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Alouard was the greatest assassin the world had ever known. He had killed despots and pretenders; bureaucrats and crime lords; inconvenient spouses of every gender, variety and stripe.
But he could not, for the life of him, kill Severin the Lucky.
Severin, King of Estlund, came by his moniker honestly. Knives would miss their mark entirely, or fail to pierce a vital organ. Poisoned food or drink were swapped or spilled. Arrows bent away from him. It vexed all the assassins greatly.
It especially vexed Alouard.
Problem was, Alouard wanted to retire. He had no desire to be one of those assassins who aged gracelessly, boasting in taverns of old jobs and old glory in the hopes of cadging free drinks as he pinched the bottoms of the servers.
Alouard held out for one last job. One more chance.
It came, finally, from the King of Nordlund. "You've tried before," said the king.
"Yes," said Alouard.
"And failed."
"I won't fail this time," said Alouard.
"We'll see. As insurance, I've hired twelve other assassins. You're lucky number thirteen."
"I won't fail," repeated Alouard.
###
Alouard killed the first assassin purely by accident. He had set himself up on the rooftop overlooking Severin's bedroom with two crossbows in hand. The first was loaded with a special diamond-tipped arrow, specifically designed to shatter windows. The second was loaded with a poison-tipped arrow.
Alouard shot lined up his shot—a beautiful one, one for the books, Severin caught between bedside and dresser—and unleashed both arrows in rapid succession. The window shattered; a shadow leaped out of the bedcurtains, curved daggers in hand—
And took both arrows in the back.
Severin didn't shout; he ducked out of the way and hit the floor with a rolled shoulder, then sprang up and sprinted for the door to call for guards.
Alouard bit off a curse, reluctantly impressed by Severin's reaction time. He packed up his equipment, rappelled down, and thought.
The King of Nordlund had hired twelve other assassins. Alouard wanted to be the one to kill Severin the Lucky. The one who went down in history for this achievement. The man who killed the unkillable.
To guarantee that, though, he had to ensure there weren't twelve—well, eleven—idiots in his way.
To that end, he set off to murder Severin's chief bodyguard, then he murdered the next two down, just in case. It was laughably easy. They were so focused on guarding the king, they failed to guard themselves.
And then he lay low and kept a close ear to the ground.
In the meantime, he killed another assassin, this time on purpose. This one had taken a page from Alouard's book and had set himself on a rooftop with crossbows, this time across from the audience chamber. He'd been laughably easy to pick out—dark hooded jacket, moved like a cat.
A small, wicked leaf-shaped blade sprouted from the back of his neck before he could raise his crossbow. He gave a sigh, slumped, and slid right off the roof.
The discovery of a second assassin in as many weeks had the capital in an uproar. The bodyguards' murders didn't help. Finding a new head guard was of the utmost importance. Alouard inserted himself into the auditioning process, and rapidly rose in the ranks.
One of the main reasons Alouard excelled as an assassin was his unremarkable appearance. He looked like blandly handsome bank clerk. A pleasant face; a touch taller than average—enough to inspire automatic deference, not enough to be notable; an unremarkable build so long as he stayed clothed. He cultivated moving with a slight clumsiness. People saw him, thought, "What an agreeable fellow," and forgot him.
Nobody expected him to defeat all contenders for the head guard position, but he quietly, competently vanquished all of them, until it was time for the final step: an interview with Severin.
Alouard had seen Severin from a distance many times. Severin up close was...different. A short, slim man with an air of melancholy about him, he had the most extraordinary eyes: a clear, almost colorless grey, fringed about with extravagant black lashes.
Alouard realized, with a start, that Severin was beautiful. He supposed it came with being lucky.
"So," said Severin, "you're the one mowing down all the applicants like new grass."
Alouard broke away from studying Severin's lashes. He bowed. "It is an honor, Your Majesty."
Severin snorted. "You'll sing a different tune, no doubt, when you take an arrow to the knee for me."
"I don't plan to," said Alouard. "That would interfere with protecting you, I imagine."
