Wren

“Kill him.” The ink carved into my neck had burned when Lord Nostra gave the command, an invisible hand closing around my throat. It's a pretty little curse that forces my hand, one that has been ever since I could remember. For ten years I’ve been his favorite executioner. The pain that coils in my throat when I hesitate is motivation enough to stay loyal, not that I could kill him anyways. That would break orders. Most days, I can’t remember much beyond the ache of the curse. I have flashes—bits of laughter, muddy shoes, and the boy who used to shove flowers into my hair and grin like he’d invented the sun. Then the memories dissolve like smoke. Nostra says they’re false, that he saved me from a beating that nearly killed me and everything before him was misery not worth remembering. As if I believe that. Tracking the target, a mage, takes a week. He’s been hiding in the forest with a cluster of strays, living quietly. He’s tending a fire when I find him and as if he knows I'm there, he looks up. For a second, my lungs forget how to work. Because he has the same eyes from the boy in my memories. Wren. And just like that, the mark on my neck starts burning. The command is clear: kill him. My body trembles, torn between compulsion and devastation. The tattoo pulses harder, sending lightning through my veins. I drop to my knees, choking on a sound that’s part laughter, part hysteria. The mage I’m supposed to murder is the only person I’ve ever cared about. Nostra really outdid himself this time. I only pray he can stop me.