Let's start with a question:
How in the world does one assassinate a duke?
If your answer is, "Gracefully. With poison or a dagger," well done. You are either:a) Not me, orb) Never reincarnated from a housecat whose most violent encounter was knocking over a vase and making a hasty, wide-eyed exit.
I, regrettably, was very much me.
And I was perched on a rooftop.
In the rain.
Wearing a stolen cloak that smelled like mildew, regret, and at least three bad decisions.
A Plan. Sort of.
Across the slick rooftop stood Them. The mysterious figure who kept appearing in every life I remembered—if not by name, then certainly by the emotional chaos they trailed behind like an expensive perfume made of drama.
"I'll take the guards at the garden gate," they said, voice soft and thrilling, like thunder whispering flirtations before the storm hits. "You slip into the study. The Duke will be alone. It's quick work."
Quick work. Like washing spilled milk. Or brushing crumbs off a table. They said it so easily.
I nodded as if I understood, as if I was used to this sort of thing. In truth, I was still struggling with how knees were supposed to bend. Should one crouch gracefully before stabbing? Or lunge? Was there a tutorial I'd missed?
But they were already gone, melting into the darkness like a gothic Pinterest board come to life.
Leaving me alone, clutching a dagger and a vague objective:
Kill the Duke.Don't die.Avoid any goat-related setbacks.
Simple, in theory.
Rooftop Ballet of the Uncoordinated
The rooftop was damp. My boots were new.
This, dear reader, is how I discovered the deadly combination of wet tiles and resurrected assassin instincts equals one surprise interpretive dance.
"Wha—WHOOP—ACK—NOPE—"
I skidded across the tiles like a drunken penguin, colliding knees-first into a gargoyle sculpted in the deeply unsettling shape of an offended squirrel. My dagger spun out of my grip and vanished into the night.
Muttering curses in three dialects I barely remembered, I belly-crawled after it and retrieved the weapon just in time to slide the remaining distance onto the balcony with a noise most certainly not filed under "stealth."
No one came to investigate.
Which, honestly, was worse.
Because nothing screams trap quite like absolute silence in a nobleman's house.
I groaned, peeled myself upright, and flopped over the railing like a sea cucumber trying its best. Then I dusted off what was left of my pride—hypothetical, at this point—and slunk inside.
The Study of Unfortunate Events
The Duke's study looked precisely how I imagined the personal sanctuary of a velvet-wearing, tax-evading nobleman would:Bookshelves lined with pristine, unread volumes.Portraits of himself in heroic poses.A life-size bust of a horse. Wearing a monocle.
The Duke sat by the fire, swirling brandy and brooding with the dramatic air of a man hoping someone would write a tragic violin solo in his honor.
I exhaled slowly and edged forward.
This was it.
Time for stealth. For precision. For silent, shadowy doom.
Then—
"ACHOO!"
He sneezed. Violently.
Startled by his own bodily betrayal, his powdered wig launched from his head like a startled hedgehog and landed—almost poetically—into the fireplace with a little fwoomp of defeat.
We locked eyes.
He froze.
I froze.
He reached for a bell.
I grabbed the nearest paperweight and yeeted it.
It missed. Spectacularly. Shattering a decorative globe instead.
"ASSASSIN!" he shrieked.
"I—NO, THANK YOU, I'M FULL!" I yelled back.
And then I ran.
Combat, but With Cheese
The study descended into chaos.
I dodged left, sending an armchair flying. Knocked over a taxidermied flamingo. Something labeled Duchess' Favorite Duck smashed to the floor.
The Duke, red-faced and wheezing, gave chase, wielding a fireplace poker like it had personally wronged him.
I barrelled into the pantry, frantically scanning for weapons.
Dagger? Lost again.Dignity? Also missing.Options?
One (1) extremely round cheese wheel.A novelty bread knife shaped like a dolphin.An apron that read: KISS THE COOK.
He charged in.
"YOU!" he bellowed.
"NOT INTERESTED!" I countered.
I hurled the cheese. It spun like a discus and collided gloriously with his shin.
He howled, slipped on an olive, and fell face-first into a sack of flour.
White puff. Silence.
"...Is he dead?" I whispered from behind a basket of leeks.
Answer: No.Very much alive. Very flour-covered. Very loudly calling for guards.
The Goat's Return
I bolted toward the scullery.
But I wasn't alone.
Reginald the Goat stood in the doorway like a bleating, four-legged final boss.
We stared at each other.
The air crackled.
I darted right. He mirrored me.
Left. He blocked.
"I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR GOAT GAMES," I snarled.
Then I lobbed a biscuit into the far corner.
Reginald—traitor to his own vendetta—charged after it.
I sprinted past him, out into the moonlit garden, vaulted over the hedge like a startled raccoon, and landed in a produce cart.
Debrief: With Bonus Apples
The cart was full of apples. One lodged in my hood. Another bounced off my forehead.
I sat up slowly, bruised, breathless, and dusted in flour.
And there—standing arms crossed, unbothered, utterly infuriating—was Them.
Not a speck of flour. No goat bruises. Not even a dislodged hair.
They raised an eyebrow. "Well?"
I peeled an apple slice off my cheek. "The Duke's still alive. I may have declared war on cheese. A goat tried to murder me. There's flour in my lungs. And I might have officiated a union between a flamingo and a duck."
There was a pause.
Then they laughed.
Not a chuckle. Not a smug smirk.
Real, doubled-over laughter. The kind that steals your breath and shakes your bones.
And somehow—despite the bruises, the shame, and the escalating goat feud—I laughed too.
Because whatever this life was, however doomed and absurd…
It was mine.
And by the stars above, it was going to be glorious.