"It's here." The voice echoed ominously around the icy cave, bouncing off each wall and down the ice-ridden passageway that winded upwards in a swirl of clear glass, fractions of lights zig-zagging together and then apart again.

The assassin's reflection stared back at her in several ice-mirrors, and all six of them – herself – raised a hand to their stomachs. Mazikeen scowled, lightly brushing against her abdominal. She scanned all six of her reflections from top to bottom, stepping closer and observing her black overalls: skin-tight pants and a black top that defined her small waist yet accentuated her chest, topped with a vinyl jacket that gave the illusion of broad shoulders. She placed a hand to her hip, automatically reaching for one of the daggers in her belts before realising its absence. Her eyes wandered to her knee-high, sturdy boots, a dusty black colour due to several outings and treks. Her ebony-coloured bob was tucked behind her ears, and Mazikeen found herself tracing her reflection in the air, running a finger down the bridge of her straight nose, then across her thin, pale lips and then across and up her high cheekbones. Her fine eyebrows knitted together as she met her own brown eyes, wide and rounded, the only soft aspect of her sharp facial features.

She couldn't remember the last time she had allowed herself to look this long into a mirror. To acknowledge the ruthless beast that stood before her in all its simplicity and dark beauty, jaw jutted and set in a way that made her square-shaped face look stern and serious.

"What you need is here," the voice repeated, like a whisper of a wind, hushing the assassin's thoughts and sending chilling caresses into her ear. The voice resembled that of a female, like a thousand feathers and skirts ruffling, like leaves rustling in a lowly breeze. Coldness grazed Mazikeen's cheek and she squinted at the icy, narrowed landscape, turning in a full circle, her mirrored selves following suit.

"Who's there?" Mazikeen demanded, her voice harsh and brazen in comparison to the smooth texture of the mystery female's. A sharp pain shot across her abdominal, and she doubled over, clutching at her stomach.

She looked down at her blood-soaked hands and let out a gasp, remembering the twist of that sickly knife slamming into her gut and through her flesh, by none other than her Lord.

"Adiran," she rasped, collapsing to the ground as another jolt of pain threatened to tear at her insides, as if the knife were being twisted and turned within her own body this very moment, slicing against her intestines and pulling her stomach muscles taut.

"Adiran," she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut and writhing on the icy floor below, her forehead making contact with her ice-cold reflection beneath her knees.

***

She awoke. Several, long hours later, since that knife had been plunged into her abdominal, the assassin woke to find herself lying on a cold concrete floor. Decaying, mouldy bricks surrounded her, and a rusty, iron gate shut her in what she knew was the dungeons, several feet below the ground. The assassin guild's castle being already half-sunken into the dunes after the Great War, the dungeons was never a pleasant place to be in – no form of light could slither its way in, and the air was suffocating. The smell down here surpassed unpleasant and became a dank and lonely place that reeked of decaying flesh and past prisoners due to the lack of fresh air. It was hardly stuffy, however, with the cells sometimes reaching negative degrees in the cold winter nights. Although, it was difficult to breath due to the limited oxygen supplied and the insupportable stench of expired food that had been left for previous prisoners – some recent, others, decades-long past deceased.

She clenched her teeth as she uncurled from her foetal position, holding in a groan as her stomach screamed in protest. She carefully sat up, brushing her fingers along her abdominal and lifting her blood-stained shirt to see below. Surprisingly, the wound had been wrapped, and although blood covered the white bandage, it was a crusty-brown shade, signifying it had stopped bleeding perhaps a few hours prior.

A few hours.

Mazikeen's face paled and she went to stand. How long exactly had she been out? And why was she in a cell? She stood up, forcing her legs to keep from shaking as she stumbled her way towards the prison door, ready to kick at the rusty lock that barely held together.

She let out a small sound of protest when something jolted her back, preventing her from reaching the door, and she cursed, glancing down at her shacked wrists and ankles.

How had she not realised? Her observation skills were lacking tremendously, and over what – a small stab wound? She was trained to be a fighter. A ruthless, killing machine. To let a knife get the best of her mentality was unthinkable. Adiran would certainly not approve.

Her mouth dried. Adiran. What had happened? Why had he...?

No. She wouldn't allow herself to jump to conclusions. She knew better than that. She could have no doubt in her mind Adiran knew what he was doing. If he wanted her dead, the Lord Assassin would have known exactly how to finish the job. He wanted her alive. But for what? Perhaps this was another test?

She remembered when she was twelve, she had let her guard down and as punishment, she had been strapped to a chair with her legs and arms bound for three straight days in total darkness and silence, no explanation offered until one of his followers had released her on the fourth day and sent her to his chambers.

