Nothing happens, of course, considering I have no power for him to smother. He looks at his hand, then back at me, confused. The sight is almost comical, and that split second of hesitation is all I need.
I grab his wrist, twisting his arm at an odd angle before driving my knee into his stomach. I hear the air whoosh out of his lungs as he clutches his arm to his body. And with that, my adrenaline kicks in, itching for a fight.
It reminds me of all those late nights and early mornings with my father. Hours of training in the makeshift dirt ring behind our home. “Both your mind, as well as your body, need to be trained. Conditioned,” he’d say as I dodged his punches, all while answering his dozens of questions that tested my observation. I wielded any weapon we could get our hands on while my father trained every part of my being—my mind, my body, my Psychic ability.
Until one day he wasn’t there to train me anymore. Wasn’t there to protect me anymore. Wasn’t there to continue teaching me how to protect myself anymore.
The Silencer recovers quickly, throwing a punch with his good arm and jolting me from my thoughts. I duck under it and aim a right hook at his jaw. His forearm flashes up to block my blow, forcing my arm down before grabbing it and spinning me so my back is pressed against his chest. And then the crook of his other arm is trapping me in a chokehold.
I gasp for air, trying to remain calm. I fight the urge to claw uselessly at the arm crushing my windpipe and instead whip my head back, connecting my skull with his nose and earning a sickening crack followed by the sound of gurgling blood.
Blood.
There was so much of it coating the floor of our small house resting between Merchant and Elm Street. Coating me, my father. I haven’t been back since that night I ran. That night the king plunged a sword through my father’s chest.
The Silencer’s hold around my neck loosens as he stumbles back, clutching his nose. But I’m not done yet. Not even close.
I slip the ring from my thumb and slide it onto my middle finger before sinking my fist into the Silencer’s cheek, ignoring the sting in my hand. Dropping his hands from his gushing nose, he swings at me again, but I already knew it was coming.
He always takes a step with his left foot before he punches.
I block the blow and grab his shoulders as I bring my knee to his stomach once again. Before he’s even caught his breath, I have his head in my hands, driving his already broken nose down into my awaiting knee.
I channel all my rage into each blow.
My rage at the king who slipped into my father’s study where he sat in his cushioned armchair, reading late into the night.
Another right hook to the Silencer’s jaw.
My rage as I vividly remember the sound of my father’s cry when the sword tore through his chest, tearing me from sleep.
I send a kick to the Silencer’s groin.
My rage as I saw my father sliding out of his beloved armchair and onto the ground, slipping in his blood.
I drop and sweep my leg in a wide arc, knocking the Silencer to the ground.
My rage as I held my father’s hand, screaming and begging him to wake up.
I sat there all night, pants soaked with blood, trying to puzzle out what could possibly justify killing him. But the king doesn’t need a reason to kill, he needs a reason to let people live.
I beat down on the Silencer, barely aware of what I’m doing as my mind reels.
I was numb. My hand clamped around my father’s cold one, holding it while I rocked back and forth, sobs shaking my body. I brushed his brown hair from his eyes, straightened his bloody clothes, whispered about all the memories we shared while begging him to come back to me so we could make more.
I was completely and utterly alone in the world.
And when sunlight poured through the windows, shedding light on the gruesome scene, I couldn’t stand to be in my own home—not that I could afford to keep the house at thirteen years of age.
I tried to bury him. Tried so hard to drag him outside and give him a proper goodbye, give him the honor he deserved. But I was so small, and he was so large, so heavy, so dead. I slipped and slid in the pool of my father’s blood, unable to budge his body. So, I pulled the wedding ring from his finger, pushed it onto my thumb, and ran.
The same ring I’m now using to sink into the Silencer’s cheek.
If Father could see me now…
I hover over him, my rage finally beginning to fade as his black eyes widen. Blood streaks his face, gushing from his mouth, nose, and the other scattered cuts I’ve given him. I slide my dagger from my boot as something flickers in his eyes.
Fear.
He fears what he cannot control.
And in this very moment, that something he cannot control is me.
I bring the hilt of my dagger down hard against his temple, knocking him out cold. Still crouching over him, my gaze finds the gray one pinned on me. Emotions flash across the stranger’s face as he takes me in, takes in what I’ve done. Shock, awe, confusion, and amusement of all things, flicker across his face. I tear my eyes from him, returning my knife to my boot as astonished murmurs rise from the crowd. I turn, stunned to find a mass of people staring. Merchants, women, and children gawk at the scene, all whispering and pointing. Three Imperials suddenly push through the crowd, hastily throwing people out of their way.
I stiffen, preparing for some sort of punishment. Maybe a few more lashes to decorate my back with.
But they charge right past me, right past the unconscious Silencer, and drop to their knees before the stranger.
That’s...interesting.
And apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so. The hum of whispers from the crowd grows louder, allowing me to catch bits and pieces of their hushed conversations.
“—Silencer here in Ilya—”
“—it’s Prince Kai who fought off four men—”
“—fought the Silencer without using a power!”
I freeze, heart pounding, barely breathing.
Prince Kai.
I’d never seen the man. Never thought I would.
Never thought I would steal from him either.
But I’ve heard enough about his reputation. How he’s supposedly the strongest Elite in decades. How he’s the future Enforcer, said to be callused and calculating, yet charismatic and charming when he wishes to be—when he chooses to play the part.
I’ve heard how he’s a rare and powerful Wielder, able to sense another’s power and use it himself so long as they are close enough to him.
The Deliverer of Death, they call him.
The prince usually stays in the comfort of his cushy palace, so it’s likely that no one recognized the stranger as anyone of importance. And when he does leave the castle, well, the people he visits don’t typically live to tell the tale.
I slowly turn towards the Imperials huddling around the prince and watch as he shoves past them, irritated by their smothering. He barks an order, telling them to take the Silencer to the dungeons as well as clear the crowd from the street. The prince exudes authority and power with every step, every word. Imperials scurry to obey him as they round up the mob of people and push them back out onto Loot.