A waxing yellow moon and the smell of rain hang in the sky as thick-soled leather boots traipse through the mud, the hooded figure they belong to moving fluidly down the dirt road, pausing outside a dimly lit tavern, glancing at the worn sign hanging above the door. The wooden door opens with a creak and the tavern welcomes in another soul with a darkened past.

Lance Hunter would be the last to admit his lack of courage, as any man would, but as he wanders through the establishment, his apprehension only grows as he glances down at the slip of paper he had received earlier.

If you wish to meet, be at Canelo's Tavern before midnight. I will be at the second table near the window on the left wall. I will not speak to you until you ask how to enter hell.

Cryptic, and a bit on the suspicious side, but considering who he was meeting, perhaps that was only fitting. Still, he wishes that Bobbi was doing this instead of him.

Warily, he approaches the second table near the window on the left wall, where another person sits, just as cloaked as Hunter, too tall and too broad-shouldered to be a woman (or at least to be like the women he's known.)

"Are you...him?" Hunter asks, taking the seat across from his contact.

The other man says nothing, his expression obscured by the hood.

"You're quite a serious bloke, aren't you?" Hunter tries to joke.

Still nothing.

"Right, well...how would one get into hell-enter it, that is?"

"Become a sinner and give yourself over to the devil." A voice, low and certainly not menacing whatsoever, issues from under the hood, and Hunter finds himself wishing even harder than Bobbi had come with him.

"I didn't think the Ghost Rider would the religious type," Hunter says, but his smile falters when the man sitting across from him flicks his wrist and a rather lethal-looking silver dagger slides into his hand.

"Keep your voice down and choose your words carefully or they may be your last."

"Right, my apologies," Hunter says, his eyes locked on the gleaming blade that twirls in The Rider's hand. This had been a big mistake.

"Who is the target, and how do I know this is worth my time?" The Rider asks. Hunter pulls out a bulging, worn leather money purse from under his cloak and slides it across the table. The hand not holding a threatening dagger dips into the purse, pulling out a few gold coins that shine in the dim firelight of the tavern.

"This will make it worth your while, I'm sure," Hunter says, "And as for the target…" His voice drops as he cautiously leans forward.

"Tell me, mate, what do you know about Princess Daisy of Afterlife?"

Slipping into Afterlife Castle with minimal to no casualties is no small feat, but Robbie has snuck into far more secure places and succeeded every time, so this is only mildly irritating.

His client was a bit unspecific as to why he wanted Queen Jiaying's daughter dead, but Robbie has learned not to question his client's motives, especially when they pay such a gracious sum of money to have their wishes fulfilled.

Why Hunter could have possibly wanted a pampered, scatterbrained rich brat dead was no longer a concern to him. He has a contract to fill now, and he was certainly going to come through.

According to the map of the palace he'd been given, the princess resides in a staggeringly tall tower up in the east wing, with only one window to its name and a few hundred stairs to climb. Clever, he supposes, as no one would be stupid enough to try and climb in the window with guards inconveniently posted at every angle where they would have the window in their line of vision.

Still, he wonders how the princess dealt with all those stairs. Perhaps she had her servants carry her down all the way. The thought makes him smirk and roll his eyes. One might think he was being unfair, but he'd met far too many children of royalty to think otherwise now.

Despite all the stairs, there are no guards outside her door when he reaches the top of it, something he finds rather odd. Perhaps the royal family is confident enough that the princess's seclusion is enough to deter those who might cause her harm.

How wrong they would be.

The door is locked, but it's child's play to pick. Carefully, he eases the door open, peering inside, but sees no one. Palming a dagger in each hand, he steals into the room, only to find no one within.

That seems off. It's well past midnight, and she should have been up here and in bed by now. His mind mulls over the possible reasons why she wouldn't be here. Some sort of moonlight tryst, a party gone past its time limits…

No matter. He is a patient man, and if he must wait, then wait he shall. It isn't as if he's facing off against a war-hardened general, just a young woman who's probably never been in a fight in her life, unless the stories told about her have some sort of truth to them.

He paces the room, careful not to put anything out of place. It looks like what one would expect a princess's bedroom to look like: the entire room draped in silk, gold rimming the edges of every piece of furniture, even an obscenely large wooden closet. Something still feels wrong, and he can't quite place it until he notices the closet door ajar, ever so slightly.

He takes a step toward it, but has no chance to take another, because at that moment there's a sound of something whistling through the air and something sharp embeds itself in the skin just above his collarbone.

He swears through his teeth, fingers wrapping around the offending object and pulling it out. A small feathered dart is clenched in his hand, the tip stained with his blood, and doubles in his vision.

Another curse escapes him and he sways on his feet, the world bending and twisting in his line of sight as he stumbles and collapses to his knees. He hears a creaking and through his blurred sight, he can see the closet door push open even farther, a figure stepping out, but he can't make heads or tails of their appearance.

He catches a glimpse of the hem of a dark blue dress just before something crashes into the side of his head and the world goes black.

He wakes up in darkness with a splitting headache, and the minute he tries to move, his fingers brush across something that feels like a spiderweb, but as his eyes adjust to the light, he sees that it's just a dress made from some kind of gauzy material that itches his skin just by touching it. He tries to move his legs, but his feet run into something sturdy. He kicks out, and his feet slam into what he realizes is the closet door.

"So, you're up," says a female voice, and he bites his tongue to keep from cursing. "Keep it down, would you?"

He's been set up. He's going to kill Hunter.

This is unbelievable. He's killed legendary warriors, corrupt lords, even a king here and there, and he's caught by a princess and locked in her closet. It isn't just unbelievable; it's absolutely maddening.

Infuriated, he pounds on the closet door.

"Shh!" a girl hisses on the other side. "Do you want to get us both killed?"

"Well, I was planning on only getting you killed," he snarls back through a crack in the door.

"Change of plans, I'm afraid," she replies. "Now, listen very carefully, because what I'm about to say should concern us both."

"If it isn't silver and gold, Your Highness, I don't give a damn," he says airily.

"The kingdom is about to crumble and you want to talk about money?" she says in disbelief.

"Causing kingdoms to crumble is part of my job, princess," he replies. "It's just a matter of how much I'm paid."

"Well, this time you're being paid to save a kingdom," she says, and he can hear her padding closer to the closet, "Now, stop your arrogance and listen to me because I'm about to become your most important client."

He scoffs at that. "How so?"

"I need you to teach me how to be an assassin."

If he weren't so dumbstruck by her statement, he probably would have laughed.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"And what does a delicate thing like you want with learning how to murder people?"

"Because-" She falls silent for a moment before taking a deep breath and saying, "I need to kill the queen."

She's just full of surprises.