[ WP ] You step into the throne room with weapon at the ready . The king eyes you with disdain as you draw near . He knows the end is near . His voice is solemn yet sad as his only words split the cold silence like a knife through the air , `` Why ? ''

The knife spins between the Wraith's fingers; she is thinking, seriously considering his question. Disbelief passes over the King's features for one moment, and a spot of hope that he can bargain; but he knows better. He is a ruthless king, and she is a silent assassin. She will not listen. She will not - perhaps can not speak. 
 
 She's taller than he, even were he standing, but she must have half his weight. Perhaps that's why her tread is silent, an effortless glide over tiled floors. Perhaps that's how she's killed so many. Her face is unmasked; she is a mere girl, but her youth is marred by scars, exhaustion, and fear. Her legs and arms have the same marks, some inflicted by weapons, some perhaps by a whip. Someone put those there. 
 
 He expects a quick strike, perhaps to the throat so she can watch him bleed out, or somewhere more sensitive to exact revenge. But instead the Wraith climbs over him, kneels on the arms of his throne, and stares him in the eyes. He considers fighting, but knows it would do him no good. Cold steel touches the back of his neck, just against the spine; she is not ready yet. She's looking for something. The King will not humor her. He is still a great king, and she is still a deadly assassin. 
 
 `` Why?'' she echoes. The Wraith can speak, but it is only the voice of a girl. She is confused, confused that he would even ask. She does not know why. It scares her to think about it. The King can see it all in her eyes. The world is big, and she is just a girl. Her hands are not her own. `` Because... Because you are a king, and I am an assassin.'' That is all she knows. That is all she will ever know. 
 
 In a flash, it is over. The knife is driven into the back of the King's neck, and the Wraith drops to the tile and walks the way she came. She does not understand. She, too, saw things in her foe's eyes, things that scare her. He was a mighty king, and she is a lowly assassin; it should have been disgust, or anger, or fear in his eyes, not pity, never pity. Why pity?
