I was forged anew in hellfire that night. My soul and my light—burned away in the alchemical explosion.

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Sel crouched among the debris of the dark, wide room, idly drinking from a small flask while Kadran hummed through her hazy mind. She noted the results of a pitched battle: the rough stone walls and floors covered in craters and scorch marks, practically all furniture smashed to splinters, and far more dried blood than a few humans could supply.

The air reeked of death and something alchemical, acrid and sweet—and entirely unbearable. The scene was fit for a massacre, yet there was only one corpse in the ruined underground hideout. She pulled on her Bond, letting theurgy trickle into her, filling her with a storm of energy that pushed her to act, move, and use her powers.

The dark room grew marginally brighter as her perception flared from the influx of theurgy, and she was able to make out the corpse.

Merkin? This has to be a joke, she thought, frowning before taking another swig of spirits from her flask.

It’s unsettling, Seluna. The leader of the dismantled Starhowl gang, suddenly showing up dead, Kadran hummed, his voice sharp and layered in crystalline and mellifluous tones, clawing its way through her mind.

Sel didn’t respond or move, purposefully sending a wave of annoyance crashing against the presence in her head. He knew better than that. She took another drink, then capped it and stowed it in her black cloak.

Sel. Happy? Now can we focus on this? Kadran growled with a huff.

“Yep. How long has it been since the Starhowl contract?” She stood, stretched languidly, then stepped closer to the corpse.

You need to stop poisoning yourself so much, Sel. You should know that it was a little over ten months ago. Kadran sent a pulse of worry through their Bond, but Sel ignored that and his annoying request.

“Ten months. During this whole time, not a sound. The guilds, Church, nobles…none of them caught wind of his activities either. I wonder what he was up to during that time…”

Kadran sighed insufferably and said, I’m sure we’ll find out. The more pressing question is why resurface now?

“And who killed him?” She circled the mangled corpse, unable to distinguish many of the wounds from each other.

There’s a lingering wrongness here…I feel as if we should make ourselves scarce soon, Kadran hummed distantly.

We’ll leave soon. What monster from the void did this? Where’s his Scaleforged spear? she mused, leaning to take a better look at his face.

All good questions—wait, what’s that? On his face?

Sel squinted, blinked, then took out her flask again to pull from it. While his clothes and body were in shreds and tatters, all broken bones and pulpy flesh, his face was untouched. His shoulder-length brown hair, proud and handsome features, and odd square beard remained much as she remembered.

But across his face was a hand print seared into the pale skin, gray ash mixed into the black cracks of the burn.

Another Ashen Hand mark… Kadran said slowly.

“That makes the tenth one in the last two weeks alone. I’m not going to lose any sleep over Merkin dying, but those fools are getting on my nerves.” Sel shook her head and moved off to see what she could find in the wreckage around the room.

And who knows how many since they first started appearing three months ago. I’m curious what their plan is. The marks have been found at noble house and church break-ins, at assassinations of anyone ranging from gang leaders, Church inquisitors and garrison captains to nobles, Imperial Military officers and Alchemical Sovereigns. We’ve even seen it on several of our contracts. Yet after all this time, we haven’t come across their members, or found any hint of their bases or operations.

Sel only grunted in response as she flipped through a torn and stained book. The words were hard to make out, but it looked like some sort of journal. Merkin had apparently done some traveling to Kret, Sorithia and a few other foreign lands. His most recent trip had been to the Northern Reaches, to other hideouts his allies operated out of. The last entry mentioned some sort of deal with The Reclaimers, whoever they were.

Movement in the tunnel outside, Sel. Kadran sent a sharp pulse of caution through her mind, cutting through the pleasant haze of inebriation.

Sel rolled her dark brown eyes, tossed the useless journal to the ground and took a last swig from her flask. Whiskey burned in her throat as she trudged to the door. She paused, drawing her short sword with her right hand and her dagger with her left. They were both made of impossibly strong starsteel, replacements for the daggers she’d lost fighting Sorithians ten months ago.

Are they right outside the door? Sel asked, tensing.

I think so? Kadran hummed curiously.

Sel stepped back, then kicked out at the door. It flew outwards, catching one of the tools waiting for her, sending the cloaked figure stumbling. The other person already had his axe raised, dark eyes wide in surprise.

