Martyred Soul

Chapter 1

Part One

"The most powerful weapon on earth is a human soul on fire."

--Ferdinand Foc

Cockiness is an assassin's downfall—and I have been plenty cocky.

            I grimace down at my white dress. Well, it once was white, now it's torn with streaks of brown. The shredded bottom half is turning gray.

            Why did I have to bet my fellow revolutionaries that I could still track and assassinate the Prince in a dress?

            Cockiness.

            I train my eyes back onto my target—a few of the members of the Royal Army with the Prince at its core. To be more specific, there are two rows of four soldiers on all sides of the Prince. On top of that, they all hold shields above and around them so that they're all encompassed in a steel box.

            Now how am I supposed to get into the steal box, murder the Prince, and escape unscathed?

            Understanding my predicament, my cockiness flies out the window. I figure that I will just have to wait until they set up camp and settle down for the night. That means that I'll have to sneak past the night watch—easy enough—, get into the Prince's tent—eh—, kill him—I smile—, and kill his tent buddies as well...if they wake up.

            I desperately want to get this over with. I have been following the Prince around in the woods for five days. The Prince is an odd one. He'd romp around in the forest for months if the King would let him.

            My arms ache from climbing in the trees. I haven't set foot on the ground since entering the forest. Once I kill the Prince, I'll be able to get back to the capitol, Royal City, in a more comfortable way. Since I won't have to follow him I'd be able to take all of the secret passageways that I prefer.

            I glare at the Prince's shield and swing onto a branch, following them. I eye another, bigger branch a short hop away. I gather myself into a crouch, sights set on the branch, and jump.

            My second mistake.

            I didn't check my dress.

            I feel a tug and realize that it's caught on a twig sticking out from the branch I was just on.

            A second later, I am hanging upside down. I wonder why my dress didn't just rip before I realize that I sowed a discus—a circular blade with a whole in the center—into that part of the dress. A strip of discus all the way up.

            I silently reprimand myself as I glare at the twig sticking through the center of the discus. I grit my teeth. What am I supposed to do? I glance down at the Royal Army tromping through the decaying leaves under me and thank everything in sight that I am out of sight. Their shields block their view of a scrungy girl dangling from a branch by her dress.

            I make a split second decision: my third mistake.

            I take a knife strapped to my arm and cut myself from the mutinous part of the dress. And because of that, I do not have time to correct my fall.

            The soldier underneath me isn't prepared for a crash landing on his shield. He drops it with a gasp.

            Time stops as the soldier and I take each other in.