I went- Vin went- No, we went-
That’s not right. It is right. Gods, where do I start?
----------------------------------------
Vin entered the Spiral slightly ahead of me. For once, I was happy to let someone else take the lead – the ‘beer and games hall’ was a dump, the kind Father would tell me monsters and spiders lived inside, and Mother would shove me into. The place was made of logs stacked on top of one another, over and over, with the gaps between each likely filled with mud and someone’s runny bowel movements. It was caked with moss, more than even Greens, and the roof drooped under its own weight. At least it was large enough to fit a couple dozen people; if it didn’t manage at least that I would’ve burned it down.
The oaf in front of me exchanged a few terse words with the bouncer, then looked over his shoulder and beckoned me over. My fingers closed around the hilt of my sword as the bouncer shot me a broken-toothed grin.
“Careful there, young lady,” he drawled, tonguing blackened gums. “Can’t trust your man there. ‘F I were you, I’d- “
“Do us all a favour and put on a godsdamned mask,” Who’d he think he was, talking to me like that? “How am I supposed to drink after seeing that?” I said, gesturing towards his face.
In front of me, Vin let out a deep sigh. “Kit, don’t mind Len.”
“It’s impossible not to mind him, with a face- “
“Kit.” There was a warning note in Vin’s voice. My arms trembled with the urge to punch something, but I stilled them. Had to do better; had to show him I was better.
The bouncer smirked. “Get a leash on yer- “
“Len,” Vin spat, “if you don’t shut your stupid mouth, you’ll join your gang as fertiliser.”
The dirty man blanched and stepped aside. Vin ducked through the doorway, and I followed, slightly less annoyed.
The guts of the Spiral were exactly as charming as its skin. That is to say, it wasn’t charming at all: it stunk of dangerously cheap alcohol – the kind used to clean wounds – was filled with smoke from cheap torches, had insipid chatter permeating every scrap of empty air, and the bard’s singing was out of tune. Around us were a variety of tables, most hosting some shade of game bet with carved bone. Cards seemed to be the most popular, with dice being the next contender. Web – of course it was Web – came a distant third, with only two or three people playing.
The patrons all wore weapons, dangling down past the stools they perched upon. They were clearly fellow monster-hunters, though I hadn’t been around long enough to recognise most of them. A few big men stood against the ramshackle walls with their arms crossed. Scratching my chin, I sized them up. There wasn’t a single person in the room I couldn’t kill. Vin might’ve been a struggle; he was a decent warrior, falling just a fraction short of myself. His Lizardblood might be annoying – always tough to keep Dure’s ilk down – but his wasn’t overly strong. Bastard was too clever for that.
No one looked at us, though. They were too busy gambling and yammering. And – overruling talks of food or Ichor or bloodtech or Spires or jobs or family or the Jackal – came the only thing anyone wanted to talk about: the Albright’s declaration, and whether the other Houses had the guts to follow through. Part of me wanted to sit down and join them.
As soon as I’d stepped inside, I regretted coming. I had to, no doubt about that – gods only knew what Vin’d do with our chits – but I loathed every single one of these ‘games’. The crew would make me play for hours every week, and it took until my fourteenth year to realise they were cheating every time. What would I do while I waited for my companion to lose his chits?
I spat a hunk of phlegm on the floor. “What’s with you an’ toothless out there?”
Vin’s olive features remained neutral. “I killed his teammates.”
“What?” I spluttered. That was juicy. “Why?”
He shrugged, running a hand through his onyx hair. A shriek from the bard forced me to miss the first half of his reply. “…came after me, for my blood.”
“So Vin, gentlest oaf of all, is a killer?” I cooed. “Colour me surprised.”
The big man smiled tightly. “Come on, seer. Let’s get some chips.”
I resisted the urge to swear. Somehow, I’d finesse the meaning of ‘seer’ out of him. Then I’d be the one laughing.
We headed to a grimy bar in the centre of the room, around the hall’s main support pillar. I shoved my way past a wiry, cloaked woman teetering on a small stool as Vin slammed sixty chits down on the filthy heartwood. That was everything he had, after buying that little black vial. How in all seven gods would he eat?
“Ah, Vin! A drink?” My companion scowled. “I see. One-hundred-and-twenty chips, then,” announced the thin, hairy man behind the counter. “Gimme a moment to count them up.”
