A rumoured blade in the night

I killed him in his sleep. My blade opened his throat with the barest of a touch - my hand kept his noise to a whisper.

Everything about what I do is a whisper... a shadow... a rumour.

We are rumours, flitting through darkness like people's worst nightmare. Our infamy is our disguise, our weapon, our strength. We steal through crowds, wrapped in the cloak of anonymity and showered in the blessings of regularity. Most men carry blades openly in the streets, we would arouse suspicion if we didn't - it makes our life easy. Some even say too easy.

This latest mark was only a merchant, but higher powers decided that what he did was illegal. They needed him removed from his position. I could have done it any number of ways. I could have ruined his reputation. I could have bribed the right hands to make sure his products became worthless. I could have murdered his family and closest associates, and kept doing so until they got the idea.

I killed him in his sleep.

It's best, this way.

For both of us.