Night‑time winds sweeping through the capital always carried the damp, fetid stench rising from the gutters.
Vera had just slipped out the back door of the Black Anchor tavern in the southern district. That night she had met a broker who trafficked in palace secrets. Paying a steep price, she had finally obtained the duty rosters for the Royal Knights’ inner household. Roland’s name stood plainly on the list, neatly inscribed, assigned to the late‑night watch.
She crumpled the parchment, chewed it and swallowed the scraps. Pulling her hood low, she turned into a narrow lane leading back toward Gray Alley. She had travelled this route hundreds of times; she could tell which flagstones sat loose with her eyes closed.
Yet rounding the second corner, she froze in her tracks.
A tall grey‑cloaked figure blocked the far end of the alley.
No clink of armor, scarcely even a breath to be heard. Had the flickering, rickety street‑lamp not cast his shadow across the stone, Vera might well have mistaken him for a wooden post.
Raine Astor.
He had brought no guards. Dressed simply in civilian garments, he stood planted immovably like a rusted iron spike, barring her only path back to her safe haven.
“Out conducting business this late?” Raine spoke, his voice flat as cold‑forged iron. “Do the black‑market hyenas never sleep?”
Vera halted within the shadows. Her right hand slid unnoticed up her sleeve, fingertips brushing the chill of a thin metal tube. Running with her back turned to the Captain of the Royal Guard would mean presenting him an unprotected back. She would not do that.
“You jest, Captain.” Vera slipped back into her hoarse, street‑hawker tone. Her shoulders slumped intentionally, striking a defensive yet roguish posture. “Folks like us get no luxury of sleep. The nobles above utter a few words, and people down below wear their legs out running errands. I am merely scraping by for bread.”
“Scraping by for bread? Enough to land a Minister of Finance in the death dungeons?” Raine took one step forward.
The lamplight fell across half his face, making his old scar look brutally sharp. His gaze ignored her iron mask entirely, locking onto the muscles of her shoulders, neck and hands — the instinct of a seasoned swordsman hunting for openings.
Vera did not retreat. She knew for every single step she yielded, he would advance three.
“Lord Berkeley took his own life out of guilt; the whole capital whispers of it. If you cannot solve your case, why hound a petty trader such as I? That hardly follows the rules.” As she spoke, she slowly drew both hands out of her sleeves and held them open at her sides, signalling she bore no weapon.
The instant her palms came into view, Raine struck.
He drew no sword, yet he moved with the blistering speed of a leopard pouncing for its prey. His right hand curled into a claw, aiming straight for the hollow of her right shoulder. It was a vicious strike; a solid grip would dislocate her entire arm, leaving her helpless to struggle.
Vera twisted sideways, evading the full force of his hold through reflexes forged in five years of underground gladiatorial bouts. Still, Raine moved faster than she had anticipated. His rough palm slid downward and clamped tight around her right forearm.
Crushing force bit into her limb, as though caught in iron pincers. Vera stifled a groan, her body lurching forward under his strength.
“Decent reflexes.” Raine’s tone was icy. His left hand rose, reaching for the iron mask covering her face. “Let me see what you are hiding beneath there.”
Hostility flared in Vera’s eyes.
If she could not escape, she would make him release her in pain.
Using the momentum of his pull, she threw her weight sharply backward and to her right. The unnatural shift threw Raine’s stance slightly off‑balance. In that split heartbeat, Vera’s left hand shot forth from deep within her sleeve like a striking viper, clutching a thin black needle half an inch long, aimed straight for the major artery in Raine’s neck.
Raine’s reactions were superhuman. Acting almost purely on instinct, he released his grip on her forearm and jerked his head back, retreating.
Yet Vera’s movement swifter still. Dropping low like a black cat skimming across stone, she kicked hard against a stone plinth at the base of the wall, launching herself upward. The poisoned black needle pressed directly against the skin of Raine’s right neck.
“Do not move.”
All hoarse, merchant‑like pretense fell away from her voice. It turned frigid, like shards of ice fished straight out of a frozen cellar.
The temperature within the narrow alley seemed to plummet in an instant.
Raine froze. He felt the sharp prick against his throat, along with a faint, cold tingle seeping beneath his skin — some unknown concoction.
“What is this?” He showed no panic, not even glancing down at the needle. His steel‑grey‑blue eyes bored unblinkingly into Vera, mere inches away.
“A little trinket.” Vera panted. Her left arm trembled faintly from the violent tugging moments before, yet her wrist stayed steady as deadwood. “If you would be so kind, let us start this introduction over.”
Raine offered no reply. Every muscle remained coiled. Even if the needle pierced her skin, he was certain he could snap her neck before the poison took hold. Still, the edge of that needle stirred an uncomfortably familiar recognition deep within him.
“Step back.” Vera ordered sharply.
Raine held her gaze for two full seconds, then slowly retreated half a pace.
Vera withdrew the needle at once and sprang backward. Like a bowstring suddenly loosed, her back slammed hard against the brick wall on the opposite side of the lane. Using it to absorb the impact, she readjusted her balance and tucked her left hand out of sight.
“Captain Raine, with skill such as yours, you could grow rich hunting wanted criminals. No need to fixate on small‑fry like me.” She slipped back into her easy street‑accent, yet the heavy rise and fall of her chest betrayed how much strength the clash had cost her.
