One awkward conversation, a glimpse into her soul, shining blue eyes, an undeniable resemblance.

Perhaps that’s my problem...

A spoiled Princess and nothing more, a nuisance, a burden, an unwanted child, I take care of you only because no one else will. I understand, perhaps a little too much, but what does it matter? A new knife, a new cloak, perhaps another cottage tucked in the woods between here and Dellion. The things I could purchase are endless.

It’s worth it.

“The bath is ready, Sir,” the servant says, holding open the curtain with a shaking hand. “Do you require any further aid?”

“No, I can bathe myself,” I say, prying my fingers away from the dagger so he doesn’t faint from fright.

I toss my jacket across the room to the bed before entering the bathroom, immediately noting the smallness of the room, the dim light flickering as the candles atop the wooden shelf across the way waver. Towels, a dowel rod, the deep ceramic bathtub.

It'd be easy to drown...

“Is the temperature to your liking?” He asks behind me, and I force my eyes to focus on the steaming water, the candlelight rippling over its surface, the bottom only a few feet beneath.

I won’t drown, not in here.

I dip my hand, the water a comforting touch, the lapping tongue of a dog. The sensation travels through my whole hand and up my arm, dying out in the middle of my forearm, cold, harsh reality stomping it out.

“It’s fine,” I say, gruff and monotone. “Leave me.”

“I’ll be in the bedroom if you need anything,” the servant says, bowing once more, his hair slipping over his shoulder. Tug him down, shove his head under the surface, fill his lungs with water, not even a scream.

He returns to his previous posture and leaves the bathroom, the curtain swaying behind him.

I stare at the water, warm, fresh, no salt, no ropes, just a bathtub.

I undress and climb in, sinking, hands gripping the edges, so I don’t fully submerge. My breath catches in my chest, pent up, trapped, full of the sea, freezing.

Relax. Breathe. Bathe and get out. It’s a waste of warm water, but I can’t stay in much longer. The sound, the feel, waves reaching upward

I am the Grim Reaper. I have nothing to fear.

My heart calms, fingers loosening, puffs of breath reducing to a steady thrum once more. I grab for the soap resting on the lip of the bathtub near my feet and

Shit!

I slip, skin against ceramic, my feet breaking through the surface, head plunging beneath, engulfed, drowning. My hair tangles

around my face, water dares to enter my nose and open mouth, hands slip, trying to grip anything. I thrash, kicking my legs, flailing my arms, water splashing everywhere. I find the edge of the tub, pull myself up, gasping, sputtering, coughing. I’m shaking, trembling, panic ripping gouges in me.

“Sir?”

A hand swoops in, aimed for my neck, taking advantage of me. I shoot to my feet, dive, pin them to the floor, yank down a towel, grab for my dagger. Press the towel over their heart, then stab, soak up the blood, then dispose of the towel later

I stop, still dripping, staring down at the dead servant. His gray eyes stare back, vacant and yet still petrified.

I pull out the dagger and drop it on the floor, pushing myself off him. I snatch up another towel, wrap it around myself, backing away, running my shaking hands through my soaked hair, peeling it off my face, assessing the damage.

Only two towels remain, and I throw them on the floor to mop the spilled water—nearly half the bathtub. The body I grip by the arms, lugging it to the tub and dumping it inside, red tendrils rapidly overtaking the transparency. They can deal with him.

I leave the bathroom, ripping down the curtain as I pass, balling it up and tossing it into the puddle as well.

“U-Uh...”

I look up to see a female servant standing at the foot of the bed, white as a ghost, but red in the cheeks, arms outstretched, holding what looks like a set of clothes. “I h-have your clothes,” she stammers, black eyes running from my stomach to my face and back down. She’s smaller than the Princess, more timid, black hair, unharmful.

I approach, taking the clothes from her. “Thank you,” I say.

She starts to leave, hands gripping the folds of her black maid dress.

“Oh, tell Queen Elsyra she needs to hire a new servant. I accidentally killed one.”

She runs from the room, gasping, slamming the door shut behind her, her terror lingering like a hazy cloud.

It was an accident...

I lay out the clothes on the bed—red slacks, purple shirt with a collar, red coat trimmed with gold, and brown boots, knee-high and polished.

Prince indeed. I'll look like a circus freak.

My eyes avert to the wardrobe and dresser. There must be something else for me to wear. I pull open the wardrobe first, finding an arrangement of coats. I withdraw the only black one, looking it over, a tailcoat like the red one, silver buttons.

I toss it to the bed, then kneel before the dresser, searching the drawers until I find a white dress shirt, no frills or ruffles, and a pair of black slacks. I can’t find any footwear, but my boots will do after a thorough cleaning.

I dress in the new outfit, scrubbing my boots with a drenched towel off the floor, tucking in the pant legs, and stand before the mirror, frowning, tugging down on the tailcoat, running my hand through my hair.

Out of place, a misfit, she’ll see me, suspect me, run for her life the moment I make eye contact, the killer exposed there like a beacon, a shining column in the sky, swirling, penetrating the dark clouds around it. A fool’s errand is what this is. I can’t play the part Elsyra wants me to. Keep your damn money. I’m out.

Thrice your pay, Zekeir, I hear the Queen's voice in my head.

Dammit. What choice do I have?

None.

She’s too naive to assume. She’s the fool, the task, a brat, an object, not a being. I’m killing a thing, an annoying thing, a plague. She must be eradicated from Elsyra’s life so the Kingdom can prosper.

Prosper my ass.

I'll just get the money and leave while I can.