Theo’s hand was a hot, unyielding manacle on my wrist.

  He dragged me past the formal gardens, his short, noble legs moving with a speed that belied his angelic appearance. Marin’s voice "My lady! Master Theo! Please, wait!" her voice growing fainter.

  He didn't stop until we’d rounded the corner of the west wing, into a small, manicured courtyard hidden by high stone walls. A place of privacy. A place for clandestine meetings.

  He let go of my hand, but only to shove me.

  I stumbled, catching myself on a stone bench.

  He stood in the center of the courtyard, breathing hard, his perfect blond hair slightly mussed.

  This... this was the Theo I remembered. Or rather, the Theo that Seraphina's memories supplied. He had never been a "friend." He was a tormentor. A bully who used his status like a club.

  The "angelic" act was for the adults. This... this was for her.

  I wondered, very briefly, why. Why this specific, targeted cruelty? Was it a simple power play? A child's sadism?

  His hand was still on my arm.

  "You didn't tell anyone, did you?"

  The question was low, sharp, and utterly devoid of its earlier, false warmth.

  I stared at him. "Tell what?"

  Tell them I'm a 35 year old assassin from another dimension? Tell them I'd just avenged my wife? Tell them I was, at this moment, analyzing the three best ways to snap his neck before his maid could even scream?

  The situation was... absurd.

  This twelve year old "devil" was trying to intimidate me.

  It was... almost funny.

  The mask. Time for the mask.

  I let Seraphina's memories of this boy the fear bubble to the surface. I let my eyes widen. I pulled my hand back, but he held it firm.

  "T-Theo?" I made my voice tremble. "What... what are you talking about? You're... you're hurting me."

  He smiled. It was a cold, thin expression.

  "You know what I'm talking about," he hissed, pulling me closer. "The... thing. In the woods. You. Didn't. Say. Anything."

  Before I could process that new piece of intel a "thing" in the woods? his free hand moved.

  CRACK.

  A high-velocity impact. My head snapped to the side.

  My cheek... it stung.

  A hot, bright, stinging pain.

  My brain... stalled. It was a processing failure.

  He...

  He slapped me.

  this... child...

  This twelve-year-old... just hit me.

  "You stupid bitch," he spat, his face contorted in a very adult-looking rage.

  He still had my wrist. He raised his hand again.

  CRACK.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Another one. Same spot. The sting doubled, and with it, a new sensation.

  Fear.

  It wasn't my fear. It was hers.

  It was a cold, sickening, familiar jolt, straight from Seraphina's traumatized nervous system. This body... it remembered this. It had been conditioned, like one of Pavlov's dogs, to feel terror when this boy raised his hand.

  This was PTSD.

  "You better not be lying!" he snarled, raising his hand for a third time. "Or else I'll..."

  His hand never landed.

  A new hand, larger and darker, shot out and clamped around Theo's wrist.

  "Stop."

  Kaelen.

  He stood there, breathing hard, his trainee's uniform rumpled from running. He was looking directly at Theo, his young face set in a mask of cold determination.

  "Let. Go." Theo's voice was a low growl. He tried to yank his wrist free, but Kaelen's grip was solid.

  "You let her go," Kaelen countered.

  "You... you commoner," Theo seethed, his face turning red. "Do you have any idea what I am? What my father is? I could have you killed. I could have you skinned for touching me. I am a Duke's son. You are nothing."

  I was still standing there, head down, reeling. The physical sting was gone, but the fear... it was a poison in my veins. It was clouding my analysis. Fight it. Fight it.

  "Do your worst, Theo," Kaelen said, his voice quiet but unwavering. "I am the son of the Commander. I am Lady Seraphina's future knight. My duty is to protect her. Even from you."

  Theo laughed. A high, ugly sound.

  "A knight? You? You're a joke. Your 'chivalry' is... "

  Theo's mocking words choked off.

  A new hand had just closed over his. The one still gripping my wrist.

  A small, cold hand.

  My hand.

  I gripped his, and my fingers weren't the fingers of a weak, scared, 12 year old girl.

