On the eve of battle high,

We marched to Her great home.

Flame and fire we did bring,

To burn Her tree to ash.

-Korek Song of the Covenant

Vallerian stumbled out of what remained of the street gang hideout, hot blood soaking through his velvet doublet from the deep gash in his left shoulder. It had been a week and two days since that disaster at Rekiak’s home, and already he was covered in his own blood again. Just his luck. With gritted teeth he pressed the green sash into his wound. The bundle of cloth had apparently been this group of thugs’ namesake. Green sashes, how garish. With a wince, Vallerian pressed the cloth harder to staunch the blood.

“Damn.” He cursed. From how that perpetually pouty priest rushed in everywhere, Vallerian had thought one would grow accustomed to being beaten and abused; recent experiences proved that idea wrong. Working quickly, Vallerian tied the sash around the bleeding gash. How had he been so slow as to get hit? He groaned, but with the cloth bandage tight against his arm he carried on. What else was he to do? Where was that damnable bird? He thought, bringing his blood-soaked fingers to his mouth and whistling.

It was only a few heartbeats before the comforting sound of Charlotte’s beating wings filled the air. Thankfully she landed on his uninjured shoulder. She could be smart when she wanted to be.

“Keep an eye out.” He whispered to her. “The last thing I need tonight is to be mugged by some street ruffian.”

Charlotte responded with a caw and began a survey of the area, keeping an eye for potential threats. Good bird, Vallerian thought, she seemed to want to be smart tonight. As a reward he gently ran his fingers over her neck feathers.

With Charlotte on alert for him, Vallerian increased his pace. That had been a mess of a fight, even if he had felled his quarry. The risk of someone following was small, but not non-existent. Another night, another name on his list done. Another mess up, he thought. His work was getting sloppier. Ever since that bolt had pierced his thigh he'd been slowing down. If only he could figure out a good excuse for Celeste to heal him again.

The girl did wonders for a wounded body, but after that episode in the shack she had been exhausted for a week. Only yesterday had she managed to work up the strength to heal Arabella’s spine, but that had left her back in bed again. Well, after that and Gardinal getting his fix. The big guy was ready to snap heads off at the slightest provocation, so perhaps Vallerian wouldn’t complain about that use of Celeste’s healing. Though all of that had meant Vallerian was low on priority for what amounted to a sore knee in everyone else’s eyes. He groaned loudly, stumbling along through the streets, a trail of dripping blood in his wake. Another day, another blood-stained doublet.

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That had been too messy. How many had he killed in there? Vallerian shook his head trying not to count. Seven? Don’t count Vallerian. Eight? Stop counting. He wasn’t sure how many. This was necessary, he reminded himself. It was them or him, and for Vallerian that was an easy enough choice to make. It had to be easy. If it was hard, he would freeze. If he froze, he would die. Necessary.

“What are we doing Charlotte? Running around acting like hounds for all these mad women?” Vallerian complained to his friend. She cawed back. “Don't you say it's just me, we're both in on this, you overgrown pigeon.” She ruffled her feathers but maintained a dignified silence. Vallerian rolled his eyes before stumbling over a large rock in the ground, barely catching the side of a building for support. “Blasted Southshore.” He cursed. A man could grow tired of this slum in a day, and he had been here far longer. A slum ruled by that gods-forsaken Tabitha.

But no, he wasn’t doing this for Tabitha. Or... Celeste? No, no no, it was for Crysilla. Wait, no again, he shook his head, it was for himself. Nobody else. His head was dizzy, a glance at the amount of blood dripping down his shoulder told him why. A man had to look after himself in this world. Get Tabitha’s allegiance so he can get Celeste’s trust so he can keep Crysilla from killing him. Even thinking about that made his head spin further. How had it all gotten so complicated? Women. Somehow it was always women. Young or old, Jöln or Sherya, they were all the same. If only I could be like Uncle Vallnir, he thought. Unfortunately, women still held a certain physical charm for Vallerian that men just couldn’t match. Even the pretty boys his uncle tended to favour.

“We should just leave Charlotte. Get out of here while we still have our heads.” Vallerian muttered, dodging a doddering old drunkard stumbling through the street. By the gods did his shoulder hurt. A glint from the shadows made his heart skip a beat. Assassin. A second glance showed it was just an old broken bottle catching the moon light.

A breath of relief escaped Vallerian's lips. No, he realized, he couldn’t get away. Not from the Theremya at least, Crysilla would find him. And even if she didn’t, she’d likely take her revenge on the few people he actually cared about. He didn’t think he’d have much luck convincing Reesa to run away with him. Celeste had too much sway over his sister. The images of the dead men he had left behind filled his head again. Vallerian groaned, Celeste was beginning to hold too much sway over him as well.

“It was necessary.” He forced out the word. The words echoing back from the empty alleyway, as though the streets themselves mocked him. He really was growing tired of Southshore these days. They were just a bunch of gutter trash, no real use to society. They were only making Southshore more dangerous. Besides, this was all for Celeste. So she could rise up in the world. Make a difference. No, wait, it was to keep Crysilla happy. Or… to keep himself alive? The different reasons spun his head in circles so fast he felt dizzy. Or perhaps it was the blood loss making him dizzy. He’d have to come up with an excuse for this so Celeste would heal him. That girl’s perpetual perfection really made lying to her difficult. Still, he couldn’t believe that Khazimi child had actually managed to stab him. No. Not a child. A man. It had to be a man. Vallerian didn’t kill children. The child was at least sixteen. A Man. He had to be.

“You dun look so good.” A familiar voice spoke from beside him. Vallerian shot his gaze down quickly, a dagger dropping from sleeve to hand instinctively.