Chapter Text
The weight of the dagger is heavy in his hands as Jamil strides through the halls of the palace.
He does not hide, with the night covering his tracks; he has no reason to – not when his abilities proved sufficient enough for him to be assigned to this mission without further protection. He’s skilled enough for this; in all honesty, he could just walk right in the gates of the palace if he wanted to, flamboyant and performative. He’s the one in possession of magic here – he doubts the royal guards would be capable enough to fend him off.
The royal palace would really do well to train some magic users. It's almost sad how quickly they fall.
The guards are useless against his unique magic, unable to fight against the whispering hisses threading into their ears. A cacophony sounds out when they look into Jamil’s eyes, sharp and oppressive of any thought they try to form. It shuts them down, closes their eyes to their own minds and forces them to listen.
Another troop patrolling near the prince’s quarters have already fallen soundlessly, without the dual snakes entwining his dagger having to pierce deep into skin. That pleasure is reserved for the prince – Jamil will make sure he enjoys it.
“Snake whisper.”
Jamil leaves them when they slowly slump forward, tipping over onto the carpeted floor. Their breaths have slowed enough for him to be sure they won't be any more trouble for his mission.
It’s annoyingly simplistic, hypnotising all the guards – they look into his eyes without precaution, mouths contorted in a halfway-there shout. The palace’s security has gotten sloppy since the last time he was here with Kalim, dragged along on a ‘social meeting’. (Kalim had simply wanted to visit.) He had been adamant on gifting Minajael an array of items, all of which had been accepted with a saccharine smile.
Now, as Jamil walks the halls, he sees none of the gaudy decorations Kalim had gifted to Minajael, despite the prince’s repeated promises towards Jamil’s charge that he would display the presents as a sign of goodwill. Really, how royals interact with each other is an art in itself.
He’s heard rumours about the prince, other than what he’s seen in his interactions with Kalim. ‘A willful genius’, running away from home multiple times, in love with the concept of freedom without any appreciation for what his background can bring. Minajael wants to smell the scent of cinnamon in the streets as he wanders through bazaars, when he can simply flick a finger for it to be delivered to his room high up in the palace.
Jamil thinks that the prince is nothing less than sheltered. He has a whole palace of servants to bend to his every whim, endless luxuries and pleasures at his fingertips – and yet he refuses to be content. A pampered, worthless prince born into power and wealth, yet utterly unappreciative of it – it’s really no wonder that someone would send a hit on him. I would too, he thinks to himself. If I were rich and had too few things to do with my money.
Every step down the hallway to a golden door sounds with certainty, every movement perfectly fluid as he encroaches upon his target like a viper towards his prey. The dark fabric of his cloak slides like scales over his skin when he reaches out, pushing the door open gently.
Like silk, Jamil wonders briefly, thumbing the material. This expensive fabric, rich in its quality, conceals him best at night. People who aren’t supposed to see him won’t be able to. Still, it doesn’t belong to him – he would do well to not get blood on it. Replacing it would mean another job.
He glides into the room with quiet steps after checking that the coast was clear, surveying the room coolly for any possible threats.
A dim light glows in the prince’s dark chambers from a lit candle quivering next to a towering four-poster bed where Jamil can spot a rough human shape. The space itself is huge – practically thrice the size of Jamil’s own home. He can’t help but pause and survey the room through the darkness.
Carpets crowd the floor at the entrance of the room, forming an elaborate tapestry of colours and tassels. The designs themselves are primarily embroidered in varying shades of gold – all shimmering faintly in candlelight. Hints of wooden flooring can be seen in between gaps of carpet, dark mahogany contrasting sharply with the light shades of teal. Jamil takes extra pleasure in stepping on them, petty as it may sound.
The room’s ceiling is a dome that stretches up so high that Jamil has to squint where it's highest, with intricate carvings twirling and looping in fanciful patterns. Mashrabiyas shroud the arched windows, deep-set on every wall of the room with moonlight flickering through weakly, casting faint shadows as it passes by various items on display.