Vin waved his hands indulgently. Then he looked up, and donned a face like someone had killed a puppy in front of him. “Thum, what the hell is that?”
I followed his gaze. Hitched on the pillar behind the bar was an exquisite sword, black as the most ominous darkness. Making out the fine details was impossible in the poor light, however it glinted; the scabbard was engraved with silver. The hilt was clearly godsbone. An ache to see the blade within filled me.
“Oh, that?” He tilted his head and looked at it. “Beautiful, eh? Figured it’d best to show my new sword off.”
“It’s going to get stolen up there,” Vin growled through his teeth. A crunch sounded. I looked back at my companion, and came perilously close to flinching. The wood where he gripped the bar had splintered.
I squeezed the material. There wasn’t an ounce of give in it.
“Either Herva or myself are here at all hours,” the barkeep reassured. “No chance of that.”
“It’s collateral. It’s not yours.”
“Oh, it’s mine until you buy it back, friend.”
“How much do I owe?”
“One-hundred silver chits.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “Rounded down, o’ course. We’re pals, after all.”
Vin looked downward, teeth clenched and finally nodded. “Alright. Okay. Don’t lose it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Vin.” He pulled two bundles of bones from beneath the counter. “One-twenty,” he said, then looked up at Vin. “Pick some weaker opponents, eh? Don’t want a repeat of last week.”
The oaf grunted, and retreated from the counter.
“You lost that sword?” I asked. “Seriously?”
The man scowled, reaching under his bandana to scratch an itch. “I didn’t lose it. Thum took it.”
I shot him a look of disbelief. “Then take it back!”
“No,” was his instantaneous reply. “I’ll get the money- “
“One hundred silver chits?” Even before the crew had been disbanded, it had taken us several good hauls to accrue that kind of money. Vin didn’t have a chance.
“-and I’ll get it back.”
“Hello?” I said, reaching up and knocking on the side of his head. His hair was surprisingly soft. “Anyone there? You don’t have a sliver of a chance.”
“I’m good at Web.” I had to resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course he thought he was good at Web; I’d never met any would-be smartarse that didn’t believe that. A game of minds, they say.
I thumbed the hilt of my sword. “What’m I supposed to do while you lose?”
“There’s booze,” said Vin, giving me a pointed look, “and conversation.”
“Blood and eels, Vin, that’s dull as dirt.”
“You asked to come.”
“Don’t know why I expected compassion from an oaf.”
“Gods, fine.” He withdrew four chits from his purse-string and slapped them into my palm. “Take this to the bard, and tell him to play…” He paused. “‘Sitter Wendy the Scissor Whizzer’.”
I glared. “That’s fun?”
“There’s no such song.”
That didn’t… My mouth opened as the epiphany struck. “…And he’ll try to play it anyway?”
“Absolutely,” he grinned, teeth a startling white. “He’s half a hair away from getting booted out. He needs to fulfil all requests.”
That still left me with far too much time. “And then what do I do?”
“I’m not going to hold your hand- “
“Fine. I get it.” I made a shooing motion. “Go, rid yerself of all wealth.”
Vin saluted stiffly, and marched over to one of the tables playing Web. Off to the side of the room sat the bard, warbling his way through a broken song I vaguely recognised as ‘Slaughter’s Last Dance’.
“And in the Wastes of bloody gold
“The Slaughter breathed her last,
“Lizard fled and city saved
“And a dagger through her back.
“Madness nurtured at her breast
“Had slithered through the cracks,
“The Ravenblood, the Ravenblood-”
Simultaneously, everyone in the room spat.
“Avenged itself at last.”
His choice of ballad made his tone-deafness even more frustrating. A story about a mother being killed by her son? Tragic in every sense of the word. No one had even known General Maja had been alive until the song about her death had appeared a few years back. Yet, despite the subject of the song, the bard sung it as if it were a tale about a chipmunk finding seeds. Though, the rhymes always seemed a bit too upbeat to me, like the person who wrote it were somehow pleased at the whole thing.
That bastard Ravenblood was still around, too. In Heltia, if the Albrights were to be believed – though their claim that the city ‘sheltered a Ravenblood’ seemed to mean the same thing as ‘we needed a reason to throw Heltia down a well’. Their spiel about not allowing a Head to be Blooded made more sense; who would let someone with Godsblood in their veins govern?
The Albrights, apparently, having given Heltia’s Head a ringing endorsement for nearly a century. A knife in the back was more honest.
