Chapter Text
Grian woke to knocking on his door.
It was the same way he was woken up every day, the sharp thump thump thump as annoying as any other alarm. Harsher, scarier, meant to intimidate, but still: annoying.
Grian groaned, rolling over in his bed. His body felt weak and tired, but the insistent banging didn't relent. Frustration lapped at his tired mind and all he wanted was to roll over again and never get up.
But he knew he couldn't.
He was smarter than that.
So he pulled himself out of his excuse for a bed, shoving his lingering annoyance away. The knocking continued as he stood, an ever-constant reminder that he had to hurry. He had things to do, places to be, a false persona to dawn.
“Xelqua!” a deep voice outside the door yelled, and Grian cringed. The name felt like a brand across his skin, but he shoved the hurt away.
“I'm up!” he snapped back, the anger hot on his tongue. But it faded immediately when the knocking stopped.
“What was that?” the voice outside asked, tone dropping dangerously low, and even though it was probably a petty guard, a small spark of panic lit Grian.
Still, it was difficult to swallow back another harsh reply. He closed his eyes and forced out, through gritted, sharp teeth, “Nothing.”
The guard sounded smug. “That's what I thought.” And the knocking restarted.
Grian felt like ripping out his feathers, but he managed to quench the urge. He knew he'd messed up with the snappy reply, but come on. He was the Watchers’ top assassin, their best pet. He didn't need a guard wake-up-call every morning.
But he didn't dare complain. He knew by now that talking back never helped.
In fact, it normally made everything significantly worse.
The consistent thumping from the door drew Grian back down to Earth, urging him to hurry up and get ready.
So he did. His body felt sore from sleep, his wings even doubly so, but his room was far too small for him to stretch them out fully. In fact, the word ‘room’ was too generous. It was more like a glorified closet. The four white walls managed to contain a tiny bed and a dresser, but that was about the extent of it. It was bare and cold and came with one singular blanket.
Still, despite its size, it was still a distinct upgrade from his last room. At least this room came with a bed. At least this floor wasn't freezing concrete. At least this room wasn't a cell.
Grian had learned to take what he could get.
Still, the tiny space made getting ready particularly annoying. He always walked away with his wings itching, sore from sleep and needing to be preened and stretched.
Whatever. He told himself it didn’t matter. As long as he had a room, he was fine.
The never ending thumping got louder, and Grian stifled a groan. He thought about being stubborn, about refusing to dress, but decided against it. The needless rebellion would just make his already difficult life more difficult.
The banging cheered him on as he dragged himself to the dresser and changed into silk, black fabric that fit tight against his skin.
Stealth clothes.
When he was dressed, he turned his attention to his hair. It wasn’t exactly long, but it wasn’t short like it used to be. He hated the awkward middle length it was, but he was only allowed to get it cut once every few months.
The Head Watchers didn't want him near anything sharp when he wasn't on a mission. Too dangerous, they said.
Whether it was dangerous for them or for Grian, he could never be sure.
Either way, he shoved the resentment away. He knew there was no use for it.
Nothing ever changed around here.
So he sucked it up and used his fingers to brush through the tangled strands. When he was done, he pulled the longer pieces behind his ears and used a rubber band to tie a messy knot at the nape of his neck.
Good enough.
Satisfied, he turned to his door. The knocking had yet to relent, and Grian made sure his taloned feet were silent as he crept towards the wood. Without so much as a warning, he threw the door open, relishing the momentary look of shock and fear on the guard’s face. For a moment, the Watcher in front of Grian looked stupid: his fist hanging suspended in the air, poised to bang again, his lips parted in surprise, his eyes wide.
But then that moment passed and the guard’s face morphed into something far crueler. There was a sharp flash of anger in his eyes, which was the only warning Grian had before the man drew back his hand and–
Smack.
The pain didn't register at first. It was just a tingling feeling across the right side of Grian's face, until that tingling mounted and mounted into a sharp feeling that had him cringing.
He'd been slapped across the face.
It wasn't anything new. In fact, it was almost as much part of his morning routine as the knocking was; Watcher guards loved to throw their weight around. And to them, that meant throwing hands, too.
That didn’t change the fact that it hurt.
