You peer over the edge of the balcony into the dimly lit chamber through the open glass doors. There, seated at a desk, is your target: Felious Stire, the Crown Prince of the elven kingdom of Ephia. He leans forward, head in hands, hunched over a collection of papers with a quill poised between his fingers.

For the past few weeks, you have observed him from the shadows, exchanged fleeting words in passing. Doubt and hesitation have begun to infiltrate the cold determination that usually accompanies your missions. Why were you hesitating now? You have brought down countless men, each kill a necessity for your survival. This is the only life you know. So why have you not yet slit his throat and collected your payment from those who hired you?

Was it his kind eyes, or the way he slipped out of his room each night to visit the nearby tavern where you have been meeting for the past six months?

A faint breeze stirs as you remain perched on the ledge outside the balcony, dagger in hand, face concealed by your cloak. The wind carries your scent into the room, and the prince's head snaps up, his nostrils flaring as he recognizes the familiar aroma.

His eyes lock onto the balcony, and you freeze in the shadows. Now is the moment. You must kill him.

He calls out your name, his voice tinged with a mixture of hope and resignation, as if he knows he will not receive a reply but calls out nonetheless.

Do it now. Kill him.