I chuckled quietly to myself, and kicked the drums out from beneath the bard’s hands. The man – though judging by his acne scarring he was closer to a boy – flinched backwards against the log-and-dirt wall. I grinned toothily at him, handing him the chips with great deliberation.
“What- what’s your request, miss?” he stuttered.
A tongue stuck out from my teeth as I tried to recall the name. “Sister Wendy the Whirlin’ Hurler,” I answered. It seemed more amusing than the original.
Wide-eyed, he stared up at me, completely still.
“Come on.” I snapped my fingers repeatedly. “Get a move on, boy – and tone down the voice-cracks. For Kani’s sake, if no one else.”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
He nodded rapidly and righted his drums, beginning to tap a lively tune. My glare was constant.
He licked his lips. “Sis-ter, Wen-dy-“
For a few minutes I squatted in front of him, watching as he felt his way through a song that didn’t exist by gauging my reactions. At times I would snicker quietly, and he’d turn whiter than spearwood. Eventually, I grew bored and shot him my endorsement in the form of a thumbs up. Kid didn’t have enough of a spine to try and fight me.
Back at the bar, I ordered a drink from the greasy bartender, avoiding his attempts to get me to buy chips. After a few minutes of him cajoling and myself growing increasingly terse, he finally came to the radical realisation that maybe, just maybe, I wanted something to drink. He leaned below the bar and slammed a wooden pitcher in front of me – far more than the three chits I’d paid should’ve gotten me. I suspected that this place had the only one quantity of beverage to serve. Probably only one type of drink, too.
Hesitantly, I looked inside. Within, muddy liquid waited, gently swirling. Pinching my nose shut, I tilted the concoction into my mouth and swirled it around. Grains of dirt brushed along my teeth. My eyebrows furrowed. The so-called ‘beer’ seemed to be some sort of heavy spirit mixed with water. Muddy water, in a city where clean drinking water was available at every corner.
All forgivable; I’d drunk worse, in worse places, in worse amounts, with worse company. However, one feature was irredeemable.
“Why’s it warm?” I gurgled, ejecting the swill back into the pitcher.
“Ah,” Thom startled, “well miss, our cooling bloodtech is out of Godsblood-“
“What a surprise,” I droned. “You can’t afford blood in a city that doesn’t have enough? Woah. Who woulda thunk it.”
“I see you under- “
“Get a cellar like the rest of the world.”
“Well- “
I leaned over the counter and moved to grab his shirt, then halted as soon as I realised it would mean gripping a handful of chest-hair. Giving him a stink-eye was all I could manage. “Well, what? Yer place is a dungheap, Thom.”
“Ah, but it’s- “
“Shut up,” I snapped. “Who said you could talk? I’m givin’ you advice, bear-boy – you better listen.”
He closed his eyes and let out a huff of air. “Now you better- “
The man was a predator. I could see it in the way his face moved, and the way his eyes did not. The way he talked: clean and polite – the kind of diversion that hid a partner sneaking up behind. Not an honest predator, either – not like me. The barkeep wouldn’t take a swing himself. He’d kick me out, and I’d have to clean my way through a couple of his cronies before I could rearrange his face.
“Shut up, I’m talkin’ to someone else now.” I turned to the middle-aged woman next to me. Her hair trickled out from beneath her cloak, revealing grey strands mixed with black.
“Old lady, how’re you enjoyin’ yer swill?” I snorted. “S’it taste good ‘cause yer tastebuds’re dead?”
She turned to me slowly, bringing her cold, scarred face into clarity. I stilled. The white, razor-thin remnants of healed hurt crossed her entire face. “A swordswoman.” She didn’t seem surprised. “Are you decent with a blade?
A scoff propelled itself from my throat, handily concealing the sigh of relief that threatened to escape at her words. Despite how she looked, she spoke nothing like Mother. “Lady, I’m about as ‘decent’ as a warrior gets.”
The strange woman hummed in agreement. “You are certainly muscled appropriately. I imagine swinging a heavy blade all day is no trouble for one such as you.”
I recoiled. “Uh, thanks,” I stuttered. “Listen, I’m not, uh, I’m not really-“
Her eyebrows narrowed during my tangent, then raised quickly. “I have a partner.”
“Uh, I don’t really, do it with three-“
“I am not interested in you like that.”
I frowned. “Why not?”
