A Dagger of Hopes and Dreams

Chapter Nine: A Message in Blood

The night air was sharp and biting, the fog clinging to the cobblestone streets like a blanket of death. Atula moved through the alleyways, his cloak drawn tight against the cold. His breath came out in soft puffs, dissipating quickly into the thick, damp air. The merchant Edrin's inn was not far now, its location burned into his memory after a brief glance at the map the Guild Master had provided.

Atula's mind was clear, his focus sharp. This contract wasn't like the others. This wasn't just an assassination; it was a message. The Guild Master's orders had been precise, and Atula had no intention of failing. His reputation was on the line, and the Guild's hunger for dominance was something that could never be ignored.

The inn loomed ahead, a rickety building nestled between two taller, more prosperous establishments. A few patrons lingered outside, too drunk to care about the shadows gathering at the corners of the square. Atula didn't pause. His movements were silent, a part of the night itself.

He slid through the back entrance of the inn, unnoticed. The dim flickering of a lantern cast a pale, sickly light down the narrow hallway. The smell of stale ale and sour sweat lingered in the air. Atula's steps were soft, deliberate. He knew that the merchant's room was on the second floor, at the far end of the hall. There was no time to waste.

As he ascended the stairs, the muffled sounds of voices carried through the walls. Laughter. Coughing. The occasional clink of coins. Atula's hand brushed the hilt of his dagger, feeling the familiar weight. His fingers itched. This was what he did—what he was born to do. The killing, the manipulation, the quiet destruction. He had embraced it all.

He reached the top of the stairs and moved silently down the hallway. The door to Edrin's room was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling out. Atula paused, listening. The merchant was speaking in a low, gruff voice—no doubt discussing something mundane with one of his lackeys.

Atula's lips curved into a cold smile. It would be easy. Too easy.

Without hesitation, he slipped into the room, his shadow blending seamlessly with the darkness. The merchant's back was turned, his attention fixed on a map spread out on the table in front of him. Atula's movements were fluid, like water, as he approached from behind.

A faint creak of the floorboards was the only warning, but it was enough. The merchant turned sharply, but by then, it was too late.

Atula was on him in an instant, his hand clamping over Edrin's mouth to stifle the scream that tried to escape. The merchant's eyes widened in terror, his hands scrabbling at the hand that held him. But Atula's grip was ironclad. He shoved the blade into the man's side, twisting it with precision, cutting through flesh and bone. The blood poured out, hot and red, staining the floor beneath them.

Edrin's body spasmed, his breath rattling in a futile attempt to gasp for air. Atula watched, his face expressionless. This was the price of betrayal. This was what happened to those who sought to undermine the Guild.

As Edrin's body went limp, Atula stepped back, wiping the blood from his blade with the corner of the merchant's tunic. He didn't have the luxury of lingering; the message had been made. The Guild's power had been reaffirmed, in blood.

But the Guild Master's words still echoed in Atula's mind. Make it memorable. And Atula knew exactly how to make it unforgettable.

He moved swiftly, pulling a small vial from the pouch at his belt. Inside was a dark, viscous liquid—poison. It was a rare and potent concoction, known for its ability to induce an agonizing death in mere minutes. Atula tipped the vial over Edrin's face, letting the liquid drip into his open eyes and mouth. The poison would burn like fire, causing the victim to writhe in agony before succumbing to its effects.

Then, Atula took a step back and looked down at the scene. The merchant's body would tell the tale: the bloody wound, the poison, the terror in his eyes. The message would be clear to anyone who found him.

Atula turned and left the room, slipping out into the night with the same ease he had entered. The city was still and quiet, as if nothing had happened. But Atula knew better. The Guild's enemies would know. Word would spread quickly about Edrin's death. The power of the Guild was unchallenged, and the message would ring out louder than any sword strike.

As he made his way through the alleys, heading back toward the Guild's lair, Atula felt a strange satisfaction settle in his chest. He had completed his task, and the Guild was stronger for it. But the satisfaction was fleeting, replaced by the familiar gnawing emptiness that followed every contract. There was always another one waiting. Another target, another kill.

The Guild Master's voice echoed in his mind once again. Nothing is ever enough, Atula. The weight of those words hung heavily in the air, just as it had in the Guild's chambers.

Atula's steps quickened as he approached the stronghold. There was no turning back. He had sealed his fate long ago, and now he was bound to the Guild for life. The message had been sent, but Atula knew the cost would only continue to rise.