A Dagger of Hopes and Dreams

Atula stood at the edge of the rooftop, his breath clouding in the cold night air, his eyes fixed on the target below. The city of Ravenshade sprawled before him, a labyrinth of stone and shadow, where the flickering lanterns cast a ghostly glow against the rising mist. His hands were steady, the grip on his dagger firm, as he observed the figure moving below.

Tonight was different.

The mission was simple enough—a man, a merchant with connections to the Blacktorns, was to be silenced. His life was worth less than the glint of gold he carried, and the Guild had no use for those who betrayed them. Yet Atula found himself hesitating, just for a moment.

It wasn't the first time he had killed, nor would it be the last. But this time… this time, it felt colder.

The Guild Master had given the orders as usual: cold, impersonal, and with a finality that left no room for doubt. "The merchant's death will be swift, Atula. You are the shadow, and you will leave no trace. He must not know you were there until it's too late."

Atula had no problem with the first part of the task—stealth was his second nature by now. But the thought of this man's family, his children, his wife, remained lodged in the back of his mind like an unwelcome guest.

"Get it over with," Atula muttered to himself, shaking the thoughts away. He had long ago learned that hesitation had no place in the Guild. It was weakness. And weakness led to death.

He dropped down from the rooftop like a shadow, his soft boots making no sound on the cobblestones. The merchant's quarters lay ahead, a well-lit building with ornate windows, the kind only the wealthy could afford. Atula slipped through the shadows, his movements fluid and practiced, until he was standing at the door. He could hear the faint hum of voices inside—a conversation, perhaps a meeting or a late supper.

There would be no supper for this man tonight.

Atula slid through the door, his body a whisper against the wood. He had been inside this building before, a previous job. It had been a quick in-and-out then. But tonight, it felt different. The night felt heavier, as though the city itself were watching him.

He moved through the house with ease, past the servants' quarters, the paintings on the walls, the fine silver that gleamed in the candlelight. He had been raised in luxury, and yet here he was—an instrument of death, walking these halls with the same purpose as any other man would take when crossing a street. He had shed his past. But was he still that boy? Or had he truly become the shadow he was meant to be?

The merchant was sitting alone in his study, his back to Atula as he poured over documents. Atula could hear the faint rustle of papers, the scratch of a quill against parchment. The man was distracted, vulnerable—perfect.

He crept forward, the silence around him thickening. Every step was measured. Every breath controlled. He raised his dagger, his hand steady.

Then the door slammed open, and a voice called out, "Father!"

Atula froze.

A girl—no more than ten—stood in the doorway, her wide eyes locking onto Atula's in an instant. She had dark hair, tied neatly in braids, and a dress of fine silk that matched the elegance of her father's home. Her face was filled with innocence, untainted by the ugliness of the world outside.

"Who are you?" the girl asked, her voice trembling but strong. "What are you doing here?"

Atula's breath caught in his throat. The mission had just become infinitely more complicated.

The merchant, now fully aware of the danger, leapt to his feet. His hand went for a dagger hidden in his desk drawer, but Atula was faster. Before the merchant could react, Atula was upon him, the dagger pressed against his throat in one fluid motion.

But it wasn't the merchant that consumed Atula's thoughts. It was the girl—the child who had seen him, who had unwittingly interrupted his work.

Atula glanced back at her, his face hidden in shadow. The girl stood frozen, her wide eyes not filled with fear but with confusion. She was waiting for something—perhaps a reassurance, a signal that this wasn't what it appeared to be.

Atula had been in situations like this before. He had been trained to deal with witnesses. But this was different. She was just a child.

The merchant, now trembling, spoke with a voice edged with desperation. "Please… you don't need to kill me. I—" His words faltered as Atula tightened his grip, pressing the dagger harder.

"You're a traitor," Atula whispered. "And you know what happens to those who cross the Guild."

The man's eyes darted toward his daughter, and Atula saw a flicker of emotion—fear, yes, but also a certain resolve. The merchant had no fear of dying. Atula realized in that moment that it wasn't his life that mattered to him. It was the life of the girl.

The child's voice trembled again, but this time, it was quieter, more earnest. "Please, sir, don't hurt my father. He doesn't deserve to die."

Atula hesitated. For the briefest of moments, he thought he heard the faintest echo of his own mother's voice, a voice he had long forgotten. His fingers tightened around the dagger. The thought of sparing this man—of leaving the family intact—was tempting, but he knew the consequences.

The Guild didn't care for hesitation.

But then, something inside Atula snapped. It wasn't just the girl's words—it was the way they had echoed in his mind, reverberating against the cold, unforgiving world he had become a part of. It was the memory of a child's innocence, a reminder of what he had lost. The weight of the dagger in his hand felt suddenly unbearable.

He stepped back, lowering his weapon.

The merchant blinked in confusion, his eyes flicking from Atula to his daughter. Atula was already gone, slipping back into the shadows before either of them could protest. His heart raced, his mind reeling. What had he done?

Atula had made a choice—a choice that could cost him everything. But in that moment, as he disappeared into the night, he realized that he was no longer sure who he was fighting for anymore.