Chapter 2: So, My Personal Assassin is Also a Micromanager
Let's get one thing straight: I am not a graceful panicker. After the hunter-poofed-out-of-my-room thing, I didn't have a sensible, royal meltdown. I did a full, three-act play of chaos in my chambers.
Act One: Denial. He was a stress-induced hallucination. A weird combo of champagne fumes, adrenaline crash, and that suspicious prawn puff from the buffet. I told this to my reflection. My reflection, pale and wide-eyed, did not look convinced.
Act Two: Frantic Preparation. Okay, if he was real, I couldn't face my possible executioner in a silk nightgown covered in tiny embroidered moons. (The irony was not lost on me.) I raided the back of my wardrobe, emerging with stiff, old riding leathers that made me sound like a walking saddlebag. I looked less like a deadly starlight wielder and more like a stable boy who'd gotten lost.
Act Three: Pure, Unadulterated Dread. This lasted until about ten minutes before dawn, when it was replaced by a new, profound emotion: annoyance.
The old glasshouse in the western gardens wasn't a picturesque ruin. It was a depressing, skeletal thing that mostly grew mildew and regret. The perfect place for a clandestine magical lesson or a murder. Potay-to, potah-to.
He was already there. Because of course he was.
He'd ditched the grey functionary disguise. Today's look was "Leisurely Shadow Assassin." Dark, practical clothes that looked soft but probably hid seventeen knives. He was examining a cracked pane of glass as if its failure to contain a plant was a personal insult.
"You're late," he said, without turning.
I spluttered. "The sun isn't even up! It's literally still night!"
"The rendezvous was for before dawn. This," he finally glanced at the bruise-colored sky, "is during-dawn-adjacent. You're late. Rule one: my schedule is your new religion. Disrespect it, and class is cancelled. Permanently."
My desire to live was at war with my desire to throw a rotten pot at his head. "Has anyone ever told you you'd be a terrible teacher? You lack positive reinforcement."
"I'm not a teacher. I'm a hazard mitigation consultant. Now." He turned and did a slow, appraising circle around me. The leathers squeaked in the silence. "Let's see the problem. The smallest, most pathetic spark you can muster. Don't try to impress me. In fact, try to bore me."
Charming. I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the fact that a professional killer was judging my posture. I held out my hand, focused on that familiar, icy knot in my chest, and willed it to do something tiny. A little glimmer, like the last ember in a fire.
A sad, sputtering flicker of light appeared above my palm. It looked less like cosmic power and more like a confused lightning bug.
"Wrong," he declared.
"It's a light! It's small! You said pathetic!"
"It's a leak. You're clenching every muscle you have, including ones I'm fairly sure you're making up, trying to strangle the power. Then you're squeezing one little bit out the side like toothpaste. You're fighting yourself. No wonder you're exhausted."
I dropped my hand, frustrated. "Well, what's the right way? Whisper sweet nothings to it?"
"Closer than you think." He stepped in front of me. Before I could flinch back, he poked me squarely in the chest, right over the solar plexus. "The power is here. You're treating it like a trapped badger. Stop trying to sit on the cage. Open the door a crack and ask it to hand you a single thread."
"You want me to… ask my potential for destruction to be polite?"
"Your potential for destruction currently has the emotional intelligence of a startled cat. You keep yelling at it. No wonder it hisses and freezes people." He dropped his hand. "Breathe. Into the space. Make room. Then request. Don't demand."
This was the most insane advice I'd ever received. My entire life was a monument to demanding this power stay quiet. But I was out of options. I closed my eyes, feeling ridiculous. Okay, Cosmic Cataclysm. Hi. Sorry about all the throttling. Could I please, maybe, have just one tiny thread?
I took a breath, and instead of tightening my mental death-grip, I imagined… relaxing. Creating a little space in the panic.
I opened my eyes.
A single, perfect, steady filament of silver light hung in the air above my palm. It didn't flicker. It didn't waver. It hummed softly, casting a clean, cold light that made the dewdrops on a spiderweb nearby glitter like diamonds. It was… lovely.
A giddy, disbelieving laugh bubbled up in my throat. I did it. I asked, and it listened.
I looked at Kaelen, a stupid, triumphant grin on my face.
He did not grin back. His expression was that of a man who'd successfully assembled a piece of IKEA furniture—satisfied, but deeply aware of how stupid the process was. "Adequate," he muttered. "Now, hold it."
"Okay! For how long?"
"Until I say stop."
The grin died. "What? Why?"
"Because control isn't about the big, flashy moments, Princess. It's about the boring ones. It's about not accidentally setting your curtains on fire because you got distracted by a bird. Endurance. Stability." He walked over to a crumbling stone bench, dusted it off with a fastidious swipe, and sat down. He crossed his arms. "Consider this your magical plank pose. Now, quiet. You're concentrating."
And so, for the next ungodly hour, I stood in a derelict greenhouse as the sun rose, holding a single thread of starlight. My arm began to ache. My focus wavered. The thread flickered.
"Don't you dare," his voice cut through the silence, bored and sharp. "You drop it, we start the hour over."
I locked my elbow, gritted my teeth, and focused on the thread. I watched the dust motes dance in its light. I listened to the distant sounds of the palace waking up. I felt the absurdity of it all: a princess, a hunter, and the world's most high-stakes knitting lesson.
At one point, a sparrow flew in through a broken pane, landed on the iron frame above him, and chirped. Kaelen didn't move, but his eyes tracked it with an intensity usually reserved for armed combatants. The bird, sensing it was being audited, pooped on a leaf and flew away.
I snorted, trying to choke back a laugh. The thread wavered dangerously.
"Focus," he snapped, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Just once. Maybe it was a muscle spasm. Maybe, just maybe, it was the shadow of a smile.
Finally, as the sun properly cleared the horizon, painting the mist gold, he spoke. "You can stop."
I let my arm fall, the light winking out. The relief was immediate and profound. I was sweaty, my hair was sticking to my neck, and I'd never been prouder.
"Tomorrow," he said, standing. "Same time. We work on making two threads. And for the love of the Void, find quieter trousers."
He walked towards the deepest shadow in the corner of the glasshouse.
"Wait!" I called out. He paused. "What do I call you? I can't just think of you as 'The Grim Reaper with Good Posture.'"
He glanced back. For a second, in the new sunlight cutting through the grimy glass, he didn't look like a mythic hunter. He looked like a very tired, very serious man who'd just spent an hour watching a princess hold a piece of string.
"Kaelen," he said. Then he stepped into the shadow and was gone.
I stood there, in the quiet and the dust and the bird poop.
Kaelen.
I had a name for my doom. And against all odds, it felt like a start.