Ignoring her glib words, Raine’s blade‑sharp eyes tracked her concealed left hand within the shadows. “That was no ordinary throwing dart. You used poison.”
“Down in the capital’s sewers, who does not carry something for self‑defense?” Vera gave a short, eerie laugh that echoed off the alley walls. “Curious? Take another step forward. I guarantee within half an hour your hands will shake too badly to grip your sword.”
Raine held his ground, weighing his options.
The woman before him was slight of build, no match for his raw physical power. Her fighting style lacked the grand, sweeping flourishes of noble knight‑craft; every move was cruel and ruthless, honed purely for survival. The way she wielded that needle, the twist of her wrist — these were instincts forged by living constantly on the brink of death.
“Where did you learn to fight like this?” For the first time, genuine curiosity coloured his voice.
“Natural talent.” Vera shrugged, the gesture stiff. “Chased by dogs, hacked at by debt‑collectors day after day. You pick up tricks.”
Raine fell silent. He loosened his grip on his sword hilt and stood upright. He had intended to seize her by force, yet he now saw she was as slippery as an eel. Should she decide to fight without regard for her own life, that needle could inflict serious harm upon him.
More than that, that nagging dissonant intuition gnawed stronger. This feral woman who had driven him back with poison in a dark alley stirred faint echoes of a house reduced to ash and fire five years prior.
“I will seek you out again.” With those words, he turned and strode away into the night. His back remained straight and rigid, an iron rod that would never bend.
Only once the weight of his boot‑falls had faded several streets away did Vera slide down to sit upon the ground, her back pressed against the brickwork.
She gasped for breath, her right hand pressing against her spasming left arm. Raine’s grip had been brutal; it felt as though her bones might crack. She lifted the black poisoned needle to her eyes. It had been ground from the fangs of a black‑horn serpent; its venom could paralyze a man’s whole body mere seconds after injection.
Yet she had dared not drive it home. If Raine collapsed here, the Royal Guard would descend upon Gray Alley like rabid hounds.
Carefully she slipped the poisoned needle back up her sleeve, closing her eyes and leaning against the cold stone wall for a moment.
“Dammit,” she muttered under her breath.
Raine’s suspicions ran deeper than she had anticipated. The man possessed terrifying combat skill and uncanny intuition. Had he brought even one single guard with him tonight, she would now sit inside a Royal Guard interrogation cell.
Bracing herself against the wall, she stood and rotated her aching shoulders, ready to depart.
At that very instant, a faint glimmer of light flickered atop the brick wall overhead.
Vera snapped her head upward, instantly alert.
It was Gray.
The scar‑faced giant dropped silently down from a three‑story rooftop like a huge bat, holding a lantern shrouded in black cloth. His single eye shone with unmasked alarm.
“Boss! Are you hurt? I was up above. I nearly leaped down to fight him.” Gray scanned her from head to toe. Only when he saw no grievous wounds did he exhale in relief.
“I am fine. Nearly had a few bones crushed, that is all.” Vera waved him off, telling him not to overreact. “What are you doing here? Is your business finished?”
“Completed.” Gray lowered his voice and pulled a triangular‑folded slip of paper from his tunic and handed it over. “Paid dearly to get this from that broker. Roland will be escorting Seraphina out to the Contemplation Monastery on the city outskirts late tonight for a baptism. Word says the Queen arranged it specially, to quiet the scandal from the engagement feast. The Queen herself will not attend. Aside from court mages, only a small detachment of guards under Roland travel with them.”
Vera took the note between her fingertips.
Contemplation Monastery.
It was an isolated place, ringed by vast forests and marshland. No busy capital thoroughfares, no tangled network of hidden alleyways, none of the Royal Guard’s omnipresent patrols. Striking there carried great risk, yet it was her only chance to act beyond Raine’s watchful gaze.
“What of Raine?” Gray asked.
“He has gone to investigate. Following our tracks, he may well head for the southern docks.” Vera tilted her head and unfolded the note in faint moonlight. Fine script detailed their travel route and retinue.
Her gaze settled on the name Roland, cold and emotionless.
“Boss, if Raine reaches the docks, our cargo…”
“Let him investigate.” Vera lifted her head. Her eyes, dulled by injury a moment before, now burned bright. She crumpled the note, stuffed it into her mouth and swallowed it. No such evidence could remain on her person.
“Let him rummage through the docks. So long as he is drawn away from the palace inner quarters, our opportunity arrives.” Vera brushed dust off her clothes and walked to the alley mouth, glancing toward the road leading out of town.
“Gray,” she whispered, her tone carrying chilling, unshakable resolve. “Prepare everyone. Tomorrow night, I go to the monastery. I am bringing my brother home.”
Gray froze. His lips parted, ready to warn her that Roland was now the Queen’s most loyal hound. But meeting Vera’s cold glinting eyes in darkness, he swallowed the words unspoken.
“Yes, Boss.” He bowed his head in acknowledgement.
Night‑wind tore through Gray Alley, swirling scraps of refuse across the ground. Vera pulled her hood firmly into place and stepped through puddles of filth toward the underground passages.
Tomorrow night promised to be most interesting.