Lord Rikuya Mori had expected the assassin.

He sat in his private chambers, the sliding doors closed, the warm glow of lantern light dancing across polished wood and silk screens. The night air drifted through the open window behind him, carrying the scent of pine and the faint murmur of the waterfall below. He poured himself a cup of sake with unhurried precision, his movements quiet and deliberate, as though he were hosting a guest rather than waiting for death.

The floorboard creaked ever so slightly.

Rikuya did not turn his head. He felt the shift in the air behind him—the faint displacement of shadow against shadow—and knew his guest had arrived. Most men would have tensed, would have reached for their sword at the whisper of silk and steel gliding closer. But Rikuya Mori was not most men.

The blade was at his throat before he spoke.

“You are late,” he said softly, as if mildly inconvenienced rather than facing imminent death.

The assassin hesitated for the briefest moment. He could feel her breath near his ear, steady and controlled. A professional. He almost smiled.

“I could kill you now,” she murmured, her voice low, smooth, and utterly devoid of fear.

Rikuya’s reflection rippled faintly in the surface of his untouched sake. He did not so much as flinch. “Yes,” he said, his tone as calm as the night itself. “But then you would lose the chance to hear why I invited you here.”

That gave her pause. He could sense her uncertainty, a crack in her otherwise perfect composure.

“You think I came for a conversation?” she asked.

“I think,” Rikuya said, turning his head slowly until his dark eyes met hers, “that you came here with someone else’s orders. And I think the man who sent you does not deserve your loyalty.”

The assassin’s gaze flickered, just once. Her blade stayed at his throat, but he knew he had her attention now. It was all he needed.