CHAPTER ONE: The royal flush

The distant rolling waves break against the jagged shoreline far below, the sheer drop swallowing their violent roar until it reaches me as nothing more than a whisper. It is a height that would guarantee a swift end for anyone else. But if I were to step off this rocky ledge right now, I would likely survive. Death is a friend to those stripped bare by the hands of fate. It is a reminder of the touch of mortality bestowed upon us. Fate, as its accomplice, cruelly exploits weaknesses and watches with a sinister smile while one grieves loss, making it a strong weapon against those who eye it with fear and a great partner in the waltz of life.

Many yearn, many flee, but no one can escape. And each step brings people only closer. It is an overwhelming thought for most but the idea of someday being enveloped in that darkness soothes my weary heart. Yet, no matter how quick my pace or how steep the cliffs I stand upon, the end will not come any earlier.

This macabre dance with the inevitable is perhaps a way to taunt death. After all, it took everything but will not take me.

I am poison. My name brings only death.

Life is dispensable for someone with nothing to lose. And what greater ploy for the opposition than to hire an assassin who fits those specifics? The cards were dealt and in their eyes, they were an ace away from a royal flush. I am that ace.

This should be the right location. The client chose a modest, cliffside villa so far from the capital that even Nieven declined me a carriage, citing hefty fares as his reason. As if this job would not pay back the travel fare a hundred times over. In gold.

With the red sun already setting, the sky is painted a mix of crimson and orange. The white sun stays a little longer, as if making sure the moon will rise before it, too, retires with the red. The cooler conditions do not help my sweat-soaked, parched state, brought on by a relentless trek since midday.

Two men clad in steel head towards me as I step closer to the property. “From the Chameleon network,” I state. They nod and lead me into the villa. It is neat but empty, save for a few wooden crates, and the open rooms are either dark or illuminated only by gas lamps. A temporary base.

The men stop in front of a wooden door, knocking before they open it to let me in. The furnished room, with its large center table and cushioned chairs, is a stark contrast from the others, though still dim.

On the far end of the polished marble table sits a masked figure in a gold-accented, velvet uniform. Behind him are six more guards and who knows, there may be more in the other rooms. As if I would try anything in such an isolated location, greatly outnumbered.

He gestures for me to take a seat. “You don’t look like much,” the man speaks, his low, throaty voice reverberating in the chamber.

“Care to elaborate?” I ask.

He leans forward, eyes glinting beneath his mask as I take off my coat, its damp fabric desperately clinging to my skin.

“A woman dressed like that would fare better in a brothel.”

“How vile. You don’t mind, right? It was scorching out there.” I chuckle, brushing imaginary dust from the sheer fabric over my thigh. “I happen to hold great affection for this dress.” If you could call it a dress.

They always expect something different. Someone big, cloaked, unassuming. But I have never liked operating from the shadows. Hiding from attention only ever delivers the opposite results. I prefer to stand in plain view—let them wonder if the villain truly is me.

I shift forward and all eyes in the room study my every move. Other than the lower half of my face, my hands, and a few strategically concealed areas, I might as well be naked. This dress was not made for modesty but rather misdirection. Spectacle. Lust. It happens to be one of my favorites.

He raises his hand, fingers curling in a silent command. A guard steps forward and whispers pass between them. The guard takes position near the wall, sword hand twitching.

He sneers and taunts, “Give me your best shot.”

“Now, now,” I say as I peel off my gloves, one finger at a time. “That’s hardly how a gentleman requests a duel.”

I rise from my seat and take a few slow steps towards him, watching the way his eyes flicker down my body. His posture stiffens. The flush is quick—rising to his ears, blooming across his cheeks. Men are simple, with their desire almost always preceding reason. They are all soiled with Ignas’ blood.

I raise a hand to his face and his eyes follow.

After a soft caress, I pull back with a soft giggle.

He blinks a few times, fingers tracing the remnants of my touch: a red, blistering trail. His silence turns into a shriek as he drops to the ground, clawing at his swollen face. The bulging welts continue to spread—like wildfire fed with oil.

With a startled curse, the masked man backs away from the table while the remaining guards unsheathe their swords, surrounding me in a tight circle, but not daring to get too close.

“What did you do to him?” one growls.

With a sigh, I slip my gloves back on, adjusting each finger with care, hoping it would placate the agitated crowd. "Gentlemen, did you hire me without understanding my methods? How embarrassing.”

Chameleon protocol requires Nieven to brief clients on my profile via a written document before the meeting. Meaning, these men knew what I could do and still fell for it. Indeed, my charm knows no bounds.

Now seated, I glance at the injured guard still writhing on the floor. “The pain will fade, eventually. The scarring, however…,” I trail off.

“You tricked me,” he snarls through gritted teeth.

I flash him a smile and jest, “You asked for it.”

Just as hunger for power can corrupt even the most loyal god, an eye full of lust is blind to a foe.

“So you’re the infamous secret agent of Chameleon? Isn’t anonymity bad for business?” the masked man states, hesitantly lowering himself back to his chair.

“Unregistered agent,” I correct. With my magicke being unique among the Nexus-born, Nieven thought it safer to remain anonymous.

“I am happy to make your acquaintance. And in my case, it’s a good thing,” I say, running a gloved finger along the edge of the table.

“Plus, with a royal union on the horizon and all the biggest names coming to visit the capital, there’s no shortage of eager clients. Well, let’s get to it, yes?” I have long lost count of how many times people have asked those same questions. The answer is simple: Either the network connects me to clients requiring my expertise or clients seek them out asking for my skills.

“It seems you’re well aware of the union so there’s no need to provide context,” he murmurs and leans back, seemingly satisfied. He then removes his mask with slow deliberation.

My chest tightens as a rush of adrenaline courses through me.

He places the mask on the table and I clench my jaw to hide my surprise. Everyone in the empire would recognize him. He is a decorated man and among the few known to all through numerous books, paintings, and parades held in his honor. To personally come see me is a risk in itself to the image he has built over the decades.

His eyes gleam a deep violet as he studies me. As if answering my thoughts, he says: “Your target is the bride-to-be.”

The words fall like a dagger between us.

I keep my voice steady. “If I understand correctly, you want your niece dead, General Rowe?”

“Yes,” he says, smiling like a man who has already won. “I want my dearest Lucille dead.”

The tightness is replaced by a fast thrumming beat. I did not expect this to be a literal royal flush. This job always proves to be so entertaining.

“Very well,” I say, extending my hand with mock elegance. “I offer my hand to your game.”

Copyright © 2026 Troian Grey. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Author's note/s:

Hi! I hope you're liking it so far. And did you catch all the references? I added so many lol iykyk