“You- you are too young.”
Fair enough. “Fair,” I nodded. “So what’s all the talk about my muscles for?”
“Can I not simply admire a warrior’s physique?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Why you gotta be weird about it, though?”
“Apologies, then,” she stated. “You simply seem powerful.”
I preened. This woman had a good eye. Though, it was difficult to imagine what brought her to this place, given her posh speech and fine cloak. “What’re you doin’ here, lady? It’s a damn hole.”
The scarred woman glanced around. “This is where the hunters spend their free time, is it not?”
“Yeah,” I sniffed, “looks like most everyone here’s into monster huntin’. Or,” I paused to spit on the floor, “they’re a godsdamned harvester.”
The scarred woman swirled her pitcher. “It truly is awful, isn’t it?”
“I’d wager you’d find better drink at th’ top of Wastes.”
The corners of her mouth quirked, slightly. “Mm. Young swordswoman, who do you think the best hunters in the room are?”
“Myself,” I answered immediately. “An’ Vin, I guess. Everyone else s’not worth the spit in their mouths.”
She nodded slowly. “What makes you think that?”
I chuckled. “You stick around, an’ I’ll show you.”
The woman rotated, facing her whole body towards me. Her eyes drifted up and down my body. “You are part of the Strains’ team?”
“Yeah,” I answered, eyes narrowing.
For a moment her expression shifted, like she’d sucked on something sour. “Prove your worth and I will have a job for you.”
Silence stretched. I imagined taking a pitcher and staining her hair with it. “How much we talkin’?”
“Enough to leave the Heartlands,” she whispered. “And employment thereafter.”
My jaw dropped. Bread cost a pretty chit. Bread for six, for months of trekking? “You havin’ us bring you Ichor or somethin’?” I spluttered.
I refocused my eyes on the lady. Only a House had unrestricted access to rations. Only a House could guarantee employment so readily. That kind of attention was bad. But we could always use more chits…
“Impress me and I will tell you.”
Abruptly, I stood, grabbed my discount booze, and strode through the sea of tables, chairs and gossiping hunters. The smoke was awful: like I was sucking on six cigarillos but without the high. An armoured woman’s sudden shifting had me colliding with her during a tight shuffle between people. She turned around, eyes narrowed and mouth open, only for me to give her a tight-lipped smile and thrust my pitcher into her hands. Usually I would’ve accepted her invitation, but there were more pressing problems at hand.
Vin sat at a Web table, his eyes fixed on the board. He looked comical, perched on the seat – a serious-seeming man so large you’d mistake him for a weak Oxblood if you didn’t know better. The wrinkled, sun-scorched old man opposite him licked his lips, continually rambling.
“…never mind Ichor, you see the real news is about the Jackal, because – I mean, have you heard – she’s been tormenting our traders and travellers for years now, and, well, now her Get’s gone it’s been real easy work taking her down, and I mean, what did she expect, for there to be no consequences, puh-lease, a woman can’t go around murdering – not even having the good-grace to hide it! – and think she’s gonna get away with it all…”
I hissed and resolved myself to ignore the endlessly talkative man. Vin had clearly decided to the same. Glancing down at the board, I could immediately see the big man was winning, so long as the gods didn’t get good rolls.
Web was the kind of game that had outlasted history itself. It lingered like a bad smell, clinging to every bored, semi-cerebral person that witnessed it. Two sides of twelve pieces – six Blooded with unique moves, and six unblooded with uniform ones – each vying to occupy eight randomly-chosen spaces on the board. The goal was to gain control of the majority of points, while ensuring the opponent’s army was too decimated to pose a counterattack. Despite all the ‘randomly-chosen’ spaces being closer to rambler’s side, Vin had occupied all but two.
The thing about Web, though, was that gods roamed the board. Every four turns, a die roll would determine how they moved, and whether they’d obliterate half of someone’s army or simply brush past. The real trick of Web was accounting for the way the gods moved – calculating the odds and taking risks or avoiding them entirely. This game in particular had all six possible gods in play; usually, the challenged would pick one or two.
Vin’d done decently, though just from the arrangement of the board it was difficult to know whether it was because he was good or his opponent was bad. More importantly, his soldiers were out of range of all but two gods – the Fox and the Dolphin – and they would need to both roll sixes to negatively impact his position.
