Ma’at stared down at the suited man quivering in fear. Faint tears were forming in his eyes. His black, matted hair was unevenly parted across his forehead, drenched in a cold sweat.

“Who were you again?” Ma’at finally asked, though it didn’t matter one bit. No truth or lie would save the man’s life. All Ma’at knew was that this was definitely the man she’d been sent to kill. A mercenary must kill their targets, after all. Except if they’re brushed off through coercion or bribery, but Ma’at didn’t have to worry about that. She didn’t have a handler, nor a director. If she did, she filled both roles. Often the jobs she took up were found and investigated by her and her alone, no third parties involved. It was the best way to conduct her kind of work without any meddling or trickery along the road.

“Don’t you know who I am!? I’m the head of the Gunblades! If you kill me, there’ll be hell-”

Woosh.

One of the two sheathed swords on Ma’at’s hips suddenly flew forward and swung in a semicircle, decapitating the man in an instant. Squirting blood coated his previously pristine dress coat and shirt, and his body limply fell to the ground from a half-bent pleading posture. The bloodied, floating blade returned to Ma’at’s sheath as if a wayward wind had blown it there.

The night sky distracted her apathetic, feline gaze from the mess. An ocean of stars above lit the empty landscape in a sapphire hue. Her eyes trained on the horizon, and thoughts of the city Reville entered her mind as it often had on trivial jobs.

“Hmm… maybe he was right. A break wouldn’t hurt.”

Whether it was the long journey, or the multitude of tiresome jobs she’d accepted, she was deathly tired.

For her, not much had changed since the war. Since the Advent. The world was still built on blood and bodies, a fact the exhausted woman knew awfully too well. Age marked her face with faint lines. Her charm wasn’t in common beauty found in the faces of those younger than her, but in the sly fierceness in her posture and visage. Her dark skin, a clear giveaway of her Sirithisian heritage, glowed an auburn hue in the light of her newly burning campfire. Her black hair, an ashen shade, glistened like wet charcoal in the dense moonlight. Her two serrated swords sat sheathed on her hips like guns in holsters. Light scars tore across her face in thin lines, fully healed wounds leaving indelible marks. They only added to the catlike fierceness that she held in spades.

The warmth of the fire settled her mind. Firelight had always calmed her, but on a quiet night like this, it reminded her of someone dear she hadn’t seen in a long time. She smiled and closed her eyes, the campfire finally lulling her into a much-needed sleep. Longing pulled at her heart. Dancing visions of a girl wearing red painted her dreams. She was laughing and smiling. Life seemed to take on a completely new color when she was by her side. Ma’at could never remember her dreams, though she could always remember that special girl in them.

She woke up with a start. It was still nighttime, technically early morning. The buzzing of distant insects could be heard amongst the flora. Flat, muddy, black marshland as far as the eye could see. It was dotted with razorgrass and reeds hissing in the dry wind. The Eastern Mudflats.

She tossed a couple new logs into the fire in order to fuel its whimpering embers. In response to the food, the fire grinned in a way only a fire could; it sputtered and glowed magnificently under the still dark sky.

From around her shoulder she swung a small string pouch into her hands and felt its weight. Then, she opened it and reached inside. She took out three pieces of dried meat and a small loaf of sugarbread. She gorged herself, deeply enjoying the succulent peppered meat as much as she could before she would go without food for another long, long while. Then came the cake. As much as she wanted to enjoy it slowly and thoughtfully, there was almost nothing Ma’at loved more than pastries and other baked goods. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps it was the only ray of light in her gray, dirty, bloodsoaked life. She devoured the sweet bread as she gazed into the campfire, entranced by the dancing flames, then unclipped a canteen from her waist and put it to her lips. Lukewarm water spilled into her mouth in a steady stream, curing her of slight dehydration. The mercenary woman had tracked the Gunblades for quite some distance with no time to satisfy the natural needs of her fleshy construct.

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Coming to a silent accordance with herself, Ma’at rose to her feet and walked over to where the man she’d killed hours before still lay. His skin had begun to grow pale and sink into the crevasses of his skeleton. His eyes were lifeless, the furious glimmer that once filled them reduced to nothing. His killer crouched down beside him, stared at him for a while, then reached down and picked up his cold, white hand. A ring was there, adorning his middle finger tightly. It was a silvery blue, and the flat part that pointed away from the back of his hand had a design on it, no doubt the logo or icon of the Gunblades. It was a bullet wreathed in shadowy smoke. Behind the bullet was both a gun and a sword crossed in an X-shape.

“Really was him.” She pocketed the fancy ring and looked to her right a few meters across the plateau.

Standing there, slightly shivering, was a black horse darker than the purest metals. It had once belonged to the dead man before her, but now was ownerless. He had fallen off of it when Ma’at appeared to annihilate him and his crew. He’d had so much confidence at first, only for it to melt away as soon as his underlings were dispatched. That was how they all were. As long as they had ten, a hundred able bodies to hide behind, they could boast as wildly as they’d like. But when that shield was gone, they fell to their knees and begged for their lives. It was yet another tired scene that Ma’at had long grown accustomed to and bored of.

She eyed the mare with an odd expression. It was absentmindedly pushing its hooves into the squishy mud, completely oblivious to its newfound circumstances. “Hey,” she called.

The horse looked at her with disinterest.

“Want to be mine? It’ll be a hell of a lot better than how those reht’kas treated you.” Ma’at nudged her head toward the dead leader and a few other rotting corpses.

The horse blew air through its large rounded nostrils. It took a few steps closer and lowered its head a bit.

“Smart one, huh?” She crept closer to the steed and carefully patted its snout. It whinnied in response.

The land seemed to heave with life and anticipation as the sun rounded the world-cloth; the seam beyond, under the horizon. In the far distance, a great many landmarks could be spotted. To the west, Dragon’s Jaw: an ominous mountain casting great shadows of equal terror. Lodged in it, Ma’at had heard from a Reville shopkeep, was the skull of one of the long-deceased dragonlords. To the far, far north, Mount Relkry: another mountain though covered in a cloak of white, powdery snow. Rumors had it that it was the breeding ground of hundreds of bloodthirsty vax. To the south, the Bloodspike Rapids: a forest housing a raging river and home to several clans of anisai, though their numbers were nothing compared to several years ago.

A calling. Another pang of lonely longing filled Ma’at’s lungs, then left her body with a weighty breath as she swung her legs over the obsidian steed. There was no other place she wanted to go at that moment than Reville. A place of history and bustling markets. A place of many cultures intertwined in its busy streets, spreading out like a spider web from each and every citizen. A city of wealth and poverty. Of deal brokers and deal breakers. Of soldiers and mercenaries. Kind folk and murderers.

But it was also her mission. Her job. A merc’s a merc. The saying she had heard hundreds of times rang like a dull bell inside her head. She had to show the ring to a certain client… as well as tell him the story. He was an odd one, but he always paid in full. And then some.

With a loud crack of the leather reins, Ma’at rode off farther into the east toward the city burning a hole in her mind’s eye. Across the muddy flatland. Past it. Further and further on.