At least…at least the guards were weak. The hit hadn't hurt that much; just enough to sting like harsh weather.
Just enough to show Grian how little he was worth.
The guard looked smug with his performance, a pleased grin tilting the edges of his lips. Grian could feel the resentment building inside of him as he stared at that look, the desire to hit back nearly overtaking him.
Technically, he was a higher rank than the guards. He was an assassin, a pet that the Head Watchers had trained to do their killing for them. If anything, it was him who should be slapping the guard.
But he knew rank didn't matter in this circumstance. Everyone in the Watcher group knew that Grian was just a glorified slave, beaten into submission, sharpened into something dangerous, but only outside these walls.
Inside, he was just another dog.
And dogs can be treated however you'd like.
The only form of retaliation that Grian could do was reporting the guard to the Head Watchers. But everyone knew he would never do that. It would be like admitting how weak he was straight to the people who always called him weak.
There wasn't really anything he could do.
He was trapped.
So Grian didn't do anything. Instead, he forced his face into the blank, emotionless expression he had mastered over the years and pulled his shaky hands behind his back. He bowed slightly in proper Watcher greeting, as was expected of him.
Better to be a good little soldier. Better to do as he was told than risk the punishment of disobedience.
The guard didn’t bow back, as he was supposed to. Grian's face burned from the slap, but it was something more, something like humiliation that tinted his skin red. The relationship between the guard and him was, in theory, supposed to be a solid one, built out of mutual respect.
But Grian wasn’t very respected.
The guard placed his hands on his hips and looked down at Grian smugly. His eyes were lighted with pride, with arrogance, marveling at someone he perceived to be beneath him. He relished the moment for a few seconds before scoffing and turning down the hall.
Grian closed his eyes, the hurt almost tangible, and counted to five. When he reached the number, he stood up straight, opened his eyes, and followed the guard.
The hallway was dim and narrow. There were no windows, but the Watcher hideout operated under some sort of magic that allowed the walls to imitate outside lighting. When it was noon, they glowed bright. When it was midnight, the halls were practically pitch black. Today, they were a dull grey that washed blearily over the floor tiles, so Grian knew it was early in the morning. Probably around four, at the latest five.
Typical.
The guard continued to stomp his way down the hall, his footsteps heavy on the floor. Grian wrinkled his nose at the needless sound. He hated having a babysitter; he knew his way around the hideout better than almost anyone. After all, he’d been there for years, training in combat, growing in strength, and learning the best ways to kill someone.
Honestly, the last thing he needed was a babysitter.
Still, none of that changed the fact that Grian wasn’t very respected, let alone trusted. He hadn’t been born as a Watcher, which made him automatically an outsider. No amount of training or time could ever change that.
Grian didn't belong here. He was reminded of that daily, every time he looked in the mirror, every time he was punished for some stupid mistake he'd made.
He wasn't like the other Watchers, born and raised in the cult they called home. No, instead, he’d been taken when he was young, just a small child. Stolen from his parents, his sister, his cousin.
Sometimes, he laid awake at night and thought about his family. Did they know what he had become? Did they know the monster he’d been morphed into? Did they know that the feared assassin Xelqua, the avian that hunted in the night and killed without mercy, was him?
He hoped not.
He hoped they thought he was dead. That would be easier for all of them.
Even so, on other nights, he wondered if they ever looked for him. If they thought about him when they were trying to sleep, if his sister ever woke up gasping, feeling like she was missing a part of herself.
He would never know. He almost never wanted to find out.
Pain was easier to carry alone.
Still, despite all the wrong doings the Watchers had inflicted on him, Grian spent a lot of time thinking up ways to gain more trust from them. More trust meant more freedom, and that was something Grian needed.
He wanted it, craved it. Freedom was a drug and Grian was like every addict: hopelessly ensnared and captivated all at once. He wanted time to himself, he wanted to go outside.
Even if it was just for a few moments, the outside world was something Grian sought every chance he could. His whole life was confined to the dreary, mockful walls of the Watcher hideout. The only time he ever even left was when he was sent on a mission.
And those weren’t very pleasant.
Grian could feel the memories crawling up his spine and he forced them away. He couldn’t afford to succumb to them, couldn't afford to get lost down that road. Not now, not ever, not if he wanted to avoid punishment.
