The assassin drew her blade from the man's sternum. His eyes rolled back into his head, a soft wheeze escaping his lungs. Blood poured onto the white marble, thickening the air with its scent. His limp form hit the ground with a dull, thud.
It took all she had not to vomit. Her third kill, and yet she still hadn't gotten used to the sound. The smell. The guilt. As she stood she could feel the nape of her neck tingle. Her third kill, her third ringlet curl forming at the base of her head.
Her still straight hair, which had fled its tie back, was stuck to her skin, damp with sweat. Her heart was beating so fast she felt she might explode from the pressure. Her hands were slick with warm blood running down her forearms. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
One day, Gren had told her, you will be the deadliest warrior Invor has ever known. One day, you will wear your curls proudly.
She dropped her sword, and as the Noble's Guard flooded the room, she decided.
That day would never come.
YOU ARE READING
Of Blood and Curls
FantasyNif is nothing. He is a beggar. A street rat. Wraindel is Saldoor's capital. It is the center of power. It is everything. When Saldoor is betrayed in the time of its first-ever peace gathering, Nif is unintentionally caught in the crossfire. Now, h...
