Anarra was once more in the monastery.

She roared as a ferocious blast of crackling pink-hued energy ripped through the knight’s cuirass, the metal warping, glowing hot, the bolt punching through and out the man’s back. He collapsed in a smoking heap, longsword clattering on the stone floor.

Around her, flames coiled and ate greedily of the old, dry wood walls. She was drenched in sweat, her rags and worn leather clothes stained wet with blood. Her mane of wild, unkempt red hair framed a savage face.

She thought it simple. She had memorized these old, stifling halls. She had rehearsed the plan over and over in her mind. And so, it had gone well: the night jailer Sebastian, an oaf of a man, and easy to dupe. She lured him close enough to burst his skull into a shower of gore with a point-blank blast of energy.

And then, something had happened.

The monastery caught flame. The fires seemed to come from everywhere at once. It mattered not what room she ran into, what library she raced down, what dining hall or monk’s quarters she went through. The fire was everywhere and unrelenting, burning and burning. The very air sweltered and shimmered.

Her fury was what propelled her now. It was what kept her up, when her lungs should be ash and her skull a pile of cinders. She was calling so deeply on the furnace of magic within her soul that she thought she might combust.

There were no more rooms in the monastery, now. Nothing was distinct; all was flame.

She ran into another room, moving around a series of collapsed bookshelves and spilled books. She heard some whining or groaning sound, and turned around a burning wall to see. One of the sisters was kneeling, her vestments singed, her fast ashen as she wept openly.

“We only—we only tried, to do what was right… please…” she said, rising from her knees, holding out her hands.

Anarra glared at her, and then abruptly kicked the woman. She tumbled back and fell against one a wall of flames. Her stark black vestments caught fire immediately and the woman became a screaming mass of panicking fire. As she curled into ash before Anarra, the woman felt her soul grow ever blacker. She felt pure, she felt strong, she felt pleasure and pain.

A distant part of her knew she should have felt fear or disgust, that she should have found what she had done horrific. And yet, she did not. She had never felt more alive. The monastery continued to burn magnificently around her

“Sister Cassa, I’ve found—” a priest bolted into the room, only to see Anarra, and the smoldering remains of the sister. “No! No!” he shrieked in mad horror. “How could… what evil are…”

“I have never felt such pleasure,” Anarra hissed, smiling at the priest. “Would you care to join her in hell, priest?”

Sweat poured down his stricken face. The insane horror in his eyes delighted her to no end. A crackling wave of energy ran up her arm and she fired, the bolt striking his knee and snapping him to the floor face-down with such force his nose broke and his lips split open.

Anarra laughed. The coiling, twisting fires around her did not burn. She did not even so much as feel the heat.

“Lyren protect me… I pray to you… ple—”

“That’s enough of that,” Anarra snapped, sending another bolt into the side of the priest’s face. Most of his face was blasted off instantly; flesh, bone, and muscle scattered about. He stared at her, for one long, pained moment, before collapsing face down in a wet, bloody splat.

She was breathing hard, breathing deeply, her heart pumping wildly. She gazed down at her arms; her veins glowed pink beneath the flesh, and her nails were long and sharp and so, so dark. She threw her head back and roared, her temples bursting bright with pain.

◆

She woke with the dream still racing in her mind. Her escape from the Monastery of the Sacred Eye had been tumultuous and violent. Even in her wildest fantasies she never imagined she could bring down that old, awful place, or kill near as many as she did. Her body hummed with such power then, her mind fixed with lethal focus. She hadn’t a moment to truly dwell on what had happened, how she had tapped such a font of power within her. She realized she was aroused; her skin was flushed, her heart thrummed steady in her chest, and she was warm between the thighs.

She rose from the bed and stumbled to the window, bracing against the stone. The sweet morning air washed across her face, through her hair, and she sighed. This freedom was terrifying, and yet, she loved it so. What did she wish for in life? What did she crave? Staring out along the forest, the sun rising in the sky, she started to laugh. It was a joyous laugh, but the notes were dark; her mind slowly turned to the faithful of Lyren. Would they know of her escape, or assume she died in the flames? Did the greater clergy even know of her imprisonment? Would they come for her?

