I dream of a clearing at dusk, the sky above bruised with deep purples. The air carries a restless hush, as if the world is holding back before a violent war. In the center of the clearing, a boy stands beside a towering stone figure, his small arms wrapped tightly around it, clinging to its safety. A short distance away, a slender figure—child-sized—clutches the hand of a tall presence hidden in shifting shadows. Their features blur in the dim, flickering light.
Out of the swirling twilight, two violent gusts of wind tear into the stone figure. The boy reels backward. Fractures spider across the statue’s surface. A roar rips through the silence. The statue explodes, stone fragments hurtling across the clearing. The boy stumbles, disoriented. At his feet, where the statue once stood, a deep crimson stain spreads into the soil, blooming outward.
Before the boy can reach out, one of the raging winds coils around him like a vine. He catches a glimpse of the shadow-cloaked figure and the child silhouette clinging to it—far away, safe from the storm. He is torn from the clearing. The wind howls in his ears, and the lamplight is lost beneath the swirling dark as he’s carried off into oblivion.
This scene jolts me awake. It’s the same dream every time, haunting me with its vivid detail. I can’t escape it and don’t know what it means.
Shaking off the nightmare, I awaken to an unfamiliar place. The room is dim, illuminated by gray light through a small window. Wooden beams crisscross above me. Uneven rammed-earth forms the walls. A fire crackles nearby.
A woven mat rests beneath me, and a thin blanket drapes over my aching body. I try to move. A sharp pain shoots through my side, making me wince. My hand moves to my ribs, feeling the rough bandages around my torso. My head feels heavy, with a dull throb at the base of my skull. I squeeze my eyelids shut. My body is forced into stillness, but my mind refuses to be.
Qin’s scholars believed time moves in cycles. Life, death, war, peace—each one a season. The ancient Chinese see history as a wheel. Empires rise then crumble, only to rise again under different names. A farmer plants his crops, harvests them, and watches the fields wither, knowing the cycle will begin again. Even the stars above follow this pattern, shifting in predictable rhythms, like a breath the universe takes over centuries.
I am no different than the farmer or the stars. My life follows a cycle, too. Death and war—the part where I hunt and kill. Life and peace are the parts where I return to Athens, the only place that remains unchanged between missions. Over and over again, my purpose resets. Different enemies, different places, but always the same rhythm.
I have no choice but to wait, which isn’t in my training. The last thing I remember is stumbling away from Qin’s encampment. My body screamed in pain as I wandered into the barrens. I recall the agony of each step, the sand shifting beneath my feet as I pushed forward. Did I reach the nearby town? I must have, but my memory is no clearer than sand in a windstorm.
A woman approaches. She’s slight and composed. Her size doesn’t match the force with which she moves. Her long dark hair falls loosely over one shoulder. There’s a faint scar below her left eye, shaped like an exclamation mark.
Her steps are purposeful. She kneels beside me, examining my wounded torso. “You’re lucky,” she says in Chinese. “If the blade had gone any deeper, it would have punctured your lung. You’d be dead right now. I had to stitch you up, so you’ll need time to heal.” She looks at me expectantly. “How do you feel?”
Lucky? The word mocks me. There is no luck for me, especially not in this unknown place. I cannot move without pain flaring through my side.
I try to piece together who she might be. There’s something off about how she speaks—the rhythm of her words or perhaps a faint accent that doesn’t quite match this time or place. The answer is out of reach.
She tilts her head, studying me with a curious smile. “Not much of a talker, are you?” she asks, almost amused. I acknowledge her question with a simple motion.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” she says. “My name is Xia. Lucky for you, I’m a healer. It’s why you’re still breathing. You’re welcome.” Her tone carries a hint of sarcasm.
My nod is barely perceptible. I’m too exhausted to do more than that. When she leaves the room, it barely registers, just the fading sound of footsteps.
Philip would be disappointed. I can see him signing the relevant commandments to me:
Trust the silence.
Always work alone.
Trust no one outside the Phylax.
Always leave an escape route.
Get back to the Acropolis before the three-year window is over.
Eliminate witnesses when necessary.
Does Xia count as a witness? If so, the rules are clear.
If Philip were here now, he’d remind me that survival is a solitary endeavor. My mission should never rely on anyone’s hands but my own. He’d say I let my guard down and was foolish to allow this injury. Most of all, I should have planned for every possibility. His voice lingers in my head, even as I prepare for what’s next.
I’m not excited to go to the Acropolis, where I will debrief with the Council of the Phylax. The Archon will likely be present. He deserves better than what I’ve done on this mission.
The Sanctum at the Acropolis is a hidden marvel. It is the greatest wonder of the world; however, very few people know it exists. Every time I see it, I can hardly process its grandeur. It is unlike the impressive temples or monuments people think of when discussing wonders. It’s something more profound. The Phylax’s history alone fills every stone with ancient secrets.
The entrance hides itself from all except those who know exactly where to look. At its heart is the central ceremonial room, a masterpiece that outshines any ancient temple. The perfectly circular room has braziers lining its edges, casting warm light across the ornate walls.
Gold and silver inlays form the Mark of the Phylax, a two-headed snake coiling toward the loop of infinity. The heads don’t touch. Instead, a pathway reaches, connecting the serpent like a bridge through time. The Mark of the Phylax is a symbol of power. They sear it into our flesh as a lifelong reminder of our oath. It adorns our most sacred buildings. We carve simple versions into safe houses to signal that a location is secure. The Mark of the Phylax is our guiding light.