He just–he did his job. He killed who he was told to kill and he left all the blood outside the hideout. He didn’t carry any of it inside with him, didn't let it stain his hands until red was the only colour he could see.
Not anymore.
He couldn’t afford to.
The guard in front of him finally dipped into double doors on the left. Grian followed him into the large room where everyone took their meals. It was about half empty, with completely bare tables lining most of the room. Grian supposed it was a bit too early for most of the other Watchers to be awake, let alone eating.
The guard who had woken him up almost immediately disappeared into the crowd, going to dine with his friends. His job, to escort Grian to breakfast, was officially over, and he wasn’t doing one thing he didn’t have to.
Grian tried not to be angry. He tried not to feel alone, tried not to feel like the black sheep he was. He knew that most of the avians here were here of their own free will, but that didn’t mean they never got punished, either.
The guard was just–he was probably worried about breaking a rule, or something, so he went off as fast as possible. It wasn't personal.
It was fine.
So Grian screwed his face into the impassive, expressionless stare that was befitting of a good little soldier. He wasn’t hungry this early in the morning, but he made his way to the avian-safe table and filled a plate anyway. He knew no matter what that it was smart to eat whenever he could, in case that privilege was taken away.
He could feel the eyes of the guards and other Watchers in the room settle on him as he sat at an empty table in the corner of the room. He hated the feeling of everyone looking at him, hated the way it made his skin crawl. He knew he stood out like a sore thumb, but still–couldn’t they at least act like they had some decency?
But he didn’t say anything, didn’t give any indication that it bothered him at all. If he did, that would be taken as weakness, and weakness was absolutely off limits.
He was Xelqua, infamous assassin in all the land. Nothing bothered him, not even a slap to the face that was sure to show, delivered by a lowly guard.
Even so, Grian ate quickly. As expected, the early-morning food turned his stomach, but he shoved the nausea away. It wasn’t anything new.
He knew he had training right after breakfast, so as soon as he was done, he stood up and left the room, feeling eyes on him the whole time.
It was stupid to leave without his escort. That was definitely against the rules, and could result in punishment for both of them, but Grian didn’t really care. He just wanted to get away from all the prying eyes of the others, and the best way to do that was to flee down the hallway toward the training grounds.
Training was one of the only things that could keep his demons at bay. Grian hated what training meant, hated that he was practising how to end someone’s life, but at least it took his mind off his own problems. When he was training, the only thing he was thinking about was how to shove a dagger into a person’s chest so he hit all the major organs, or how to strangle someone without leaving absurdly noticeable marks. He wasn’t thinking about his family, or his punishments, or the life he might have had if he never got taken.
Just killing.
So he found himself on the training grounds often. When he wasn’t on a mission to assassinate some poor political leader, or eating, or sleeping, he was here, practising with every weapon he could get his hands on.
So that’s what he did. For hours, Grian stabbed and jabbed with a dagger, sparred with other Watchers, shot his bow and arrow. Everything he could to keep his skills sharp and his mind at bay.
When lunch finally rolled around, Grian was a sweaty, gasping mess. A different guard from earlier came to escort him to the meal room, and this time, Grian followed like he was supposed to. He’d already broken the rules once today. No benefit in doing it again.
He sat at the same empty table he had before, eating quickly, the way he’d been trained to. He was just standing up to go back to the training room when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
Now, the thing about being a trained assassin is that your body reacts before your mind does. Your instincts are sharp, honed to detect even the slightest threat and to distinguish it immediately. You act first and ask questions sometimes.
So when Grian felt the touch on his shoulder, he didn't think. He just instantly whipped around, his instincts taking over, possessing his body without any warning. His body moved without his permission and he reached out towards the person, grabbing their wrist and forearm with both hands and twisting. His vision was spotted with black, his ears ringing loudly, his heart thumping in his chest like a prisoner. He didn't care what he was doing, so long as the threat was eliminated.
But, slowly, his vision cleared and the ringing in his ears faded, only to be replaced by delicate, boyish screaming.
Grian gasped and dropped the wrist he was holding, but it was too late. The guard who’d tapped him on the shoulder was a young boy with large, wide eyes. A new recruit.
A new recruit with a now broken wrist.
