Chapter 9: The Assassin
The air in the room was heavy with humidity and old smoke, as if the wood in the walls had soaked up decades of sweat, extinguished candles, and poorly whispered conspiracies. The floorboards creaked under any firm step, emitting dry cracks like old bones breaking. The light came from two oil lamps, with small and unstable flames, casting long shadows, twisted like snakes waiting to strike.
Hagan was seated in a chair too large for someone who hated feeling small. The high backrest had primitive carvings of leaves and claws, worn down by nervous nail marks. The tabletop before him was covered in scratches, stains of spilled drink, and hardened wax, like an improvised altar to vice and violence.
He drummed his thick fingers on the wood, each tap echoing in the room like a hammer nailing the final boards of a coffin.
Perched on the backrest, like a bored courtesan, the small fairy watched him with a crooked smile. Her wings fluttered slowly, spreading a golden dust that settled on the melted wax like sinful glitter. She wore a very short green fabric, leaving bare thighs and shimmering shoulders under the yellow light. Her feline eyes gleamed with cruel amusement.
"You’ll break the table if you continue" she whispered, her voice sweet, almost a moan. "Want me to massage your hands?"
Hagan did not reply. His eyes were half-closed, fixed on the hooded figure emerging from the darkest corner of the room.
The assassin moved like an oil stain spreading. The black cloak absorbed any light, turning him into a silhouette cut against the stained boards. He made no sound — no metal clinking, no leather creaking. Even his breathing seemed contained, as if the man were less a person and more a tool sheathed.
Hagan lifted his chin slightly.
"Speak."
His voice came out like a stone rolling over wet gravel, unhurried and cold.
The Executor tilted his head in a minimal, respectful gesture.
"I confirmed the rumors."