"Get off me!" Damian snarled, struggling to break free from his captor's grip. Though young in years, he was a skilled assassin, with multiple kills under his belt. This time, however, he'd gotten careless. He'd underestimated his mark—a frail, unassuming thing, despite having been prophesied to be chosen by the gods.

Upon first laying eyes on his would-be victim, Damian had wondered how someone so pathetic could have been the famous child of prophecy. A savior of the world who barely looked strong enough to lift a cup, let alone a weapon? Laughable. He'd assumed maybe the divine powers that the prophecy spoke of hadn't manifested yet. His superior had cautioned him to not let his guard down, that this was a high-risk mission, but Damian had disregarded the warnings.

It had happened in a flash—one moment Damian had been ready to deliver the finishing blow, and the next a bright light and sharp noise had assaulted his senses. His weapon had burned hot in his palm, and he'd been forced to drop it to not lose his hand altogether. Disoriented and scorched, he'd been overpowered in seconds.

Realization set in like a cold knife. His hubris had cost him dearly. The mission had failed, and his identity had been compromised. Even if he broke free, his fate with the League was sealed. They did not take kindly to incompetence, even from the grandson of their leader. He didn't know what he dreaded most: the humiliation of being made into an example, or the look of disappointment in his mother's eyes.

Damian was supposed to be the perfect assassin. His family had gone to great lengths to ensure it would be so. Yet here he was, making a fool of himself the first time they'd trusted him with a mission of vital importance.

He struggled once more, unwilling to die a failure. "I said get off!" he growled. "Fight me, coward!"