A pot of snake plants sits innocently in the corner of the room next to a planter full of fragrant, blossoming jasmine, both of which are clearly well taken care of. The smell wafts around the room almost hauntingly, like it's setting the scene for something… It unnerves Jamil, so he wrinkles his nose and steps away.
Every step closer to the queen-sized bed gives Jamil a clearer view of the young man asleep on it. The veil obscures the fine details of the prince, but his rough outline is clear through the tiny holes. Curled up tightly under a cover of silk blankets, blissfully unaware of the assassin sent to take his life.
What would he say if he were awake? Would he beg for his life? Fight back? Jamil wonders to himself, unsheathing his dagger and twirling it between his fingers absentmindedly.
Jamil raises the shroud and freezes when he sees Minajael. It's been a few years since he'd last seen him, back when Kalim would have playdates arranged for them and he would have to tag along. He looks particularly different.
Jamil hadn't particularly liked Minajael. He had always beaten him at mancala and gloated about it in his face.
They had been children, playing mostly without a care in the world. Jamil hadn't had the disparity in their classes made clear to him during that time – he did what he wished with his only friends.
As if possessed, he brushes Minajael’s hair away from his face so that it falls around his head like a halo, rather than in disarray over his face. (Jamil tells himself it's because the thin strands look like antennae.) He looks strange in sleep, scrunching up his nose like he's having a peculiar dream, trying to hold back a laugh. His laugh – Jamil remembers it well, a sharp sound that faintly resembled bells. It would ring out in the dull silence of the palace.
… He's grown out his hair. It's longer now, practically waist-length rather than his old pixie cut. The strands are silky smooth under his hands, and he can't resist twirling one around a single finger and watching it slide off back onto the bed. Jamil runs his fingers through a stubborn section that keeps peeking up no matter how hard he tries to quell and straighten it.
He has to blink hard to snap himself out of it, shaking his head.
He hasn't spoken to Minajael in years, much less of his own accord. He has no reason to be attached – they're a prince and a servant, the target and the assassin going to take his life. Jamil doesn't need to show mercy or any soft, gentle intimacy.
The prince had a hit on him, and Jamil had gladly taken the job for the cash reward, so really, no one would lose anything here but the prince. He doesn't need to feel guilty, doesn't need to stroke his hair one last time. Jamil would get his money, his employer would be rid of a problem, and the world would be rid of a problematic, annoying prince.
The dagger is raised to Minajael's throat slowly, with steady hands. The dual snakes entwining the dagger shine in the candlelight. It was made to simulate the effect of a viper's fangs, he'd been told when it was bestowed upon him. Dual points sharp enough to pierce through bone, leaving nothing but two deep pin-sized holes behind.
He watches himself in the reflection of the blade: lethal, refined – this is him now, living up completely to his namesake, motions deadly and fluid. A single push forward, and the prince would be gone. Jamil leans in, relishing the rush he feels at being the one in control here, the one on higher ground without having to consider his status. As an assassin, he only has to answer to his employer – no one else matters. It's a sharp kind of joy that Jamil doesn't know what to feel about, eerily similar to when he first saw Minajael's face as the veil was pulled aside.
He crushes it down, pulling his hood down further as if self-conscious. The feeling is labelled quickly as disgust, because why would he feel anything else? He can reflect on whatever he wants after the hit. After the prince dies, he'll report back to his employer and get the money he needs to leave the Asims and travel the world–
A moment's hesitation in how he holds his dagger.
The candle's wick is barely burnt–
A low growl sounds behind him as Minajael opens a single eye and smiles at him as gloatingly as he used to when they were children and Jamil fell for another one of his tricks. A soft, lilting whistle comes from him, beckoning something to come closer. Jamil's blood runs cold when he catches a hint of black and orange in his peripheral vision, his mouth opening to say something–
A blunt force slams into the back of his head, and Jamil falls forward onto the silken bed before he even gets to raise his dagger or voice.