And while my companion glared at the dice so hard they threatened to burst into flame, his opponent continued rambling-
“…and I mean, Ichor’s probably just a pool of Lizardblood somewhere but that bounty, hoo, that bounty’s something else, though have you noticed that all the crier’s have stopped talking about it, which seems strange to me because why would Heltia give up a replacement for Godsblood when we’ve already got too little, though I guess they might’ve figured it might not exist; funny how easily they’ve put stock in rumours, though I guess Owlbloods can’t help twitching their beaks in hope of more fuel…”
-selected two dice, and rolled two sixes, ensuring both gods rushed in and vaporised six of Vin’s eight remaining pieces.
The man paused suddenly, eyes flicking to Vin. The large man placed his hands on his face. “Bad luck, Vin.”
Vin slid over every one of his chips, apparently not bothering to play for a draw. “Yeah,” he sighed, removing his hands, “that seems about right.” He tapped the table twice and forked over another handful of chips, eyes narrowed. “Another round, then.”
I chuckled mirthlessly. The two players looked at me. “Vin, it’s clear as cracked eggs that he’s cheating.”
The wrinkled man’s tan lightened suddenly. His eyes darted around.
“Look at him!” I laughed. “Like a pig on a stick. It’s obvious.”
Vin looked at him, then at me. His lips curled upwards, then sunk back down. “How?”
“Dice’re loaded. Check this out.”
The challenged was always the one rolling for the gods. I plucked up the rambler’s – who was now growing increasingly pale – six dice and rattled them around in my cupped hands.
“Let’s start with this one,” I said, plucking one out.
I began rolling it. Each time, the wood came up three. Each time, Vin’s face grew darker.
“Next one,” he demanded.
Slowly, we went through each dice. Two were truly random, but the rest were clearly weighed to give specific outcomes: five in every six rolls came up with the same number.
Vin’s expression was unnaturally neutral. Only his wide eyes – more whites than pupils – revealed anything but serenity lay beneath. Silently, he pushed himself from his stool and began walking across the hall. Instead of weaving around tables and stools, he simply walked through them, knocking people and games to the ground as he went. Those that protested turned, saw his frame and face, and returned to playing.
It seemed unfair that he could do that.
His destination was another table set for Web, a slight woman drumming her hands atop it. She saw him and brightened. “Vin! You comin’ t’get yer- “
“Give me your dice,” he interrupted. His words were terse.
Something began seeping into her face. “C’mon, Vin-“
“Give me your dice,” he bellowed, voice like crumbling stone.
She fell over backwards, then staggered to her feet and placed six dice, carved from spearwood, on the table. When he began rolling them, she stared. Then she ran, frenetically pushing her way through the hunters, smoke, and stink, all the way to the entrance of the hall, and then taking her flight outside.
It was a good choice. The outcomes were the same as before.
After the third die came out rigged, he pegged it across the room, then turned and began moving again. I followed.
As we walked, I realised Vin’s mouth was moving. I wasn’t sure if he himself noticed. “Come on, Orvi” he whispered, inaudible to anyone but me. I blinked. “Come on, son.”
The third and final table waited in an increasingly quiet room. Gamblers turned as Vin cut a furious heading through the hall. The man seated at the Web board saw us coming and fled, a move that was immediately countered by Vin scooping up a stool and hurling it at the man. After half a moment of flight, it splintered against his back. He stumbled, giving me time to rush over and kick the side of his knee, taking him to the floor.
Instead of sparing me a nod, Vin squatted over the fallen scammer and flipped him over.
“Dice,” he hissed.
The man fumbled at his clothing. It took too long. I recoiled as Vin smashed a fist against the earth next to him, sending a cloud of dirt into the air. When the cloud cleared, my companion clutched a die in his fist, and the man lay insensate, blood dripping from a squashed nose.
Three rolls in the dirt, yet only one outcome.
Vin rose to his feet. His body was tense and tightly wound, like a crouching lion. I stifled the urge to rub my hands together. His eyes clenched shut for a handful of seconds, his face contorting. It was only when he opened them that he began to move.
Quiet murmurs mixed with the smoke and smell of cheap drink. Thom stood behind the counter, pretending he hadn’t noticed the ruckus Vin had been causing. An expression of mock surprise plastered itself over his face.
“Vin!” he exclaimed. “Another losing streak? Don’t worry, friend.” Vin’s back grew rigid. I couldn’t see his face from where I stood behind him. “The cooling box is out of fuel; if you want chips, you can pay in Godsblood! I’ll double- “
“Every single game of Web in your hall is rigged,” Vin stated. “Did you know anything about that?”