  My grip was strong.

  Theo stopped laughing. He looked at my hand on his. He tried to pull away. He couldn't.

  I forced his fingers open, I forced his other hand open to release mine.

  The air in the courtyard... changed.

  It wasn't magic. It was... pressure.

  The pure, unadulterated killing intent of a man who had ended hundreds of lives. A predator's aura, so thick it felt like the air had turned to water.

  Kaelen gasped and took two steps back.

  Theo was frozen.

  He was staring at me, his eyes wide, his mouth open. In his eyes, he wasn't looking at a 12 year old girl. He was looking at... something else.

  He saw something primal

  I lifted my head. The fear was gone. The "afflicted" girl was gone.

  He was here.

  My voice was a low, cold, rasping whisper.

  "You... should not have done that."

  I took a step. He stumbled back, falling onto the stone path.

  "If you ever," I whispered, looming over him, "ever... touch Kaelen again..."

  He was crawling backward, his face a mask of pure, genuine terror.

  "...I will kill you."

  I took another step.

  "I will kill your Duke father. I will burn your estate to the ground and salt the earth so nothing ever grows there again. Do you understand me, Theo?"

  He couldn't think. I could see the fear in his eyes. The words were absurd. A 12 year old girl couldn't do that.

  But the intent... my essence... the promise in my eyes...

  That was real.

  He didn't just hear the threat. He felt it.

  He scrambled to his feet, turned, and ran. He didn't just walk. He ran, his footsteps echoing wildly as he fled the courtyard.

  The aura vanished.

  And with it... all my strength.

  The world tilted. The adrenaline... the whatever-that-was... it was gone. This body... it couldn't handle the strain.

  "Sera...?"

  Kaelen's voice.

  I was falling.

  Two small hands caught me before I hit the stone.

  He was strong for his age. He guided me to the bench, his face a mess of confusion and... not fear. Awe.

  "My lady..."

  "Tired," I rasped, slumping against him. "Just... tired."

  His lap was... surprisingly soft.

  What... was that?

  I couldn't analyze. Too... exhausted.

  My eyes closed.

  I woke up to darkness.

  My bed, smelt of lavender.

  "My lady?"

  Marin. She was sitting on a small stool by the bedside, a single candle burning.

  "You're awake. It's... it's past sundown."

  She held a cup of water to my lips. I drank it. My throat was dry. My body felt... hollowed out and drained.

  "Theo...?" I whispered.

  "Master Theo left hours ago, my lady," Marin said, her voice quiet. "He... he seemed in a terrible hurry. He didn't even say goodbye to the Duchess."

  I processed this. Good. The threat was effective.

  "What... happened?"

  "Master Kaelen carried you back to the hall, he said... he said you were playing in the courtyard, and your fever returned, and you grew overtired and fell asleep. He... he was very worried."

  A cover story.

  Kaelen. He was smarter than I'd given him credit for. Or just... loyal.

  I held the cup. My head... it wasn't just my thoughts. It was... static. A loud, buzzing noise.

  That's what it was.

  The "fear." That was Seraphina. Her trauma, her PTSD, snapping into control.

  The "aura." That was me. Viper. My killing intent, my rage, snapping back.

  They had clashed. Two drivers fighting for the wheel.

  I had lost control.

  This... this was a new, critical vulnerability. I couldn't just let Seraphina's emotions hijack me again. And I couldn't let my instincts manifest in a way this body couldn't handle.

  I needed to be more careful. I needed to control this... this hybrid.

  I needed time.

  "Marin."

  "Yes, my lady?"

  I laid my head back on the pillow. "The candle."

  She held out her hand. The small flame on the wick didn't just go out. It flowed, pulling backward in a thin, orange thread, and vanished into her open palm.

  I stared at her hand, now empty.

  Magic.

  Right.

  I closed my eyes.

  A traumatized assassin, in a 12 year old's body, leaking killing intent, in a world where maids can bend fire.

  This operation was a complete failure.

  Time to rebuild. Time to take real control.