Rain arrived with the assassin.
It wasn't a loud storm—just a quiet, persistent drizzle that soaked the rooftops and turned the cobbled village paths into slick trails. Lira stood at the clinic's window, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders as she watched the figure in black move through the streets like a shadow with purpose.
"Elric," she said softly. "We have a problem."
He was already moving.
---
In the basement, Selene's words still echoed: "They'll want to use you. Or kill you."
Now the killing part had arrived.
Elric opened the bundle Selene gave him again. The dagger inside felt strange in his hand—neither cold nor warm, and lighter than steel should be. As if it had been made to remember hands like his.
Lira entered behind him. "We have a company. One of the bad kind."
"Can you stall them with your polite sarcasm?"
She deadpanned, "I left my royal assassin-charming boots in the wash."
He smirked. "Fair enough."
---
The assassin didn't knock. They never did.
The door creaked as it opened with supernatural silence. A breeze followed, along with a sharp scent—like rust, oil, and crushed violets.
Lira stood in the front room, arms crossed, eyes calm. "Hi. We're out of deadly intentions today. Can I interest you in a fevered toddler or maybe a sprained ankle?"
The figure tilted their head slowly, then stepped inside.
Behind the curtain, Elric waited.
As soon as the assassin passed the threshold, he moved—snapping a hidden latch. The floor beneath the assassin gave slightly with a click, triggering a spring trap that Elric had quietly installed last week.
Not to catch assassins. To protect from wild pigs.
But it worked.
The assassin fell with a startled grunt, landing in a pile of herbal sacks and old linens.
Elric stepped into view, dagger in one hand, a boiling pot in the other. "I don't know who you are, but if you'd like to leave with your kneecaps, I'd recommend a very calm discussion over hot basilisk root tea."
---
The figure didn't scream. They simply stood, clothes stained with dried ash and rain, eyes gleaming beneath the red-glass mask.
They spoke at last—a woman's voice, smooth like wine, but sharp like a dagger's edge.
"You are different from what they told me."
"I hope so," Elric said. "Did they also say I moisturize with vinegar and boil my own sutures?"
"They said you were mad."
"Then they really don't understand hygiene."
---
The tension crackled like lightning.
But before steel could be drawn, a sound interrupted—soft, wet coughs from the next room.
Cai.
The assassin's head tilted.
"A child?"
Elric moved instantly between her and the room. "He's under my care. Harm him and I will make you feel every organ in your body individually."
The assassin paused... then, surprisingly, she stepped back.
"I didn't come for him. I came to see what kind of monster heals without magic."
Lira leaned in from the side. "He's also surprisingly decent at sarcasm."
---
After a long silence, the woman removed her mask.
She had olive skin, scars across her left cheek, and tired eyes that had seen too much. Her hair was braided tightly, and the sigil of the Crimson Circle was burned into her neck.
"My name is Veyra. I was told to kill you," she said plainly. "But I've changed my mind."
Elric blinked. "I didn't realize we were already friends."
"You're dangerous," she continued. "But not in the way the council thinks. You don't crave power. You crave understanding."
He nodded. "And that's far worse, isn't it?"
"To the wrong people? Yes."
---
That night, Elric let Veyra stay.
Lira protested—loudly, with colorful language Elric suspected she picked up from a drunk baker.
But Elric was already deep in his thoughts.
Veyra wasn't the only one watching. The sigil on his wrist burned slightly now, pulsing like a second heartbeat. And he couldn't ignore it anymore.
The Bloodroot Pact wasn't just awakening him.
It was awakening others.
---