Her Lord never did anything without a reason. Her time alone at that young age had taught her the consequences of being unprepared during a surprise attack while lunching in the halls. A surprise attack could happen whenever and wherever. A lunch break did not mean a break from the dangers of the outside world. Adiran had made sure she learned that and engraved the lesson into her head. The next time a surprise attack occurred over dinner with her Lord, she had grabbed the knife nearest to her and stabbed it right through her fellow assassin's hand. She only had to be taught once, and woe to anyone who made the mistake of challenging her a second time, even if it was by direct order of the Assassin Lord himself.

There was a click and Mazikeen kept her head down as she leaned against the wall, seemingly nonchalant, though she glared at the grey-cloaked figure below lowered eyelashes.

Did one of Adiran's grey followers think they could keep her locked up? A second year? Fool. When she got her hands on him...

The grey-hooded figure stepped to the side just as he swung the door open, and Adiran strode into view, sauntering into the cell with a cold, calculated look on his face.

"My Lord," Mazikeen bowed her head lower but straightened up, grinding her teeth at the sound of metal chains clanking together as she stood tall. She had allowed herself to be trapped like a poor, wounded animal. To be tied and chained and constricted like a beast not worthy of its freedom.

"You certainly had a nice, long nap."

"How long?" Mazikeen's voice sounded hoarse and foreign in her own ears.

"Long enough."

She wasn't sure what that meant. The only indication that it had at least been hours since the incident was her dried blood. For all she knew, it could have been several days since she had made the wretched mistake of dragging that assassin's body within the castle walls.

"It's contagious by air," Adiran said quietly, too quietly, and Mazikeen knew without explanation that she had made a grave, irreversible mistake even touching that man.

"What is it?"

"A virus. One that hasn't surfaced for a long while. Very common during the Great War – until they were able to source a cure." Adiran paced the cell slowly, his eyes averted from Mazikeen, and yet she felt as if he were watching every slight movement, every blink, every breath.

"You think I'm contaminated?" Mazikeen deadpanned.

He stood still, his eyes mere slits as he scanned her from top to toe. "It became active some time during the Great War and spread like wildfire throughout the four districts. No one knows where it originated from, only that it hit people faster than they were able to die. Thousands upon thousands were wiped out before they found a cure."

"You think I'm contaminated." It was no longer a question. Why else would Adiran stab her and then lock her in a dungeon? It was the only way to stop whatever sickness was now inside her body from jumping to the next person. She should have been killed instantly for such treachery – intentional or not. The man had coughed blood onto her face. She was sick, without a doubt. Now everyone else was likely to grow ill as well. Half these assassins Adiran spent so long training would die by her hand. Adiran should have killed her off, quick and simple. Yet he had decided to spare her in the last moment. Why?

"The virus is called Aestus. It scorches the body from the inside out and affects each individual in various ways. Some people only need minutes, some days, others months before signs of boils begin to show. Aestus could have been spreading around the districts for a while now and we may not have even known it. It's not something you overtly see."

"Scorches?" Mazikeen frowned. From the inside? How would that be even possible unless... "The virus only affects Ignisians," Mazikeen's voice went deathly soft. "Doesn't it?"

Adiran's silence was answer enough. Her blood boiled and she balled her hands into fists. Ignisian. The word itself made her recoil in self-disgust – the few moments she was reminded of her disgraceful heritage.

"What do you want me to do?" Mazikeen kept her eyes trained to the ground. She was sick. Adiran's Right Hand, the most notorious assassin after the Assassin Lord himself, was sick. Dying by a sickness. How utterly pathetic.

"You seem to be maintaining your health for the time being." He gave her a once-over, his eyes barely skimming on the wound he had inflicted upon her. "Your blood flow still seems of natural colour and texture. No clots or poison detectable. But effects may begin to show soon. His blood has stained you."

Mazikeen's lips formed a thin line. She should have never neared the bastard. She should have left him to stagger and fall. She should have left it to the guards to stop him if he tried to enter Adiran's home. Then she wouldn't have been the one in the cell. She wouldn't be to blame. Other assassins might think she is a traitor – spreading it amongst Adiran's guild, and possibly to...

Mazikeen's eyes widened. "That's why you're down here."

Adiran's silence was answer enough. He would never allow himself the chance to be contaminated, never risk being in the same room unless...

"Are there any signs...?"

"No," Adiran answered dismissively. "Not yet. Though if the virus is airborne, there is no doubt in my mind I have it now as well."

Of course he caught it. Why else would he visit this filthy dungeon? Adiran never submitted to lowering himself enough to see his own prisoners – no. She was not a prisoner. She was sick. She was worse than a prisoner. Mazkikeen grimaced. She was a burden, a waste of space, and a waste of Adiran's time.