“Or will I come for them?” she said, a sharp smile coming to her lips. Images of death filled her mind, fantasies of fire and blood. I know too little of the world to make such bold plans. I will learn. And then I will have what’s mine.

◆

She spun the longsword in her grip, her free hand held out for balance. She came at him, slicing left in a wide swing, twisting with the momentum, and slashing again from the same angle. The air whipped around her, that long red hair of hers shimmering in the sun. She wore it in a high ponytail, out of her eyes.

“Not bad,” Deros said, stepping back from the first slice, and knocking the other away. “Improvisation, adaptation, and a fast learner… you’ll be a finer student than that drunk fool, Gamon.”

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Sweat ran down her brow. She was pushing herself hard, trying to score a hit or two, but Deros’s evasion was effortless. He was hardly expending any effort at all.

“But you swing yer sword with too much hate, too much force. You crave ta’ land a killing blow with each strike. A duel with blades is like fucking—you need to build to that final stroke.”

“How bawdy,” she said, coming in this time with a thrusting stab. Deros parried the blade away and turned, smacking her on the ass with the flat of his blade as she sailed past him. She lost balance and tumbled, but managed to roll along the forest floor and snap back up.

Even she, with her pride, could not be angry at that. “Well played.”

“Aye, had a feelin’ you’d like it rough.”

The sun shone between the leaves of the forest trees, catching the steel of their blades. She came at him once more, but this time, her attacks were far more restrained, fleeting strikes. Their blades met, again and again, his reaching forward to knock hers away. A plan bubbled up in her mind, and she swung towards his arm, in wide, sweeping strikes, until she met his parry clean and forced his blade wide.

And then, she kicked him, the tall heel of her boot catching his chest flush. He stumbled back, catching his fall with one arm, but she kicked him again, battering him down. Another kick came, forcing him onto his back. His leverage was poor; she swung wide and hard, two hands gripping the handle of her blade, knocking his sword free of his grip.

Standing beside him, chest rising and falling with her exhilaration, she lifted her foot high into the air and harshly stomped. She ground her heeled boot into his chest, working it against him, and he groaned and writhed in paint, grasping her leg to try and stop her.

“It’s useless to resist me,” she said, her face flush with pleasure.

He groaned again, and she continued to grind the heel. The sound of his leather tunic straining under her boot was immensely satisfying. His arms fell limp. She tormented him, twisting the heel, and he moaned in pain. He weakly rasped out, “I submit.”

“As expected,” she said with delight, grinding down harder for a few moments longer, until she took her boot off his chest.

He rubbed his chest, rolling on his side, starting to rise. “Damn, woman, thought you near broke my ribs.”

“And here I thought you liked it rough as well.”

Resting on a single knee, he looked her over. “Taught me a lesson, fer sure,” he said, standing up. “Took me well by surprise. You learn the tricks of combat quickly, as I thought you would. Well done, Mistress Deimos.”

She sheathed her sword with a satisfying clack. She enjoyed the feeling of it at her hip, attached to her belt, the weight of knowing such a weapon was on-hand. His praised stirred her pleasantly. “More than you could handle.”

He rubbed his jaw, grinning. “Now, now. You learn quickly, and prove unpredictable, but there is more to the sword than this meager lesson. Many would-be swordsmen think themselves unbeatable and soon turn headless.”

Her arrogance disliked his words, but she was too shrewd to think him wrong. She had to be patient, hone her craft, learn what she could from him. I took him by surprise, but only because he thinks me a beginner like any other. That will not work twice.

“Wise of you to use those legs. Some forget a battle is between two people, not just their swords. With your magic, it will prove a deadly combination.”

She paced, hands on her hips. She wished to spar once more, but her curiosity took the better of her. “How did you learn to fight? And the Steel Ravens—from where do they hail? How did it come to this?”

Deros sat down, his back against an old tree. “Hah, you ask much. Come here, woman. Make yehself comfortable.”

Anarra did so, sitting on the backs of her legs as she knelt beside him.

