EIGHTEEN

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Impossible

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Impossible.

I grit my teeth and take a small breath to calm myself.

"I couldn't turn him away, when he stumbled into my shop," the shopowner says. I am barely hearing him.

"No, I am so, so grateful," I say. My eyes never leave him. Him. Bran's son. Milos.

The name repulses me.

I have never had a kill survive. Never. My assignments are perfect.

Were perfect.

I cannot figure out how he made it out of that manor alive. The amount of poison in his body would have felled a prize stallion. That weak boy, who couldn't lift a single finger against his father -- he couldn't have had a chance.

"He's looking a lot better today," the shopkeeper continues, a content smile on his face.

Of course he does.

Who wouldn't, when given the blood of the gods?

I cannot believe I, of all people, wasted my blood on this mortal imbecile.

The gods must be laughing cruelly at me now.

I am - I am -

I do not know how to feel.

I am - was - am the perfect killer. Assassin.

And I am sure that he should've died.

So how did he survive?

The shopkeeper leaves me with the boy, but I barely notice.

I run a few fingers over his forehead, brushing away a few errant strands of hair. His skin is hot and clammy. His hair sticks to his skin.

"How did you survive?" I whisper, leaning over to study his face.

He looks gaunt. Gray. His eyeballs move about under his eyelids.

I wonder what is he dreaming in his poison-induced delirium?

Perhaps I should be content with his misery. Or perhaps I should put him out of his misery.

I could easily do it. There are enough herbs in this room that would finish the job.

But I do not have Zella's knowledge of plants and poisons. And I cannot take chances that the shopkeeper would be able to see through my crude and quick work.

But I should kill him now.

He's no threat to me, for sure. At least, he isn't now.

But -

He is a loose end. It is unsettling, to know he is still alive. Will still be alive.

And all because I was fool enough to save him last night.

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