"Kill me," Mazikeen whispered softly, firmly.

Adiran cast her a wary glance. "And go to the trouble of mopping your blood from the floor?"

Mazikeen was silent. The cell floor was filthy, dusty and dirty. Grime covered the cold, concrete floor and she knew just as well as Adiran did that the cells hadn't been cleaned for decades. There was a reason he was keeping her alive.

"There are a dozen different ways you could kill me without bloodshed."

"Two dozen," Adiran corrected.

"So why don't you?"

Adiran was silent for a long moment then, and he paced the room slowly, as if truly considering how many different ways he could end his protégé's life, then deciding against it. His dark cloak swept the floor, his black, hefty boots echoing within the cell walls, each step painfully slower than the last, like a silent tango to death, his dangerous, stocky figure omnipresent and overbearing. Beneath his cloak, Mazikeen watched his chest rise and fall with steady breaths. There was a slight bounce to his steps, hinting at his cat-like agility. Even without his fighting gear, Adiran had that menacing presence in his simple, black attire. He wore a brown, heavy leather across his chest, the one Mazikeen knew was incredibly difficult to penetrate through, and his hood was pulled back, revealing his dark, grey-flecked hair, shortly cut, not unlike his beard. Although his age was a mystery to all, the Assassin Lord was most certainly younger than he appeared, and his wary eyes gave away his insurmountable experience in his craftmanship.

He finally stopped pacing and turned towards Mazikeen, standing a full head taller than the small assassin woman. Mazikeen didn't dare to glance down at the Akinake she knew to be hidden in the right inside pocket of his cloak. The short-sword was always on him, whether he was asleep or awake. He brought it with him everywhere. A gift, he had called it once. But by whom it was from or why he carried that one in particular, he never explained. All she knew was that right now, her life was quite literally in Adiran's hands. And if he decided to kill her, then she would deserve it, for all the trouble she had brought.

She bowed her head a final time, showing willingness, acceptance of what was to come.

A minute passed, and she looked up to find Adiran staring back at her with a hint of amusement dancing in his ash-like eyes.

"Why would I let you off the hook so easily, Mazikeen? My little demon who hacks and taunts and tortures under my command. I named you, I made you." Mazikeen remained still as he took yet another step closer. "I created you to be the ruthless killing machine that you are. And," he added, his breath tickling her ear. "I'm the only one that can break you." He tapped her wounded abdominal, triggering a sharp intake of breath from Mazikeen. His fingers had jabbed the very spot his dagger had pierced through, and Mazikeen focused her mind, locking away the sharp pain that tore at her stomach, determined to remain upright. This was a test. She had grown weak, she had made a stupid move. This was Adiran's lesson to her.

"I believe," Adiran continued blandly, taking a step back and scanning her face for any signs of discomfort, anything signifying what she was feeling in that instant.

She made her face stone-cold, serious. She focused on miles and miles of emptiness, darkness. All pain locked behind bolts and latches, secured behind an iron door in her mind. Pain was just another side-effect created by the psyche. She would only feel what she would allow her brain to acknowledge. Pain was not one of them.

"You still owe me a head," Adiran finished, walking back toward the cell door.

Mazikeen allowed a small smile to spread across her face. Iris's head on a platter, served to the Assassin Lord. That would most certainly bring him satisfaction and earn his forgiveness. It would be as easy as killing a dumb, clueless monkey. Iris was new to this world, so said rumour. She had no idea of what lurked within this new territory. She would just have to make sure that... Mazikeen scowled before even finishing the thought. That those powers of hers wouldn't try to emerge again. And that Iris's hadn't developed further. Not that it mattered. She could defend herself without succumbing to her powers. Magic was for the weak. And if magic was heading down the pathway Adiran suspected it was... Mazikeen's lips twitched upwards. It wouldn't be long before magic began turning on the wielder. And with Iris already not in control of her powers... perhaps she didn't even need to destroy her sister. Iris would do that all on her own. All she had to do was wait.

Adiran opened the cell door, the rusty metal groaning and squeaking in protest.

"You mentioned a cure." Mazikeen said, shifting her weight onto her left foot so as to relieve the pressure that throbbed in her stomach. She shut out the discomfort once again, focusing her attention on her Assassin Lord.

"I did, and I have already sent off dispatchers to locate her, though if her reputation does not precede her, then she will not be found until she wants to be found."

"The cure is a she?"

Adiran nodded. "At least, she is the only one who knows the procedure. And so, I'm afraid your mission has taken a slight detour."

Mazikeen's expression slackened. "No. Iris?"

Adiran tutted. "That girl can hardly process this world, let alone an ancient cure. No, she is not the cure, but she is the key to getting what we want."

"How so?"

