—Aemon's POV—
The hand over my mouth was dry and cold, and the voice behind it was colder still.
"You have prevented a death that was sure to happen," the Faceless Man whispered. "A man has altered fate. Revoked the gift of death."
His words sank into my skin like ice, chilling me to my bones. My heart hammered in my chest, and a thousand thoughts raced through my head.
Did he know about my reincarnation? Was I marked for death now? Was this the end?
Then he slowly removed his hand.
"What... what do you mean?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. "Altered fate?"
But I already knew. Gael. He was talking about Gael. My intervention—flying to her on Zalrazar, singing her back from the brink—had interrupted what was fated to be her end.
I clenched my fists and forced myself to stay calm. If he wanted me dead, I'd already be gone. "So what about it?" I asked. "I did what I had to. What do you want? What's this... message from death?"
"You are a dead that lives," he said. "You have overcome the end. And death does not forget. So death offers you a proposition."
A proposition. My stomach twisted.
"What kind of proposition?"
"Your existence now changes futures. You can delay death, deny it. But such power has a price." His voice dropped lower. "For every life you save that was meant to die, one moon of your own life will be taken. But for every life you take before its fated time, one moon will be added to your span."
I went still. My thoughts jammed, short-circuiting under the weight of what he'd said.
A living curse. A reward. A trap?
"Can I... refuse?" I asked.
"No."
"What happens if I don't kill or save anyone?"
"Then death will wait... and take you when your time is due."
I swallowed. "So... if I keep killing, I could live forever?"
"Yes," he said simply.
Something primal stirred inside me. Fear. Wonder. Curiosity. Hunger.
"Then... I accept."
The Faceless Man stepped forward and pressed a hand to my chest. His palm was cold as steel.
He whispered something in a language I didn't recognize, ancient and fluid as wind over water.
Pain lanced through my chest—sharp, blinding—but it passed just as fast, like a knife that only wanted to make a mark.
"You are now marked," he said. "On behalf of death, you are owed one boon. But you cannot command us directly, nor request our full secrets."
That sparked something in me. A loophole.
If I couldn't ask for complete knowledge...
"Can I ask for partial knowledge?" I asked.
"Yes."
My mind raced. Could I have Otto Hightower killed? Could I take the knowledge of assassins for myself?
Then a wicked grin formed.
"Then... kill yourself," I said.
He froze. His shadow loomed longer in the firelight.
"This is no jest," he said, voice flat.
"Then grant me more wishes."
His eyes narrowed. "Do you have no honor?"
"Kill yourself."
There was a long pause.
"Three boons," he said. "No more than that."
"Deal."
"What is your first request?"
"You said I could ask for knowledge. What are my choices?"
"There are three," he replied, lifting his gloved fingers.
"The Face-Changing Art: Allows one to assume the appearance of another through training and alchemical preparation. Difficult to master. Dangerous to misuse . You have to peel your own face .
The Voice-Mimic Art: The vocal cords are retrained to mimic any voice precisely. Useful for deception, infiltration, or sowing confusion.
The Way of the Assassin's Body: A full training system developed over centuries. Includes methods to dull pain, control breath and heartbeat, move without sound, and blend in with any crowd. Includes rare potion recipes that enhance senses—but repeated use weakens the body over time."
I thought hard. Power was not about illusion—it was about action.
"I choose the Way of the Assassin's Body."
"A wise choice," he said. "And a heavy one. The art is brutal. It will cost you, but it will make you something more than a prince."
"Good," I said. "What's my second boon?"
"Name it."
"I want gold."
He chuckled darkly. "Greedy dragon."
"I'll need resources to change the future."
He nodded. "You will receive secret maps used by the Faceless Ones. And hundred thousand gold dragons—drawn from the Iron Bank. That is all I can offer. No more."
"That'll do. I'll keep my third boon for later."
He nodded again. "Then you must find us when the time comes. When do you want your boons to be given ?"
"I'll call for it on my sixth name day," I said. "That should give me time to prepare."
The Faceless Man turned toward the window.
"Very well. Until we meet again... Young Dragon."
And then he was gone.
No sound. No gust of wind. Just silence.
I stood there for what felt like hours, my mind spinning. Had I been cursed—or given a key to reshape the world?
A price for mercy. A reward for death.
I stared at my hands. Could I really kill for time? Could I stomach that? And if I did... would I still be me?
But something inside me—deeper than fear, older than doubt—answered.
You've already died once. You were given this life again for a reason.
And now I had to decide what to do with it.
But one thing was clear.
From this night forward, I would no longer be just a prince of the realm.
I would be a shadow that danced with death.
And if the gods themselves tried to end me...
...they'd have to catch me first.