The silver needle felt impossibly heavy in the Third Wife's hands. It was no thicker than a blade of winter grass, yet to her, it carried the sheer, crushing weight of both their lives.
CRASH!
The sound of the outer door splintering into wooden shrapnel violently echoed through the small guest pavilion. The heavy, predatory footsteps of the Prime Minister's assassins hit the floorboards of the outer room. They were inside. The hunt was over.
The Third Wife's entire body was seized by a violent, uncontrollable tremor. Her breath hitched in her throat, coming out in short, terrified wheezes. She had never held a weapon in her life. She had never struck a person, never intentionally caused harm. Her hands shook so fiercely that the silver needle vibrated in the dim, watery light of the bathroom.
She looked down at the pale, exposed nape of the Vanguard Madam's neck.
'Two inches deep. Base of the skull.'
