I'm no one.

Not royalty, not even close. Trash had more value than I did. At least you could recycle trash and put it to better use. I picked that trash. It's my lot in life.

There are worse fates.

Orphans don't get choices; we get garbage, the leftovers.

So when the sigil appeared on my arm, blue lines crossed over in a slanted "F," my first reaction was one of disbelief. I laughed maniacally.

"F for absolutely fucked," I whispered. The sigil stood out in the darkness of our room, a faint glow that in the dark shone bright. 

I'd been tagged.

Everyone knew who they were, the brotherhood of assassins, acolytes to Death himself. Their mark was a ticket out of mortality. Those who bore it never stayed long in the mortal realm.

How you were tagged was a mystery. No one came back and told their tale. The blue lines shimmered faintly under the dim light, a cruel reminder of my impending doom. The mark of the assassin's guild—the kiss of death. I was no one, and yet, I had been chosen. I laughed out loud. Of all the things I could have been chosen for. The lottery, a chance to serve in the upper class.

But no... I was marked to be assassinated.

I had no wealth, no enemies, no value beyond the rags on my back and the scraps I scavenged. My existence was a whisper in the void, barely noticed by those who stepped over me on the crowded streets.

"What's that?" Amo, the boy who shared my room, peeked out from under his covers and peered at the faint glow. I pushed my sleeve down, hoping to avoid attention.

"Nothing," I said.

"Isaak," his eyes widened. "You..." He didn't have to continue. His eyes widened in fear.

I nodded. "What do I do?"

Amo stared, his mouth working but nothing came out. He backed away, slipping outside into the night. I really couldn't blame him. I'd been marked for death; it was foolish to get in the way.

The guild was a legend of the shadows. Their reach was boundless, their methods flawless. They were phantoms, ghosts of the night who delivered death without mercy. Even the most powerful dared not invoke their wrath.

I, a nobody, had somehow drawn their gaze.

My breath hitched as I fought off panic. I wondered if it would hurt when they came for me, or if I'd simply slip away, another forgotten soul, a boy lost to history, no name, not even a family who cared for him.

"No," I whispered. Someone would remember me. If it was to be my assassin, then let them come. But one way or another, I wasn't going to go or be forgotten.

I looked around my room—I'd get dressed. My hands shook as I pulled on my cloak. It was barely more than rags. Perhaps I'd at least get buried in it. My own calm surprised me. It could have been resignation to my fate. Or simple curiosity. But how much does a street kid have to piss someone off to get marked for assassination by the guild?

I looked down at the mark again, just under the inside of my wrist. The glow managed to shine through the fabric. I thought about packing, but everything I owned was on my body. I sat on the edge of my bed and simply waited.

My stomach rumbled. Perhaps it was a dream?

I looked down at my arm again. The glow was still there.

"Congratulations, kid."

Startled, I leapt to my feet.

A man was in the room, a hood over his face, a black cloak covering the rest of his body. His movements were silent, almost feline. He wasn't particularly tall, but his presence oozed danger. He advanced closer and stopped. His wrist flicked, and an apple flew at me. On instinct, I caught it.

"I don't understand," my voice squeaked higher than I meant it to. I snapped my mouth so hard my teeth clicked.

"Most of my marks piss themselves trying to hide. You're smart, I'll give you that. You didn't even bother running. You looked the god of death in the eye and nodded."

When I said nothing, he continued on. "I just lost ten dinar on whether you'd run."

I was going to die. I tried to square up my shoulders, but my knees were quaking.

"You passed the test, Isaak. Welcome to the brotherhood."