SUBJECT // briya thorn // muurian scout //

THEORY POTENTIAL // guttering //

Give it a moment before leaving her for dead. If she's gonna just stand there and scream then there's no helping her. Still, suppose I did give it that moment. Don't know if that's stupidity on my part. Hard to tell sometimes.

Crunching behind me, screams have stopped at least. Slow 'em down a bit maybe, unless there's a whole bunch. Lizardmen, who'd credit it? First time seeing one, though everyone's got stories. What was his name, what was it, Patrick or something, with the lips, he reckoned he'd seen a couple.

Right. Bit of breathing room. Time to have a bit of a look and a bit of a figure, standing snug up against this good big tree. Nice and still. Nice and quiet. Story is that lizards can't see too good. Not so sharp on the old hearing neither. Movement, that's the one. Your footsteps on the ground and your fleet-running shape. That's what they're chasing.

Eyes up, check above, we got twisty-turny branches and a low grey sky, nothing moving up there. Eyes down, check around, we got paths through these ugly things, not even with bark, just thick green vines all twining and twisting until they've got themselves in the shape of a tree. Paths, yeah. Someone's made these. Long time ago maybe, but they're sure as hell not natural. Where is this, Wyrne? Stilt? Don't so much matter I guess, except if I'm getting home I need a direction to aim at.

"—come this way. Dunno. Hey Abe, anything?"

"Nuh! Heh, nuh!"

Not just the lizards you gotta be wary of, don't forget that, Briya girl. Just you nestle down in the muck under this tree, hidden by the vine roots, nice and still, nice and quiet, they'll move on soon enough, just got to squat and wait and lock eyes with some fella got the exact same idea over the way.

"Shit on it. Wanna head back? Might be pickings left at the arena."

"Heh, sure."

Two talking but there's three of them, Stiltian or I'm a mistfly, heading past on the next path over. Fella in the tree roots is staring at me like some kind of fool. Looks like he ain't used to the mud on his face. Looks like he belongs to a city. And now he's proving himself the fool he looks by getting up out of the roots—he's still got my eye so I give a short sharp shake of my head, just that before settling in nice and still again.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

He stops. Can see the thoughts going through his pretty little head and in that moment I know exactly his type.

I turn my head away, keep him in the corner of my eye. Watch him sink back into the muck of the roots. Hm. Haven't heard the Stiltian trio again which is either good or ... yeah, bad—

"Well, well. What've we got—"

He's tall and bald and stops talking when I put my knife through his neck. His little mate's staring so I shove my fingers in his eyes then open his throat. One more, huge and broad and pale and hunched like he knows what he's doing but holding back, judging me as a threat just as I'm judging him as a threat. He's got weight on me, and height and strength and reach with the sturdy club in his left hand. I wipe blood and muck from my face, away from my eyes. Eyes. His are grey as slate.

"Just as soon walk away from this," I say, and he doesn't say anything but his fingers clench tight around that club. His mates are both down, gurgling their last into the dirt. "What's your name?"

"Large," he murmurs, before a slim blade pushes through his chest. He stares down and I spring forward, past him, to the city fool should've kept down in the muck under the roots because now I gotta open his throat—

"Stop no dear goddess fucking no!" he squeals, and they would've been piss poor last words if it wasn't for Large. Big man's still got fight in him, enough to snap the sword, shiny flimsy blade still sticking through him as he turns and roars and grasps at his guts as they spill from his belly, courtesy of my knife. I step back and back again, eyes flicking between fool and Large, fool gaping and gasping, Large got this sad slack look on his face as he goes down, no dignity in it, tries to catch himself on one knee but he ain't got the strength so it's on his side then tumbling into the muck of the roots, his last seconds spent blubbering into the mud.

So it's just fool, still staring down at the broken hilt of his useless sword as I open his neck.

Least that was the plan.

Seems it's a day for foolishness.

Because I didn't even consider that he might not be alone.

So now I'm just standing, still as I can.

"Aha," fool says. "Perhaps an introduction? Avon Averline, special ambassador for cultural cooperation. The young lady holding a knife to your throat, on the other, is as much a mystery to me as she is to you."

"Uncursed," comes a breath on my neck. "Ever uncursed."

"Briya Thorn," I say, clear as I can. "If we're gonna talk it's gonna be without a blade to my throat."

Fool raises his hands and his eyebrows. "Perhaps if you could?"

There's a moment, then the girl behind me pulls the knife away.

So I turn and put mine in her heart.