Grian stifled a flinch, the regret and shock heavy as it settled on his shoulders. For a moment, his hands almost reached toward the boy, to soothe him, to help, but he pulled them away like he’d been burned.
He couldn't. If he let the whole room see that weakness, he was—he would be practically inviting punishment to his door.
So instead, Grian crossed his arms to hide the shakiness to his fingers. He watched the boy cry and sob and cradle his definitely snapped wrist, the tears fat as they raced down the pale face. He was making a scene, drawing the attention of everyone in the room, but he probably didn't know how to control his emotions any better.
The kid couldn’t have been older than fourteen.
Grian swallowed thickly, the sharp bout of guilt almost enough to break his facade. The only thing that held it together was the feeling of eyes on him, wondering how the dreaded assassin Xelqua would react to what he had done.
Grian cringed and lifted his eyes slightly. He scanned the room, ignoring the crying boy in front of him. Finally, he spotted the group of teenage guard recruits, snickering in the corner.
Ah. A dare. Those boys had dared the younger recruit to tap him on the shoulder.
Grian could feel a feeling bubbling in his stomach, but he couldn’t name it. Rage. Annoyance. Guilt, humiliation. He was a potion of emotion, a tidal wave, a volcano on the verge of erupting, but he couldn’t show any of it.
Worst of all was the fear. That was the hardest emotion to hide. He could feel it sinking its sharp claws into him, ripping him apart, a reminder that he had definitely, one hundred percent broken the rules.
You’re a soldier, he reminded himself, fighting to stop shaking, shoving everything aside. He turned back to the boy in front of him, his stomach dropping, just a little bit. Act like it.
“What do you need?” he growled, lowly, crouching down to the boy’s height.
The young guard flinched, and Grian’s heart just about broke. This kid was afraid of him.
He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised.
Most children fear monsters.
“I-I-” the guard stuttered, looking towards the group of older kids, tattle-telling with his eyes. But he didn’t give them away. “Nothing.”
Grian sighed, exhaustion and defeat catching up with him at once. “Sit down,” he told the boy.
The kid immediately did as he was told. Everyone else in the room was still watching, engrossed in the story. Grian knew he should pretend to lose it, to be angry, to punish the boy.
That was his reputation. The untameable Xelqua, fearless and feared assassin in all of the land. The only person who could cow him was death itself.
Lies. All of it. Grian may be Xelqua, and he may be an assassin for the Watchers, but he was anything but fearless.
And he was very easily cowed.
Still, this was an opportunity to remind everyone who he was. He could strike fear into everyone around him, could punish this boy for even bothering to speak to him. By doing that, he'd be indirectly proving to the guards that they couldn't walk all over him. That he was still dangerous.
That was what he should do.
But one look into the young guard’s tearful eyes and he knew he couldn’t.
“Give me your hand,” he told the boy quietly. He could see the panic in the kid’s eyes, could see him debating the risk of disobeying.
He must’ve thought better of it because slowly, very slowly, he offered his bent wrist to Grian. His face was screwed up, like he was bracing for impact.
Grian swallowed thickly, suddenly aware, again, of the eyes on him. If he did this, it would surely get back to the Head Watchers. He’d definitely be punished.
Sighing, surrendering to his fate, Grian grabbed the wrist as gently as he could. His heart hurt when the boy looked so surprised at the soft touch.
“I’m sorry for hurting you” Grian whispered, quietly, so no one would hear him. “I know you just did this on a dare. So I'm going to heal it. When I do, I want you to scream, like you’re hurt really bad. Okay?”
The boy looked shocked, but he nodded hesitantly, leaning forward to catch all of Grian's words.
Grian took a deep breath and closed his eyes. No going back now.
Now, Grian wasn’t very well versed in Watcher magic, but he knew some, and healing was one of the easiest. Especially for an injury so small.
Of course, he’d only ever learned how to heal people other than himself. The Head Watchers had made sure of that, so that he couldn't treat his own injuries. They wanted punishments to hurt for a long, long time.
And they wanted those punishments to scar.
Grian shoved the thoughts away and let the power pour out of him and into the boy’s hand. He knew it didn’t hurt, but the moment the power touched the boy, he let out a bloodcurdling scream. Grian flinched at the noise, face flushing, but he kept his eyes closed and concentrated.