Severin blinked. Alouard cursed himself; that was not how an awed applicant for the position of head guard acted. Severin studied him for several moments. Alouard forced himself not to flush.
"None of the guards exactly plan to take an arrow," said Severin. "It just happens. Occupational hazard, let's call it."
"I understand, Your Majesty. I've never taken an arrow to any part of me. Don't propose to begin."
Severin studied Alouard. Alouard's heart stuttered.
Alouard, to nobody's surprise, was hired, and he set about making himself indispensable. He fired all the chaff on the security detail; hand-picked every member of the personal guard; vetted the kitchen staff and food tasters; set up new watches at the most vulnerable points.
When time allowed, he went hunting. He pushed an assassin to her death just as she scaled the castle wall; garotted another disguised as a footman; stabbed three others so quickly and quietly that they barely struggled, merely breathed a small, surprised last breath.
When not hunting, he was by Severin's side. He was there when Severin woke up. Before bed, he did a sweep of the room for assassins, venomous creatures, traps. Some nights he stood vigil over Severin's sleep, listening to his slow, steady breaths. Listened to him dreaming.
Time went on. Alouard finally ferreted out the final assassin, a gray, nondescript person biding their time as a penitent in small monastery in the outskirts of the city. As he stood over the broken body of the final assassin, Alouard realized: this was it. Now was the time.
He had unfettered access. He had Severin's trust. It would be painless: a sharp blade at the tender juncture of neck and shoulder. Severin would bleed to death in seconds. Alouard had seen every one of Severin's scars; this would be his final one. The one that would never heal.
###
Night had fallen. Alouard performed the bedtime sweep mechanically. He studied Severin's scars furtively as he undressed for bed. Dozens upon dozens of them, the old ones silver, the newer ones angry red. All of them evidence that he had lived. Alouard didn't have half as many.
But then, not nearly as many people wanted Alouard dead.
Severin fell asleep swiftly. He did that, now. The first few weeks, his sleep had been restless, plagued by nightmares and interruptions. Some time in the past month, he slipped into sleep like a rock dropped in a pond.
Alouard flicked the knife out of its forearm holster; cradled it in his palm. Walked to Severin, slumbering peacefully, austere features limned by moonlight. Leaned over.
Severin opened his eyes, smiled sleepily at Alouard, and said, "I suppose my luck has finally run out."
Alouard froze. Severin flicked a glance at his left hand, where the knife lay hidden.
"Hello, Alouard," said Severin. "I was wondering when it would happen. You could have done it any number of ways, a hundred different times before tonight."
Alouard blinked, speechless.
Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke. "There were twelve others," he said. "I had to dispose of them. The first one got in my way as it was. Couldn't have eleven others crashing around, mucking up my plans."
Severin smiled. "Well, I commend you," he said. He reached out a pale hand. Alouard unthinkingly gave his free hand to Severin. Severin pulled him down—down so close their faces almost touched.
"I'm tired of running," said Severin. "Of keeping vigil, of being afraid. You gave me the first restful months of my life, and for that, I thank you."
He reached down, took Alouard's left hand, the hand with the knife, and placed it by his throat. "I can think of nobody worthier to end my life," he said. "I trust you to do it quickly, and painlessly." His mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "I hate pain. Spare me that, friend."
Severin's hand was soft and warm. Alouard looked down. His own hand was shaking. He never shook. Severin looked at him with the patience of a suffering animal at peace with the fact of his death.
"No," said Alouard, finally.
"No?" asked Severin.
"No," repeated Alouard, who resheathed his knife, leaned down, and kissed his king.
When he pulled back, Severin was breathing faster, his hands clinging to Alouard's arms.
"Well," said Severin, "as far as consolation prizes go, this is much more pleasant than a slit throat."
"Don't joke about that," said Alouard.
"I've been the target over a hundred assassination attempts. I get to joke about it."
"This is the last one," said Alouard. "You've spent your life watching out for death. That's my job now. I'm good at it."
"The best, I understand."
"Your only job now," said Alouard, "is to live. With me. By your side."
"Gladly," said Severin, and pulled Alouard down for another kiss.