The hairy man’s eyes widened. “Really?” He placed his hands on his tunic. “I’m so sorry, Vin – I had no idea! I’m- “
A bark cut through his words. “I don’t care. Give me the sword.”
He looked downwards, grimacing. “I can’t do that, Vin. You lost most of those chits at cards- “
“I bet the cards were rigged, too. See, I won at first.” Vin inhaled sharply, then turned to the rest of the room. “Does that sound familiar, anyone?” His gaze panned across the crowd. Thom tried to speak, but Vin’s voice completely overruled his. “A month-long lucky streak, followed by a year of losses?”
“Vin, I understand that you’re angry, but to make those kinds- “
The large man thumbed underneath his bandana, craning his head over his shoulder. “Give me the sword, Thom, and I’ll stop.”
From the corner of my eye, I detected the guards on the sides of the room begin moving closer.
“Is it chips you want? Is that what this- “
“I want my godsdamned sword, you bastard!” The words rumbled across the room. “Half this room is bloody starving and you’re still taking their chits? You spidery little rat. What was all this about? Money? Why me? Were you… “ He paused, revulsion panning across his face. “Were you trying to put me so far in debt I had to work- “
“Vin!” the barkeep snarled. “That’s enough. I thought we were friend- “
“I didn’t want to have to do this, Thom,” Vin bellowed, his voice dominating the air, “but I will.”
Silence reigned as Vin unslung his pack and began rifling through it. The hairy conman pressed his back against the pillar in an effort to get further away. As he did so, the guards accelerated their pace.
Vin didn’t draw a weapon, though. With a flourish, he withdrew a black object from the beaten leather satchel. It took me several seconds to realise it was a mask. “I am the Face Vin,” he announced. The four facets arrayed outwards shone eerily. “I have hosted Divinities, I have calmed ghouls, I have released spirits from monsters…” He turned, showing it to the room. “…And I have been entrusted with a cursed blade.”
The scarred lady seated at the bar watched, her face split with a thin smile.
He brandished the mask like a torch warding away darkness. The room stilled. A woman behind me whispered, “Did Thom really cheat a Face?” Her body shifted awkwardly. Another man flinched as his eyes settled on the sword above the mantle, drinking in the ominous contours of the blade. The gamblers abandoned any illusion of routine. All eyes were fixed upon the exchange at the centre of the room.
Internally, I swore. If I’d known Vin was a Face, I would’ve been nicer. I sniffed, then acknowledged that as a lie.
Vin let the quiet stretch, then split it with a cry. “Then cheated of that self-same blade!” His expression twisted in a rictus of regret. “Despite my role, I am only a man.” His eye twitched. “I make mistakes.” For a fraction of a second, the emotion on his face fell into something realer, more wretched. Then the moment passed and it was gone. “These past months, I have been trying to remedy them.”
The Face looked at the crowd, eyes wide. “I’ve been trying.” His lips trembled. After a moment, they firmed. “But I can’t let that… thing stay here. Only a Face knows how to properly handle it; how to calm the spirits within”
Even as the crowd watched, enraptured, Thom’s expression calcified. There were no good choices for him left to make. Handing over Vin’s sword was an admission of guilt: of rigging the games and cheating a Face. The other option…
“You’re lying, Vin,” the barkeep stated, eyes blank. “You stole that Face. You’re trying to renege on your debt.” He scoffed quietly as my companion stared. “Come on, fellas. Get this cheat out of here.”
The guards closed in. Wooden walls narrowed. Vin continued speaking. I ignored him. My vision sharpened. The hilt of my sword was smooth in my palm.
Everything made my skin crawl. Thom: cheating an entire hall of the destitute. The scarred woman: watching as if the world were a game without stakes. The hunters and harvesters: their families starving yet gambling away full bellies. The guards: working for a dishonest man, lacking the strength to say no. My own calloused hands.
I looked at Vin, his pleading lost in his lies. He wanted a bloodless solution. He would allow them to live.
The scarred woman stared at me.
I could only be one person. I’d show her. I’d show everyone here.
In a single motion, I sprung atop the bar, flicked the beautiful blade from its holster, and jammed it into the side of Thom’s skull.
The hall froze. Then everything started moving.