No one stepped in to try and help the wailing guard. Most of them were probably enjoying what they thought was an entertaining show.
But Grian knew that some of them–particularly the senior guards–would recognise what he was really doing. They would know he was healing the kid.
And they would report him for it.
Grian finished the process and opened his eyes, looking solely at the wrist, and tried to tell himself he didn’t care. So what if he was punished? He was used to it.
“Done,” he whispered, after a moment, dropping the boy’s hand. “Act hurt.”
The kid was a great actor. He groaned and cried and sobbed his way out of the room, cradling his hand like it was still broken. Grian knew it wasn’t, he knew it was probably a little sore but definitely leagues better than before.
He let out a breath, telling himself there was no reason to feel regretful. He’d kept his reputation, at least to most in the room, and even though punishment was sure, he could–he could deal with it.
He could.
Grian swallowed thickly and worked to wipe all emotion from his face. The show wasn't over; he had to remain impassive, a blank slate, an expressionless canvas.
He turned that gaze on the group of teenage guards. He debated going over there, knocking them around a bit, but he decided against it. He didn’t want to hurt anyone else, even if he did think they deserved a big smack on the head for what they had subjected that poor boy to.
Still, all he did was focus back on his meal, but he realised quickly that he wasn’t hungry anymore. He was hyperaware of every eye in the room still trained on him, some in fear, some in satisfaction.
Others in knowing.
And that was the part that was deterring his appetite so much. The dread, the fear. He was expecting the call from the Head Watchers any minute. Surely the senior guards who recognised what he was doing would have told on him by now.
It was only a matter of time.
But shockingly, the minutes allotted for lunch slowly ticked by without any more incident. Everyone else went back to eating. No one came to summon Grian, no Head Watcher burst into the room.
Lunch was just about to end, and Grian was actually feeling relieved. Maybe he’d been wrong; maybe the senior guards hadn’t understood what he was doing after all. Or maybe, more likely, they just didn’t care.
Grian grabbed onto the possibility with both hands, like it would fade away if he didn't keep it close. He finished eating and stood, daring to hope, daring to feel the desperate joy that came with knowing he got away with something punishable.
“Xelqua,” a voice said, and immediately the hope dropped, shattering like a broken glass on the floor. It was replaced by horrifying, knowing dread, but Grian shoved that emotion from his face and turned with blank eyes to the guard who had said his name. “You are needed in the throne room.”
Grian nodded, once. The guard didn’t have any sort of reaction either, but Grian thought he saw the flash of satisfaction in the man’s eyes. He was glad that Grian was being punished.
Whatever. It didn’t matter.
Shakily, Grian made his way to the doors and slipped out without another word. As he started towards the throne room, he tried to tell himself that he’d known this was coming. He’d broken the rules, so of course it would get back to the Head Watchers.
It always did.
He continued down the hall almost robotically, like someone was tugging on his limbs, like he was being forced there. In a way, he guessed he was, and when he saw the pristine double doors, illuminated in a mocking attempt of afternoon sunlight, Grian could feel his heart beating in his ears.
He didn’t want to go in there. He had no good memories in there, he didn’t want to, he didn’t–
But Grian forced himself to move.
Better to get it over with. Better to face it head on.
So he pushed the doors open.
The throne room wasn’t an actual throne room. That was just what everyone called it. In reality, it was a large, dimly lit space where the Head Watchers carried out affairs. They sat on a raised dais in the front of the room, all in large chairs, all wearing bright white robes.
This was one of the only spaces in the entire hideout that wasn’t enchanted to imitate the outside world. The Head Watchers liked to keep it dark and ominous, imitating a cave-like space. For intimidation, Grian guessed.
It worked.
Grian forced himself not to shake as he made his way to the center of the too-quiet room. He stared straight ahead and dipped into a bow, not bothering to look at the Head Watchers. It was better if he didn’t see them. He knew that by now.
“Xelqua,” one of the Watchers finally said, after what felt like a long time, voice echoing across the space. The single word was loud and Grian internally winced. Outwardly, he gave away nothing. “We have heard of your incident in the meal room.”
