A pleasant melody wafted through the window as the man sat, striking two sticks together, humming along to the rhythm and the tune. His crimson cloak rustled as he stood, tossing the sticks aside, and walked slowly toward the door. The floor creaked.
"One does not go about being an assassin and make the floors creak, boy." The crimson cloak fluttered softly to the ground after its brooch. The man's sword gleamed against the boy's dagger. There was no answer. The boy's eyes narrowed. Up. Left. He rolled past the man, swiping at his ankles. Nothing was there.
The floorboards shattered as the boy's body crashed, propelled by one hand between his shoulder blades. The man bent down, his hand still holding the boy to the ground. "Neither does one think once his prey is in sight. Your instincts are right, but unpolished."
"Just kill me."
The sword pierced through. The boy's eyes widened, his breath pushed out suddenly, but then closed in resignation, a smile on his face. Waiting for the pain to start.
"Get up, boy. You've got some guts in you." The sword had missed his throat, leaving only a small cut. The boy lay still.
"Get up."
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