We are instruments of God’s will. Executioners, sent to enact Judgment as decreed. We wield neither scythe nor blade, nor will a single soul fall directly by our hands—yet they will perish all the same.
By our will.
Which is an extension of His.
Chapter Eight
Assassin In Training
The Chosen
I somersault across the ground, dirt and grit scraping my palms as I roll. The moment my foot hits soil, I spring upright and twist outward, sword arm stretched, knees tucked tight. Steel sings as it cuts the air.
The dummy’s straw-stuffed head parts cleanly from its body and tumbles unceremoniously into the dust.
Three remain.
I move through them in a weaving rhythm—steps unpredictable yet measured, breath steady, muscles coiled. A blade whistles toward my head. I drop low, sweeping beneath it, the rush of displaced air grazing a mere inch above me. My body slides across the ground in a controlled skid. Using my hand for balance, I vault upward in one fluid motion and drive my blade into the dummy wearing the red scarf.
The steel bites deep. Straw bursts from the wound as the blade tears through the upper half of its chest and exits through the other side of its neck. The form shudders before collapsing at my feet.
Two more.
The immortal dose still surges through my veins, a restless energy humming beneath my skin, but it’s been two weeks since my last infusion, and I feel the difference—my reactions are slower by a fraction, limbs heavier, breath coming quicker than it should.
A flaw. A weakness.
I allow the thought to circulate through my mind for only a moment before I prowl forward to face the third demon. The one wearing a black threadbare shirt, his sculpted muscles stretching the fabric. My imagination has wielded the image of him to perfection because at this point, my mind needs to be just as creative as my combat skills, or I’ll be wholly unprepared when the time comes to defeat them.
It’s quite possible my imagination and stamina may be all that stands between survival and death.
So each day, for hours, I wage war against the four of them within the theater of my mind. I move as though death waits for me with every strike they deliver in return.
We dance together, circle one another—the Black Horseman and I. He’s lovely to look at, a dark godlike being with a face most womankind would fall prey to. Soft curls frame his face and lie over the tips of his rounded ears. Taller than the White Horseman. Just as flawless.
His strikes come harder and faster than the others. He exudes a wealth of power that vibrates with potency in the very air around him.
I’m more careful with my advances when we face one another. Every step is deliberate. Every breath is controlled. He’s different from the others, though I cannot name why. The certainty of it settles deep, resonating in the marrow of my bones like a warning.
And often—too often—I feel as if he’s merely playing with me. Not truly trying to win or kill me. Not pressing for victory. Not seeking my defeat.
Testing me.
Again, this battle is all in my mind, so it matters not. But still, this feeling comes and goes and hones itself into this odd awareness about the Horsemen that grows by the day.
Yet the awareness persists, sharpening and shaping my understanding of them in ways I do not fully comprehend.
Still, I push myself relentlessly. Each day I refine my enemies, layering detail upon detail as months bleed into years. The only true limit I have is the boundary of my belief in what I am capable of.
And those limits continue to break.
My strength. My endurance. My gifts. All forged by the mysterious liquid—the elixir that granted immunity, immortality, and transformed me into something I scarcely recognize.
Something more.
Death and I circle the battleground on opposite sides, mirroring one another with deliberate precision. Dust whispers beneath our boots as we move. He rolls his wrist and spins his blade in an effortless flourish, the steel glinting as it turns.
His body is loose. Relaxed.
