The assassin had fucked up. Again.

The evidence was everywhere—the room drenched in blood, the target dragging himself halfway to the door before she'd finally managed to stab him in the back. Not fatally, of course. No, that would've been far too efficient.

Nimeira had to finish the job herself. A snap of her fingers, a flicker of divine will, and the mortal's life blinked out. One of the perks of being a god.

Now there were two problems: one corpse, and one unconscious disaster of an assassin collapsed on the floor.

Because the girl just had to faint the moment Nimeira appeared.

The fact that she'd even survived this long as a contract killer was... amusing. Nimeira would have to tell the others when they convened again. Vehlira would be appalled. Tahrux might actually laugh.

With a sigh, she moved through the room with practiced ease—cleaning blood that still warm and sticky against her fingers, erasing presence like smudging ink on paper, folding the corpse into nothingness with a whisper of shadow that smelled of jasmine and regret. When the space was silent once more, she turned her attention to the real mess.

Her precious little failure of an assassin lay in a heap, unconscious and inconvenient. And yet—

Nimeira knelt, scooping the girl into her arms with the same reverence one might use to gather ashes from a sacred fire. The mortal was lighter than she looked, her skin cool against Nimeira's divine warmth.

"Idiot," she muttered, not without affection.

And with that, she vanished—folding herself into a swirl of fine black mist that felt like silk against the skin, taking the girl with her.

---

They reappeared in one of her many temples, tucked between the folds of reality. Shadows clung to the carved stone like silk, and the air was thick with incense that stung the eyes and whispered oaths that tickled the ears. Her sudden arrival earned no gasps—only silent, reverent glances from the worshippers kneeling before her statue.

They said nothing. Out of fear. Out of awe.

Fine by her. Nimeira thrived on mystery.

Without a word, she carried the assassin through the hall, past stonework etched with forgotten names and torchlight that didn't burn but still cast eerie shadows. Into a private chamber she went—draped in velvet that felt like night itself, cloaked in dusk that never fully settled—and laid her assassin down upon a bed of furs softer than clouds.

Silence stretched, heavy and expectant, broken only by the faint sound of the mortal's breathing.

Then, softly, dangerously, she whispered:

"Awaken, little assassin. Your patron commands it."