He leaned closer to her, brushing some of her hair from her face. “The Ravens—they were irregulars, loyal to Lord Anouh. He rules the land we’re sitting on, a good swath south of the Rhorrine, a mighty river that cuts through these lands. I’ll take yeh to see it one day.”

For once, she smiled pleasantly. “I’d like that.”

Deros continued. “The Steel Ravens were led by a woman called Nolyene. She was the daughter of veterans of the long war between Vuienne and Talarac. Brilliant woman, should have been more than just a sellsword; her blood had taught her well, skilled with a sword and twice as sharp. They did what Lord Anouh’s proper men would not. Put down rebellious peasants, kept the mines running, got rid of rivals.”

Deros shook his head sadly. “Word got out that Nolyene was sleeping with Vincie Anouh, the son of Lord Anouh. The good lord forbids it, but she bears Vincie a son, and so the good lord banishes her. I don’t think he much expected the Steel Ravens to go with her. They turn to banditry—torching and pillaging, stealing back what they were owed. The way Corya tells it, this came after a long feud. The Steel Ravens never thought they were paid what they were owed.”

“And I assume,” Anarra said, leaning forward, “that the good lord strikes back harsh and swift?”

“Aye. He bleeds the Ravens, hunts them down. Many die, some survive. Corya was one of Nolyene’s lieutenants, and took command after she perished. I joined shortly after Nolyene’s death, after the laborer’s life stopped being for me. Back then, we had more than a few fine swordsmen in our ranks, now precious few.”

“And how have the Ravens done, under Corya?” Anarra asked.

Deros once more shook his head. “We’ve lost many, over the years. Aye, I don’t think she has much of a plan going forward, and takes too many risks, hoping to snatch a prize large enough to set us for life. No question, she thinks you part of that. That’s why she’s so eager to kiss your ass.”

Anarra started to rise, but Deros rose far more quickly, helping the woman up. She gave him a searching look, but eased, allowing the help. “Corya is right to kiss my ass,” Anarra continued, “and so are you.”

Deros stood there, hand around her waist, silent.

She grasped his chin between her fingers, staring into his eyes. “I am no fool. Both of you see my power, seeking to earn my loyalty. But Corya merely flatters me, and gives me mere gifts. You have given me far more—trust, secrets, skills and knowledge. Perhaps you have won my approval, Deros…”

The man met her gaze. The hand on her waist slithered downward, until his grip cupped her sizeable ass. Anarra came half a step closer, a smile on her lips. She could feel the tendrils of her words worm their way into his waking mind, taking deeper and deeper root. He was a man of loyalties, and steadfastness; but he could not deny the opportunity that Anarra was.

“I would hope so,” he said, wetting his lips, “Mistress Deimos. I want your approval.”

He will have to choose soon. And I know he will choose me. Good boy. Kneel before your better. “Obedience… suits you,” she said, her voice a husky whipser.

Deros swallowed, and went to speak. But a voice suiddenly cried out. “Deros! Anarra! Are yeh two out here?”

“Aye. Gamon?” Deros cried back. He separated from Anarra, the tips of his fingers gliding along the leather curve of her ass. Her hand rested on his chest. Her eyes met his, and much went unspoken. Then they parted. I will have ample time to ensure his servitude.

“Corya calls for the both of yeh. A carriage bearing the royal seal makes for the east!”

Deros grumbled, and hurriedly walked to meet with Gamon. Anarra followed. The three stood in a clearing surrounded by mossy boulders and old trees.

“That must be a jape,” Deros said, his voice harsh and certain.

The sunlight made Gamon’s face shine. “Nay. Corya wants us to take it.”

“The carriage bears the royal seal? And what else?”

“Can’t be sure. Four knights at least and one more, a woman in robes the color of seafoam, armored in leather. They bear some other crest we do not know.”

Deros paced, scratching angrily at his beard. “That bodes ill. Too much we do not know. We risk much. We must speak to Corya at once.”

The three marched through the forest, heading towards Fort Orric’s gatehouse. Anarra’s thoughts raced. She bets it on me, doesn’t she? Much is not known, but she believes it is my strength that will win the day regardless—if so, the glory will be mine, and not yours, Corya. That much, I will make sure of.

Anarra grinned wickedly.