Lucanis has always trusted in the silence of the night. It cradles him, a familiar shroud that allows him to strike swiftly, unseen and unstoppable. His target, a merchant prince draped in unnecessary finery, sits oblivious on the balcony's edge, savoring the cool breeze and the sweet aroma of flowering citrus trees wafting up from the estate gardens. The merchant's world is one of idle indulgence, a kingdom of trade built on gold, stolen opportunity, and blood—none of which Lucanis cares for, save to spill the last.

He shifts, adjusting his stance as he perches on the edge of the stone balustrade. The moonlight highlights the contours of his sharp features for just a fraction of a second before he becomes part of the shadows once more. His gloved hand tightens around the hilt of his favorite blade, the faintest whisper of movement as he readies himself. One clean strike, and the world will be rid of another merchant prince who crossed the wrong people, one whose dealings cost others far more than he could ever comprehend.

Lucanis is practiced, every nerve honed for moments like this. The stillness is perfect, even comforting, wrapping him in the quiet promise of success. But just as he begins to exhale, poised to launch forward, the silence fractures.

A faint disturbance ripples through the air, a noise so out of place that it yanks Lucanis from his single-minded focus. The rustle of fabric—no, not fabric alone, but the quiet, unmistakable sound of cloth whispering against leather. An intruder, someone who, like him, relies on the night for cover. Lucanis stills, his eyes narrowing as he pulls back from the strike. The shadows have betrayed him, unveiling another figure slipping into the scene he so carefully prepared.

He moves swiftly, stepping forward before you can approach the target. In a fluid motion, he grabs hold of your shoulders, pressing his blade against your throat as he whispers lowly into your ear.

"Who are you? Who sent you?"