds. She simply smiled at him, glancing down at the dagger. He felt the tip of something sharp piercing his back. He stiffened for a moment, and a cruel smirk appeared across her lips. They stared at each other, neither daring to move, until Zahir slid away from her grasp, knives tucked away into his sleeves. She sat up, running her hands through her hair in an effort to fix her appearance. His face was covered by a mask, his eyes the only sign that he was even remotely human.

"Third floor window on the turret?" She inquired, standing up, dusting the leaves from her sparkling gown. Irritation heated Zahir's face, and he clenched his jaw, his hand resting on the knife tucked away in his belt.

The mask of humor disappeared from Ilaria's eyes, rather replaced with a repressed disappointment. The blade spun between the fingers on her left hand, narrowly missing the tips of her fingers each time.

"Who sent you?" She asked, an edge creeping into her voice, eyes ablaze with fury. They circled one another, locked in a captivating dance.

Zahir's kohl-lined eyes narrowed, his dark brows pinching together. His silence infuriated the princess to no end.

"You had the courage to kill someone you hardly knew, but not enough to answer them? What kind of a man are you?" She taunted, red blotches appearing on her cheeks. Zahir was angry at her comment, but kept his straight face as best as he could. He was already in trouble with the princess. It would most likely worsen the situation, especially if she came to know her mother was the one responsible for her supposed murder. She stepped forward, slitting the knot on his mask before he could move. Her green eyes blazed at him, tracing over the ragged scar that ran from his temple to the corner of his mouth.

A humorless chuckle rasped from her lips, as she stepped backwards.

"Ashamed of a measly scar, is that it?" She taunted, noticing a visible hardness form in his gaze. The tick of the muscle in his jaw gave her all the information she required, fueling her sharp words, and shaping them like a dagger. His scar burned the longer her eyes lingered upon it.

"I can't think of anything more shameful than parading around in a glittering gown and attending superficial parties when your country is suffering." He spoke in a low raspy tone. She scoffed, looking at him.

"Don't speak of things you know nothing about." for the first time during the entirety of their conversation, he saw her shoulders grow tense with anger.
"Same goes for you, your highness." Zahir's tone was mocking and jeering at her, intended to make her feel small. His efforts, however, were in vain.

She jutted her chin out at him.

"Do you have a name, or are you simply a scar-faced asshole?" Zahir smirked.

He grinned at the redness that exploded in her face.A humorless chuckle escaped his lips.

"I'll ask again. Who sent you? Was it my mother?" She asked, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. Shock flashed across his face for a brief enough moment for her to scoff.

"Of course she did." Zahir stared at her, dark eyes analyzing her. She rolled her eyes at him.

"Goodbye, Zahir." As he watched her walk away he realized he'd never told her his name.