She lunged forward, striking before her foe could act. Her narrow sword pierced the man’s right arm, but her dagger sparked off his weapon. Sel drew back as he swung at her head, his pockmarked face twisted in rage.

She gave a mocking flourish of her sword, flicking blood at the man. He sneered at her, wiping the droplets from his face with a sleeve.

To your right, Kadran said.

She leaned back just a fraction, letting the wicked looking spear pass inches from her face. Sel slammed her sword against the shaft, making it swing away from her, causing the first man to jump back with a curse.

Before they could recover she dove right, under a wild swing, then acquainted the man’s left thigh with her dagger.

He staggered back as she yanked it free and twisted past him. She delivered a swift kick to his arse, sending him sprawling. The other man charged at her, but she stood still, weapons lowered as she stared him down.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The closer he drew, the more hesitant he appeared. As he brought his axe down in a mighty swing, Sel smiled, barring her teeth at the man.

She didn’t even need her Bonded powers for this joke of a fight. She abruptly blurred forward, stepping close to the man and delivering a punch to his throat. As he gagged and missed his strike, she kicked his knee, making him drop. Now that he was nearly level with Sel, she drove her dagger up through his chin.

She had to release the dagger and let the man drop to just barely parry the spear that almost impaled her. Sel danced back, falling into stance, one arm behind her back, sword held straight at the man.

He advanced with a flurry of thrusts and swings that made movement in the tight tunnel even more difficult. She dodged several, but most she deflected or guided past her, each clash chipping away at the shoddy spearhead.

The taller fighter knew his way around a spear, but he was little better than a common thug. Assuming the pair were allies of Merkin, they were surprisingly lacking in skill. She twisted away from another thrust, almost without thought.

Sel sidestepped another strike, noting—with immense satisfaction—that the spearhead was rife with cracks and deformities now. She dove under a swing, rolling to the side to slam her sword against the thrusting spear.

The spearhead shattered and the man cursed. He backed away slowly, likely considering his friend’s axe. In a heartbeat, it was over.

Sel flickered forward like a wraith, her sword sliding neatly into his eye.

She pulled her blade free, letting the man crumple. She retrieved her dagger from the other corpse, then wiped both weapons clean on the man’s cloak. Sel stood, sheathed her weapons, then hovered over the corpses for a moment, a distant lantern making shadows play tricks on her eyes.

She knelt, ignoring the corpse’s sudden rictus grin and eyes that leaked black sludge as she searched pockets and pouches. Finding nothing but a few silver coins, she moved on to the other corpse. It gave a disembodied laugh and Sel snarled, tearing her flask free from her cloak and upending it into her mouth.

Once it was drained, she searched the corpse, hoping the hallucinations would be kept at bay for now. Kadran was a quiet hum in the back of her mind, almost like crystalline chimes softly clinking against each other. She found nothing on the corpse, and she sighed at a pointless fight.

I’m certain they were coming to meet Merkin, though I suppose it hardly matters now. What will we do now, report back at the castle? Kadran hummed.

“I think you know the answer, Kaddy.” Sel started down the hallway, suddenly exhausted.

Seluna. I know you’re still grieving the loss of—

“Don’t you dare say her name!” she roared, kicking a nearby rotting crate to splinters, then continuing down the tunnel in a wrathful silence.

Kadran only sighed and receded from her mind, though he could never go far.

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An hour later, Sel reached the Ossuary—though the place was anything but dust and bones. The circular set of five caverns and the tunnels leading to it bristled with life. The unwashed, unpleasant kind, for the most part.

She drifted along the wide main tunnel, letting the tides of thieves, addicts, dealers and gangsters sweep her along to the first cavern. As she neared the cavern, the lanterns on the walls ended, leaving a small pocket of darkness.

Sel entered the Ossuary, holding a hand to her eyes and blinking at the sudden electric light. The large cavern had fairly neat rows of square, uniform stone buildings, carved straight from the dark gray rock. The neatness was somewhat ruined by the endless sprawl of wooden shacks and tents that filled any remaining free space. Violet neon light bled from dozens or more signs, hanging lights, and conduits running along walls and buildings.

I’m not even there to look at it and that light hurts my eyes, Kadran hummed in annoyance.

Eh, you get used to it. I actually sort of like it, at least underground, she thought, pushing her way through the crowds.

