"Wow! That was a strong reaction." Hemlock is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"He gets on my nerves," I say, tapping away on my laptop.

"The greatest assassin in the kingdom is flustered by a common guy. That's new!"

I don't look up. Ergun's words are still reeling in my mind. I have definitely brought my magic under control, but do I really know the potential of my magic? Whenever I've used my magic, I have created havoc only. Is my magic really that dark?

Ten years ago, I was forced to join the argente against my will. But very quickly I realised that they were an extremely disorganized band of wannabe rebels who called themselves the silver soldiers. They had powers but they weren't organized enough. Most of them weren't very educated either. They were a bunch of common folks disgruntled with the authority. But they were all very afraid of one person—me. I just had to flick my fingers and they would run away. Teenage me enjoyed seeing fear. There was a certain sense of twisted pleasure in the fear of others. But I didn't really use my magic. The initial days at the camp were the toughest. I was eager for freedom and totally out of control.

"Do you think he was right about the Noires?" I ask him, still scrolling aimlessly on the Fae-web. We have an online database for all archives related to the fae history but is only accessible with a special password.

"That's the least of your worries right now. We need to find the Prince as fast as possible and give them a hint of his location"—Hemlock clears his throat—"sleuth alert." But before I can ask what, he is gone and Ergun is standing at my doorway, dithering whether to come in.

"Hey." He raises one hand awkwardly.

"Not interested in whatever."

"Look. I'm sorry—I—Can I come in?"

I shrug. He comes in awkwardly and hovers over the bed.

"You know this is the ladies' wing and you're not allowed." I tap away at the laptop.

"I know. But I couldn't let go without apologizing to you." I look up. He is nervously fidgeting with his fingers. A weird reaction from someone who is always so brazenly self-aware.

"Or are you here to spy on me?" I smirk.

"Oh no no"—he looks around—"though I must say you have a very interesting room."

"Interesting how?" I look around. There is hardly any décor. The boring old teakwood furniture came with the room. 

"I mean I heard girls like to personalize their living space—fairies especially are fond of colours." He picks at my charcoal black bedsheet unmindfully.

"I'm not exactly a frills and laces girl." I turn my attention back to the laptop.

"What are you searching for on fae-web?" He scoots closer, suddenly interested in my research.

"It's nothing." I try to close my laptop.

"No, tell me. I have studied the archives in detail and I might know certain things not available on the web," he insists. I narrow my eyes at him. He might prove to be useful. But he definitely will be a loose end to my web of alibi if they make an enquiry. But I do know how to tie loose ends.

"I'm curious about the crown prince," I say softly, carefully monitoring his reaction. His eyebrows rise. "Why?"

"I mean no one saw him."

"So?"

"Is he even real?"

"Interesting question."

The tense silence in the room is palpable. 

"I mean what if the king has no heirs and they're hiding it from the world in the fear of the kingdom falling."

And he starts laughing. "How many mystery books have you read?"

I almost sigh in relief. If he takes it as a joke, it's a good sign.

"More like conspiracy theories." I give a small fake laugh.

"Trust me, they do have a son. I've seen him."

"Wow, lucky you." I pretend to be interested. "How does he look?"

"Pretty average." He laughs again. "I mean he'd-be-lucky-if-he-could-score-a-pretty-girl-like-you type average."

Ergun, I notice, has an open laugh. It's the kind of laughter that feels fresh, not hiding a secret or a pain, just open and very rare to find. But he is withholding information and entertaining a goofy man isn't on my list of priorities right now.

"That's pretty detailed." I scoff. "I knew you aren't of any help."

"Sorry." He says genuinely, "It's just that when a person is a Prince, they sometimes wish people saw them for beyond their face or their family name. Maybe he is nothing like his dad. But he gets to hear the criticism for what his dad did. It isn't fair."

"Wow. That is a close observation. How do you know him so well?"

"Huh?" He seems absent-minded, lost in thought, angry thoughts judging by the frown.

"The prince, how do you know him?"

"Nah! I know how he must feel because that's how I feel in my family—suffocated."

"But you roll in riches and all the best amenities. How are you unhappy?"

"Happiness doesn't come from money, Night Girl!" He seems annoyed like a new dad explaining to his two-year-old that ice cream doesn't come in burger flavour.

"Anyway. I have a class in five minutes. I should be going." He gets up and tosses his bag over his shoulder. He proceeds to the door but stops and turns around. "Just for information's sake, don't go around asking people about the prince. They don't take this lightly. You'll be in jail for nothing."

He's out of the door before I can say anything else.

"Crap!" I punch the air and spring up from the bed, going after him. I click my fingers and toss my magic after him, but he's too far away for my forgetting spell to work.

"A crappy job indeed."

I almost jump up. "Sheesh, Hem! Why are you like a ghost?"

He doesn't seem very entertained. "Need this one taken care of?"

"No. he's harmless." I say quickly—almost too quickly. Hemlock catches on my tone.

"Someone too ready to defend the sleuth?"

"No Hem! I just—"

"Remember the rules Lark, for your sake. Never form attachments."

"I know!" I nudge him on the shudder to get him out of his peculiar mood. "I'm careful. He's just—" Hemlock raises an eyebrow—"he's just not worth it." I shrug my shoulder rather exaggeratedly to show that I don't care.

"Fine!" Hemlock twitches his face. It's his version of a shrug. "So no luck there!"

"Do you think what he said is true though, that the prince isn't like his ancestors?" I start pacing the room. "That he might be different? I mean if the rebels could bring him on the throne instead of doing away with him altogether. I mean—" I'm face to face with Hemlock.

He grabs my arms against my side and stops my pacing. "You mean you are getting distracted from the matter at hand."

"But think about it. I mean it would mean one less kill and a lifetime of peace and—" I break out of his grip and start pacing again.

"If he is different I mean. Who knows if Ergun has made the whole thing up." He throws his hand in the air for emphasis.

"Yeah but what if he's telling the truth? We need to inform—"

"We need to inform no one. We are paid to carry out their orders, not think. Thinking is their task."

"Yeah but!" 

"Lark you need to focus on learning who the prince is. Have you raided the library yet? That was the first task to do. The internet doesn't have what books can teach you. We need the book of the royal family tree and its bloodlines to get accurate details of what we might be looking at."

"I will. I just didn't have the time yet." I insist.

"We're running out of time. You would have had time if you weren't so busy socializing with that boy!"

"I'm not socializing with anyone!" I hiss. "Are you jealous of Ergun?"

"No!" he says coolly, "I'm just reminding you of your duty."

"Stop mansplaining me. I know what I need to do," I lash out. It's the first time that he is not even ready to listen to me.

He stops speaking immediately. There's a hurt look in his eyes. I had never seen vulnerability in his gaze ever since we started in this line of work. But there at that moment I know I have messed up. His eyes glaze over for a split second, his thumb unmindfully stroking the edge of a long scar running down the side of his arm and stopping at his wrist. 

"Hem, I am—" He turns around and exits the room abruptly.

Author's Note: Who is right? Should Lark follow orders blindly or investigate more?