Elaborate murals depicting triumph, sacrifice, and the embodiment of time line the walls between the braziers. The floor is polished green marble with streaks of gold. I believe it holds secrets of its own. Stone steps engraved with ancient text, which translates to With Fidelity, We Protect Humankind, leads to a platform. The most sacred rituals take place there. The room is a beauty meant to impress upon those who enter that they are part of something far more significant than themselves.
After each mission, when I returned to the Sanctum, the Phylax expressed appreciation for my efficiency. They studied every detail of my work—every clean cut, every perfectly timed action. Impressive, they signed with approval. You’re doing a remarkable job, Adam.
That praise fueled me. I have always wanted to be a legend and see my image immortalized on a mural in the Sanctum. This desire was an unending hunger I could not ignore. I trained harder, moved quicker, and followed their instructions to the letter. Rising through the ranks was all that mattered, so I sacrificed.
As I lie here, struggling to inhale, I think about what will happen when I revisit the place I love. This time, there will be no praise. I’ll have to beg for forgiveness. Even then, I’m not sure they’ll let me live. They won’t appreciate how sloppy my work was and how I failed in the most essential ways. The thought is a poison that churns my stomach. They hate mistakes, even if I did kill my target.
Yet something else creeps into my periphery, unsettling me more than the prospect of their judgment: the Phylax made their own mistake. The report they gave me on Qin was wrong. Why? They never slip up. They are supposed to research every detail meticulously. The fact that there was a vital error raises questions I can’t afford to ignore. Did they overlook it? Or is there something more I’m not seeing?
I hear footsteps rustle outside the room. The door creaks open. Xia enters, carrying a bowl of water and a cloth.
“You’re awake,” she says, kneeling beside me. “Good. How are you feeling?”
I raise a thumb in response. Xia watches, a frown forming as she notices my gesture.
“Oh yes, you don’t talk. Can you write?”
I hesitate. Do I want to communicate with this woman? She might have answers, or she could be a threat. I decide to nod.
“Good,” she says. “I will find parchment and ink in a bit.”
She places the bowl on a nearby stool. “You are from the west,” she remarks. “You’ll scare people if you go outside looking this way.” She gestures vaguely toward me. “Qin’s soldiers execute anyone from the west. You’ll need to do something about your appearance to blend in.”
I acknowledge that she’s right. I have spent two years here learning about their customs. Camouflage hasn’t been easy. My pale skin betrays me in daylight. I cloak myself as much as possible, avoiding unwanted attention. Skirting the edges of towns, traveling at odd hours—yet curious glances follow me.
Xia watches me a moment longer. “It doesn’t matter right now,” she says dismissively. “You’re too injured to travel.” She gestures for me to sit up. “I need to check your wound.”
Bracing myself, I sit up from the mat. My side throbs so much that my vision blurs for a second. She moves closer, waiting until I settle before she begins.
Her fingers are surprisingly gentle as she removes the old bandages, caked in dried blood. With expertise, she unwinds the layers in smooth, fluid motions. A furrow of concentration creases her brow, focused intently on the task.
She wrings out the cloth, water rhythmically dripping back into the bowl. “This might sting,” she murmurs, her voice carrying a melodic tone uncommon in this region. The warning does little to prepare me. She dabs the damp cloth against the wound.
Pain shoots through me. I wheeze, muscles tensing involuntarily. The agony catapults me back to when I was ten—sprawled on the cold ground as my father’s fists rained down, each blow carving a mark into my skin and soul. The memory surges forward: ribs cracking under his heel, skin splitting with sharp stings, hot tears welling but never spilling. His anger was a relentless storm in which the Renegades trapped me.
The room blurs as the present collides with the past. Xia’s gentle touch anchors me, returning me to the moment. She might sense the turmoil swirling inside me.
“Sorry,” she says softly, not pausing in her work. “It has to be done.” She dips the cloth again, continuing with methodical care.
I clench my jaw, forcing myself to stay in the now. I don’t enjoy revisiting that part of my past, though I’ve survived worse. Yet, the ghost of those beatings remains a phantom that refuses to fade.
Xia leans back, inspecting the stitches. “It’s not my best work,” she admits, lips drawn into a thin line. “It’s holding. You’re lucky you didn’t tear it open, thrashing around in your sleep.”
Lucky. There’s that word again. I look down at the rows of thread running along the gash in my side. It’s not pretty, but it is functional. The stitches are tight enough to keep the wound closed. I feel an odd mix of gratitude and frustration; I hate being dependent on anyone. I can’t deny Xia has kept me alive. I might not be so fortunate when I reach the Sanctum.
She grabs a fresh roll of bandages, wrapping them around my torso. I watch her hands move steadily. When finished, she sits back on her heels, meeting my gaze.
She studies me as if trying to unearth a hidden truth. Finally, she sighs. “We can skip writing for now. You need to rest.” She pauses while tidying up. “When I found you, you were lying outside town, half-buried in the dirt. You were barely alive. I had to fetch a cart to bring you here. If I hadn’t come along—” She trails off, her eyes drifting to the bandages she just wrapped. “You were as good as dead.” She adds, almost to herself. “Whatever happened, it must have been something brutal.”
She steps away, gathering the soiled bandages and bowl. I settle back against the mat, feeling the strain of my injuries pulling at me. I know I can’t stay here long. Philip would insist I leave as soon as I can stand. I should not linger where I’m vulnerable. The Phylax creed is clear—survive alone.
Sleep’s grasp tightens around me, dragging me toward its inevitable abyss. I try to plan my next move, but the details slip away. Everything is a tangle of pain and half-formed ideas. The darkness is relentless, smothering me with its suffocating grip. It pulls me under. My thoughts scatter, leaving nothingness in its wake.