I do not love him.

He is my father, but I do not love him. He is nothing to me. Nothing.

I tell myself that several times as I watch him battle his way through the Dungeon Master's minions to rescue my sister. (Artemis I care for, but I am not entirely sure that I love her. I am not entirely sure I can love anyone. That I had spent several hours and called in a number of favors to locate her is not a sign that I love her. Life would simply be too dull without her.) To say the least, I was surprised to see that he had gotten here before me.

I follow him in—if he falls—when he falls—I will have that many less enemies to deal with. It does not occur to me he will make it through. His prime is past. (That he does not notice I am following him is proof of that.) He is saving me effort—that is the only reason that I am following him.

I do not care if he lives or dies.

I do not know why he is doing this. To be sure, Artemis was always his favorite. Artemis is the one that he would make sure to check on when he returned home from a mission. I would lie there with half-closed eyes and watch him as he walked over to her bed before mine. Watch him look at her with the concern I had never seen him show me.

It's not jealousy. It's not. I am simply stating a fact.

To the extent that he was capable of love, our father loved Artemis far more than me.

Our father trained us since we could barely walk. I know practically every move he can make. I can read volumes from the slightest twitch of an eye or twist of the lip.

He is good, mind you. Still.

I'm just better.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure why I haven't killed him yet myself.

Mother would be unhappy with me, of course, but what is she to me? Artemis has told me that she will dance on his grave, but I know that she would cry—will cry—when he does die. The silly girl has never known when to stop caring.

She even still loves me.

At some point, I will kill him, though. Someone should—and who deserves the right more than me?

Unless he gets himself killed before I finally decide to do the deed myself. Watching him tonight, he continues to surprise me.

As I said, he's still good, but I have never seen him fight like this before.

He is skilled. He knows how to protect himself. He knows how to be stealthy.

But he isn't trying.

He is fighting faster than I have ever seen him fight. There's almost a kind of poetry in the brutality of his actions—not grace, exactly—but a sort of inevitability. Heedless of the damage his taking—and he is taking damage—he destroys them.

He should fall. He's hit enough that he should fall. There is only so much the strongest human body can bear, and he crosses that limit at least twice before he finds Artemis.

He should go down.

He doesn't.

I do not understand.

I have never seen him risk himself for anything—for anyone.

I had thought I had seen him in anger before—but that was before I saw him confront the Dungeon Master.

I see red myself when I saw the way that pathetic fat little man is touching Artemis, but I do not have time to move forward before our father is upon him. His fury and rage make my own fade into insignificance.

For the first time in years, I am in awe of my father.

Half-dead on his feet, he takes apart Dungeon Master's armor apart. Enhanced strength and speed, blasters, blades—none of it makes a difference.

Dungeon Master is down in less time than it takes me to tell of it.

I watch my father release my sister from her confinement. I watch him anxiously feel for her pulse and hug her to him when he finds it.

And I feel … lost.

I want to go to them. I want to hug Artemis myself. I want my father to look at me like he's looking at Artemis. I want to … and I hate myself for it.

I am Jade Crock. Cheshire of the League of Shadows. I am the world's best assassin. I do not need anyone, anything. I do not need my family.

I turn away. Artemis is safe now. Somehow, the old fool has done it…

And then I hear him scream…

Daddy!

I turn too late—how can I be too late?—and I see the blade in his side—I see Dungeon Master fall again as he strikes.

He needs me. She needs me. I have to go to them—

But I can't.

I can't let him see me like this. I can't let him see me weak.

I can't.

I follow them, silently promising myself that if he dies I will take months to kill the Dungeon Master.

I'm crying.

I cannot remember the last time I cried, but I am crying now. I want to help—I do—but I can't.

I can't!

I can't be his daughter. I can't be her sister. Not now. Not when I'm so weak.

So I watch.

I watch him do his dead man's walk out of the warehouse. I watch his life fade with every pulse of his heart. I watch him stumble, but never fall—stumble, but never let go of her.

And when he's out—when they're out, I watch him fall.

And I fall to my knees.

And I do something that I never thought I would do—something that I would have killed anyone if they had ever suggested that I would ever do:

I pray for the life of my father.