Grian stayed bowing. He let out a slow breath through his nose, the carbon dioxide shaky as it entered the air. He was trying to remain emotionless, like a statue, but he could feel the muscles in his wings tensing and untensing, anxious energy moving them. He wanted to twist his hands behind his back, his nervous habit, but he forced himself to keep them clasped in front of him. At least his face was pointed at the ground and the Head Watchers couldn’t see his expression.
“You are our greatest creation,” a new voice started. It was a woman’s, but Grian wasn't sure whose; he'd never bothered to learn the Head Watchers’ names. It was better to think of them as faceless, fake people. Either way, her words were more delicate, gentle, but that almost made the word creation hurt more. “We can’t have you acting out and injuring our guards. And we certainly can’t have you healing them immediately after.”
Grian sank farther into his bow. It was an uncomfortable position, but it was the expected one. He knew he shouldn’t move until he was asked to speak. His heart was beating fast.
“What kind of message does that send?” the woman continued. “What kind of reputation does that build? You are our Xelqua, our assassin. Our killer. Our monster. Act like it.”
The last part was harsh and Grian stifled a flinch, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Rise,” the man from before finally commanded, and Grian opened his eyes and stood up straight. His back and wings hurt from the hunched position, but he almost preferred it to having to look up at the Head Watchers.
“Under ordinary circumstances,” the man continued, eyes squinting at Grian cruelly, like he was some sort of bug, “you would be immediately punished.”
“Sir?” Grian asked, the word jumping out, the surprise genuine on his tongue and tasting like blood.
“Do not speak out of turn!” the woman yelled, her delicate voice gone, and this time, Grian couldn’t hide his flinch.
Right. He’d forgotten.
Heart thumping, he sank into another apologetic bow. The silence that settled in the room was almost worse than if he was getting punished.
Grian just–he didn’t understand. He deserved to be punished. What did they mean he wasn't? Why?
His mind raced through the possibilities, the reasons, trying to work it all out. He arrived at the conclusion at the same time that the man announced, “We have a new mission for you.”
Grian slowly straightened out again. He wasn't supposed to, but the news had landed heavy in his gut and he couldn’t keep bowing.
A new mission.
A, a new target.
It felt like all the life had been drained out of him. He didn’t feel scared anymore.
Just numb.
Grian lifted his eyes upwards to look at the Head Watchers. Five of them, but only two had spoken this entire meeting. Either way, they all looked smug.
They knew this was worse than any punishment they could have given him. They knew that it was another life he would be responsible for. Another person he would end, another task he would complete like the dog he was.
And they knew that would kill him.
“It’s a week's journey, at least,” the spokesman continued, when the news had settled like cobwebs. “You’ll be traveling to Hermitville. It’s a far off village.”
“Who’s the target?” Grian said, but his words came out softly.
“What was that, Xelqua?” the woman snapped. “Speak up, now.”
Grian swallowed. “Who’s the target?” he asked, louder, his words reverberating across the floor.
The spokesman didn’t hesitate. He’d likely been expecting the question. “A well-known merchant.”
Grian could feel confusion rippling through him. Why was he being sent to kill a merchant? What was the point of that?
He didn’t get the chance to ask. The Watcher continued, “We have evidence that this particular merchant is part of a rebel group.”
Oh.
Oh.
Grian swallowed thickly. If this ‘evidence’ was true, then this merchant, whoever they were, was very dangerous to the Watchers.
Technically, the Watchers themselves were a rebel group. Kind of like a cult, more or less, a secret organisation that carried out their own agenda.
Except they weren’t really secret. Instead, they were the infamous and feared criminal group that wreaked havoc on the land with seemingly no real reason. The government was all but useless in catching them, but other rebel groups had risen up over the years to try and take them down.
None had succeeded. Grian had been ordered to make sure of that.
And here he was again, no longer Grian but Xelqua, being sent to assassinate yet another member of society. Someone innocent.
At least, way more innocent than Grian could ever be.
“What’s their name?” Grian asked, softly. He was speaking out of turn, but no one corrected him.
Instead, silence settled sharply in the room, sliding in like a haunting ghost. Grian was expecting the answer to come from the main man who had been speaking, but instead it came from one of the other Head Watchers who had yet to talk. The woman all the way to the end.
“His name,” she said, “is Scar Goodtimes.”