Author's Note: To those of you who have been with me since the beginning in 2013, today marks the day that I published Blood and Coin. It is one of my biggest regrets that I not only never completed it, but kept screwing it up each time I rewrote it. No more of that crap. This version will be staying as close to the original as possible, while also reflecting how I have changed as a writer. It's my goal to keep you guys on your toes throughout this story, even if you may already know what's coming.

To those of you who have been with me since By Blood and Coin, this is the second installment of my series, and is set during The Knife of Dunwall. If you haven't played it, there are HEAVY SPOILERS present. Some of the events that take place in the DLC will have my personal touch on them, but they will still be following said events quite closely. You've been warned.

And for those of you who are new to this series, welcome! If you have not read By Blood and Coin, I do recommend reading that one first. However, it isn't entirely necessary to understand what's happening in this story. The spoiler warning above, however, still applies.

Lastly, thanks for taking the time to check out my story! Your views, reviews, follows, and/or favorites are greatly appreciated!

Chapter One (Prologue)

What Happens When the Swans Cry?

YOU HAVE ALREADY STOLEN THIS DIARY ONCE. IT WILL NOT BE HAPPENING AGAIN. SO THINK TWICE. THINK LONG AND HARD ON WHAT YOU ARE ABOUT TO DO. DO YOU REALLY WANT TO BE MY LATEST TOY?

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Diary Entry: Reminiscence

The Flooded District, the City of Dunwall, Isle of Gristol

Seventeenth Day, Month of Earth, 1837

_O_O_O_

Finally, a day to myself. Yet, this moment seems so bittersweet. Not at all what I was hoping it would be. It's after midnight, and I can't sleep. I'm too anxious. Too on edge. And Kieron's snoring! Ugh, I know he has allergies – I do, too – but sometimes I really I want to put a pillow over his face to shut him up.

Don't kill my beau. Don't kill my beau. Don't kill my beau—

Definitely on edge. I can feel the urge coming on. But I won't have a victim tonight. No, not tonight. I need to resist the urge – it's what they would want. So I should sleep, but I can't. Should I sleep dart myself? No, that'd be a waste. I suppose I'll have to try boring myself to sleep, then. Here's to hoping that works.

…

The days have been long and grueling ever since we left our previous home, Oracle Natividad's Asylum for Natural Philosophical Research. For the first five months after our relocation, we worked twelve hour shifts, followed by twelve hour resting periods. After those five months, we were forced to stay awake for three days or more at a time. I swear to the Outsider that if I never see another canteen of coffee or tea, it will be too soon. At least those days are gone now, finally ended last month. We were able to enjoy the Fugue Feast in relative peace.

Reflecting on this— has it truly been that long already? It doesn't seem like it. It still seems as though it were only yesterday that I finally, after seven years, became a Master Assassin. Have I become older, or wiser? I have aged from sixteen to seventeen, yes – and I will be eighteen come the fourth day of the Month of Darkness. I have definitely become more tired. Though, I like to think that I have settled into my new role well – after all, Master Daud has not killed me yet. That's quite a positive thing, especially since he became more aggressive after we left the Asylum.

This contract has us all on edge, Master Daud especially so. I worry about him. I think I am the only one who does. Most of my brothers still think we're making a grave mistake. Of that, I'm not certain. I've been told that we'll have no other opportunities to strike. I've been told that this has to happen on the nineteenth, or else it may never happen at all. Then all of our efforts – all of our time – will have been for nothing. And I rightfully fear being on the receiving end of Master Daud's fury, should that come to pass.

Do you know me, dearest diary? What do you make of me? Am I one to be loved, or am I one to be loathed? I have so many questions, yet I lack so many answers. Perhaps I'm not the only one who does, in this dying, plague-ravaged city. And in this line of work, there is no such thing as retirement on your own terms.

But I've become more than just a mere assassin in these recent months. Does that make me more likely to survive, or less? Only a handful of those close to me understand what I am. They—they try to help me. Sometimes I wish they wouldn't. They don't need to see what I've become. They're all assassins, and even they would be sickened by it. Wouldn't they?

My childhood must have shaped my future for becoming this—thing. The year of 1836 only pushed me over the metaphorical cliff. But I was never addicted to hallucinogens or narcotics. Never saw the point in them. I'm not really one for alcohol, either. I enjoy the occasional drink with my brothers, nothing more. No. My addiction, my need, is different. It will never be cured, I realize that now. So I try to make the best of it. It doesn't make me any less worried that I might hurt someone I care about.

And what if I do? In the end, aren't I just a monster wearing a woman's skin? They'd have every right to put me down—and I wouldn't blame them if they had to.

Am I possessed by some demon? It seems easier to say so. But the Outsider isn't the demon I mean. In any case, demon or no demon, I'd be executed for heresy all the same, if the Abbey of the Everyman ever caught me—

…

Outsider's eyes, is it raining again? Oh great, it is. It's bad enough that everything is always damp, even when it's sunny. How that works, I don't know. All I know is that I'm tired of my bed, my clothes, and my hair being damp and cold. Thanks so much, Flooded District. At least the vengeful spirit of Mereedee, back in the Asylum, made things interesting. And we weren't always so cold.

Well. This isn't just a rain shower. It's a thunderstorm. Is this an ill omen? I suppose it doesn't matter.

At least Kieron finally stopped snoring.

…

I wonder what will happen when the yellow swans on the field of blue cry.

Surely the bells will toll, and the City Watch will do more than stroll. We've played in the game of politics for years, and it's a very dangerous game. I fear for more than just being on the receiving end of Master Daud's fury. I also fear for the safety of those I consider to be family. Yet, creating political instability is no small thing. What if we overplay our hand with this one, single assassination? What if sharp metal and shadows will not be enough to save us after it is done?

What if, what if, what if.

I hate it. I hate this waiting. I hate the not knowing, and the not being able to sleep soundly. But we are moving into our position come tomorrow's twilight. We'll settle in, and wait some more. No one, except perhaps for Master Daud, will sleep. Then, it will be time to strike at long last. No one should be any the wiser as to what we will have done. Our part will be played. We will be payed. And then we get to go home, and do—what? Will we finally get time off? Doubtful. Another contract? Most likely.

There's still something that bothers me. It's a well-known fact that politicians, the aristocracy, are nothing more than depraved, hideous swooping creatures who vie for unjustified power. This is especially true, ever since the Rat Plague started killing off the destitute and the rich alike. It's people like me that help to create those vile beasts – politicians or the aristocracy, I mean. In a way, our hands feed them as much as their hands feed us. It's not a pleasant thought.

Then again, is anything a pleasant thought these days?