Chapter 3 #2
The first man to step out of the deepening shadows wore no uniform and bore no house crest. His leather jerkin was well made, but the tunic underneath it had seen better years, stained with greasy food and old blood.
Strapped to his hip was a plain short sword alongside two smaller daggers, hilts all wrapped in worn leather.
His scars completed the picture of a man who’d seen battle.
And his hatred found me like an arrow to the chest. My mother and I stopped mid-step.
“Witch.” The word slithered out from between his lips, thick with ale and venom. Even from a short distance, his breath stank of rotting teeth and last night’s regrets.
I said nothing.
He spat onto the stones. “My brother visited your stall this morning. ’Cept he didn’t leave, did he?”
The mercenary.
Two other men stepped out of the shadows. They were slouched in the picture of drunken resentment—shoulders sagging, feet splayed, simmering rage barely concealed beneath bloodshot, hateful eyes.
These men had to be the dead mercenary’s drinking crew. All of them had one.
Usually, they’d confine themselves to staggering out of taverns in the outer ring, laughing in their drunkenness and reeking of lust as they headed to the nearest brothels. But these men were angry and seeking vengeance instead.
“She’s the one,” the broadest one slurred, pointing at me. “She’s the one who hexed him.”
“No,” the tallest said, voice thick with drink but eyes glassy with grief. “She lured him there. Pretty little thing was bait.”
Beside me, I felt the subtle shift in pressure, the tiny vibration in the air around my mother. She was reaching for her magic. I did the same. These men still thought I was a witch.
“You got him killed by that red-cloaked monster,” the first man growled. “Used your freak magic to twist his mind. That’s what witches do, don’t they? That’s what they say.”
I scanned my surroundings, from the windows above to the street below, expecting to see someone watching. But all eyes were resolutely pointed in other directions, hands closing a door to separate them from the danger.
No one ever helps women like me. Not when the men are loud, drunk, and angry enough to get away with murder.
The tallest one stepped closer, and my mother moved between us so fast the hem of her shawl lifted. Her eyes were dark now, shadowed with the threat of magic. Her voice was low. “Walk away.”
“You think you can pull another hex on us?” the broadest one jeered. “We felt it this morning. She did something. She cost us our brother.”
I could’ve told them the truth—that I hadn’t even touched their brother with my magic. Maybe I should’ve shouted that the executioner had acted alone, with the Assembly’s blessing, but the words dried up in my throat.
They wouldn’t care because they didn’t want the truth. They only wanted someone to hit.
The moment the first man reached for my mother’s arm, I’d had enough.
Magic rushed out of me in a stream. Compared to the reactive magic in the market, this was far more refined and direct.
I shoved terror down his throat. Let it scrape furrows into his chest until his heartbeat stuttered once, twice.
He gasped like he’d been dunked in icy water.
My mother acted without a word. Confusion poured out of her like a fog toward the other two. A mis-aimed blow from the tallest one made Mama teeter back. She remained standing, but only because her magic had confused their limbs as much as their minds.
Thanks to her, their fury faltered. I had more to give, so I added to her power, morphing their confusion into terrified hesitation.
Then I grabbed her hand, and we ran.
The alley turned into a blur as I clutched my bag to my chest. We ducked beneath laundry lines and darted behind parked carts.
In our haste, the noise of the city became muffled until the only sounds I could discern were my breath scraping in my throat and my mother’s steady footfalls as she matched my pace.
Then I felt the same presence from earlier—sharpened steel, waiting to pounce. Even as we moved, the air thickened with dark magic that vibrated with such malice that I nearly choked on it. I glanced back. At the alley’s mouth behind us, a shadow moved.
The shadow’s cloak was the color of blood.
Could it be…?
Surely not…
My eyes had to be tricking me.
But that magic… It was so distinct, it had to be him.
I nearly stumbled, bracing myself, waiting for the strike, waiting to hear the executioner’s boots on the cobblestones behind us, but neither came. A last look as we rounded a corner showed him stalking back the way we’d fled—back in the direction of the men who’d attacked us.
Our route home was purposefully indirect. We didn’t slow until the roofs became aged thatch and the cracks in the fortress wall appeared like familiar scars. Once we reached the broken stairs of our building, we burst through the entryway.
Inside, my mother leaned against the wall, her face red from exertion, her hands shaking. I barred the door with the heavy wooden slat then dropped to the floor, heart hammering.
Father’s ragged snores filled the room. He’d been trying to do side work for the carpenter for coin, but it was taking a lot out of him.
Tegil was still out, thank the gods. Neither of them needed to know about the mercenaries or the executioner’s lingering gaze.
How close we’d come to joining the bodies in the outer ring.
Mama’s hands shook as she lit the hearth.
Her blond hair had just started turning gray, but the lines on her pale skin showed too many years of worry, and she was thinner than I was.
The fire caught, barely clinging to life.
Voice low to not wake Papa, I told Mama most of what had happened in the market.
She held me while I finally let the tears fall.
In Caervorn, danger was as constant as the magic threading through the fortress walls. The only difference was whether it came from the shadows…or the Assembly’s order.
And the unspoken question in our minds was whether we’d be able to outrun it the next time it found us.