The lights were recent innovations, powered by some vile sludge—a byproduct of certain illegal alchemical operations that produces strong electric currents. She didn’t pretend to understand the purposefully obtuse science behind it, but she did know the tech would be taken by the government or nobility sooner or later. It was only in The Depths currently, its secrets kept by several of the up and coming drug lords.

The lights cast a dozen pleasant shades of purple across her view as she made her way to the only reputable tavern in this part of The Depths. She approached the two story tall building, eyeing the sparking, rectangular neon sign. The light of the glass tubes of the border were vibrant and strong, but the five crows within the border wavered unsteadily. After a short staring contest with the wall of muscles standing in the doorway, she entered the tavern.

The place was packed like usual, full of rowdy men and women using little more than crates and barrels for their seats or tables. She passed under a flickering bulb overhead as she stepped around a short woman, who was flexing a shiny new arm.

The chemtech prosthetic was likely one of a kind, experimental, expensive, and prone to exploding without warning. It was a sleek steel frame with too many joints and actuators that are capable of precise movements, ending in three long, wide claws. The hand and wrist had visible extra pistons, allowing the woman to deliver crushing blows. Most of the wiring and tubing were obscured by the wicked metal plating banded around the frame.

I can smell that sludge seeping into her blood from here, Kadran muttered. He had made it his personal mission to be disgusted with most technological advances, for some reason.

What’s a bit of toxic chems in the blood, when it gets you power, right? Sel thought back dryly. She finally reached the bar counter—really just a wide wooden plank set on some crates.

“Ah, Sel. I’m not taking care of you if you get wasted this time,” Gil said with a charming smile, setting down the dirty mug he’d been ‘cleaning’ with an equally dirty rag. His skin was a golden brown, like many people of the southern colonies, but the bald man was alarmingly thick of arm, charm, and—occasionally—wit. His weathered, sun-kissed skin told a story of a life on the seas.

“Shove it, Gil. Give me your strongest.” She pulled over a barrel, took a seat at the right corner of the bar, tilted back to watch the rest of the room with one eye.

“The Flock recently got in some Vornish rotgut, which I’m sure you’ll pretend to love.” The broad chested ex-Kythian mariner gave a suspiciously dark chuckle as he rummaged through some crates behind him. (She liked the grizzled old sailor well enough—but The Flock was an absolutely stupid name for a tavern, regardless of the territory it’s in.)

“So long as it gets me drunk expeditiously, it could be prison swill for all I care.” Sel was not, to put it gently, in a good way as of late.

Kadran’s low humming somehow sounded like a ceaseless eye roll—she tuned him and the clawing presence in her mind out for now. He didn’t know a damned thing. Maybe he would get off her case if he understood how dead she felt inside.

“Here you are, missy—” Gil set down a battered tin cup and moved to pour some brackish liquid into it, but Sel stopped him.

“Just leave it.” She rummaged through her coin pouch to drop twenty silver on the counter. He raised one bushy eyebrow but took the coins.

“I’m warning you—”

Sel didn’t heed the all too benevolent warning. She’d already taken a deep swig from the small bottle, and had to fight hard to keep a straight face as she set it down. Her thin lips puckered a bit and her dark brown eyes watered as she swallowed. It burned her mouth and throat fiercely, tasted like mud, and she instantly had to focus as bile tried to rise in her throat. The aftertaste was even worse than mud somehow, something like rather worn leather boots.

“I told you,” Gil said with a laugh. “You sure you don’t want whiskey—”

Sel took two more swigs in quick succession, just to spite him. She kept her face blank even as tears leaked from her eyes. Her mouth and throat started to numb in seconds. He just shook his head with a grin and turned to help another patron for a moment.

By the fourth sip of the foul liquor, her face burned and she started to unwind slowly. By the fifth, Kadran was a hazy, scaly annoyance in the back of her mind. On the sixth, she realized she’d been slumped over for the last twenty minutes, rambling to Gil about how stupid carving out a miniature city below an actual city was.

The seventh and eighth swigs brought her closer to the stars, despite being underground. She caught herself muttering about the Heir’s visit in a few months, as well as that accursed Veylin. The ninth drink she took from the bottle—and anything beyond—finally brought her sweet oblivion. Thoughts of her master, her loss, her life and the future slipped from her mind.

Bliss.