Adiran inhaled slowly. "The Fountain. It has shown me that Water and Earth have joined forces."

"They've reunited?" Mazikeen blanched, burning and bubbling at the thought. Two elements to face now, to eliminate. "But... the hidden princess?"

"She has been found and saved by Iris. Doubtless, a bond shall form from that incident. You'll find it harder to get to Iris now."

"I can still take her down," Mazikeen snapped viciously.

"I know," Adiran held up a hand. "But not in the same way anymore. Iris is forming friendships, alliances. Fast and without even knowing it herself yet. And Anahita – who has gone as Raena all these years – knows more than Iris. She is not so naïve."

"But her powers couldn't have developed much further than Iris's," Mazikeen responded, her eyes narrow slits. "There is no chance she could have learned to nourish them if she's been in hiding. We would have been able to track her down otherwise."

"And indeed, her powers have not transgressed far," Adiran agreed. "But she has them nonetheless, and she is not a fool to the history of Caedus. She knows what dangers lie out here, and she has a much keener sense."

Mazikeen let out a small snarl. "Does Raena know the procedural cure for Aestus?"

"No," Adiran replied brusquely. "Raena is far too young to know of the casualties that occurred during the Great War, and whoever cared for her throughout her childhood would undoubtedly want to keep such things from a child, foolish as it may be."

"So..." Mazikeen felt the pit of her stomach stir slightly, like some deep, unpleasant part of her was already dreading Adiran's next words before they formed on his lips.

"So," Adiran said slowly. "Consider this another step towards gaining patience. You'll be playing a sort of double-agent. You'll need to 'join forces' with the two sisters in order to find the cure."

"No," Mazikeen snarled before Adiran finished, and the cold eyes that met hers instantly made her regret her outburst. "My Lord," Mazikeen said carefully. "I am an assassin, not a spy. I'm not there to get friendly and talk gossip with... with..." she recoiled as Adiran continued for her.

"Your sisters? Sometimes assassins are forced out of the shadows, Mazikeen."

"What good would I be there, among them?" Mazikeen spat. "I could splice both their heads and skin them alive before either one could lift a finger or try their damned magic on me."

"The prophecy is slowly taking place, Mazikeen," Adiran growled, his patience running thin. "That much is clear now. How or when it will happen, is not certain, but if the missing princess is no longer missing, then it won't be long."

"The prophecy states that only once the four of us are reunited, will the Kingdom be restored," Mazikeen took a step forward, her jaw jutted out in a feral sneer, hands clenched in fists by her sides, chains hanging loosely. "I will never join them. Not even if I was on my last, dying breath."

"And you won't," Adiran stated calmly. "But what better way to break that prophecy, then by becoming a part of it first?"

Mazikeen blinked once, twice. She mulled it over in her mind, considering. "Then what?"

"Convince them to find Caeli, Princess of the Caelian. If rumour speaks some truth, then only she knows the cure to Aestus, as the virus consists of an element purely formed from the Caelian royal bloodline. Airborne viruses can only be halted by air, after all. Extract what information you need, and once you have them all playing in your hand, in the same corner..."

A dangerous, cynical grin spread across Mazikeen's face. "When they least expect it."

"Earn their trust. Learn their weaknesses. Then strike them when the time comes."

"That could take much longer than our initial plan," Mazikeen's smile faltered. "The Caelian Princess hasn't been located outside her district in years. She has forces and perimeters set miles out from the Caelian District."

"Then I suppose you'll have to do a convincing job at winning your other two sisters over. Use a sob story. Tell them your life is on the line and that Caeli is your only hope. I don't care how you do it, Mazikeen. Just find a way." He began to turn on his heel as he added. "And Mazikeen, don't let anyone spot you on the way out. I don't need the whole guild thinking I've taken pity on you and spared you. Nor do I need you further contaminating other Ignisians in my guild."

He exited, shutting the door behind him, the only indication that her mission had begun being the fleeting glance he gave her shackles before disappearing down the cobwebbed hall.

Mazikeen looked down at her chains, rusty and timeworn. Infiltrate, extract, kill. It would be the words she'd use to remind herself to keep from ripping out her sisters' throats instantly.

Mazikeen attempted to slide off the shackles from her wrists, but the rounded cuffs scratched along her thumb, unable to fit over it.

Another of Adiran's tests. Punishment for what she had released upon his Followers, upon him. Once she loosened herself, she wouldn't waste time. The plan was to be set in motion effective-immediate.

She braced herself for what came next, taking hold of her left thumb in a tight grip. The only way to get out of these shackles would have to be by dislocating her hand. Starting with her thumb.

She didn't hesitate or yelp as she violently twisted back her thumb, a loud crack splintering within the cell walls.