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“Thank you,” you whisper. You have to fight your throat closing up, as years of unshed tears threaten to break your heart.
Your scramble to the floor, falling to your knees as you lift the dagger and turn it towards your own chest. You don't rush any movement, you want to enjoy all of them.
You are about to break your sternum with a firm strike when a loud crashing sound tears you out of your mind.
The achmage's assistant is on the stone cold floor next to you. “Don't” he cries out in sync with the mage's worried mumbling.
He holds onto your shoulders. He doesn't seem scared, even tho you were about to end both of them mere minutes ago. How curious.
Trained from birth as an assassin, your mind was bound by a powerful control spell. Sent to kill an archmage, they cast Dispel to weaken you—accidentally freeing your mind instead. For the first time, your dagger points wherever you choose.