༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

The man tosses me from his shoulder into the sludge. I land with a grunt as I slide through it, rain plastering my hair to my face. I wipe the mud from my mouth, glaring up at the man as he runs a hand along the broad neck of a horse tied to a tree. My glare doesn't carry much weight with my right eye already swelling shut.

"Who are you and what the fuck is going on?" I get to my feet and observe my surroundings as I grip my inflamed shoulder. The woods here are thin, the rain escaping through the sparse leaves and wetting us with ease. I can't see the lanterns of Warroll through them, which means we're further away from the town than I wish to be. His mad dash away from the warehouse was dizzying to say the least.

The man looks at me over his shoulder, dark eyes taking me in from my toes to my head as I try not to shiver in the cold, my clothes soaked through with muck and rain.

"I'm taking you somewhere you'll be safe," he replies, his voice deep and rumbling like distant thunder.

"That's not reassuring," I mutter, and succumb to the cold by wrapping my arms more fully around myself and allowing a shiver to crawl down my spine.

I tilt my face to the skies, glaring up at them as rain splatters my face, mixing with the blood that streams from my puffy cheek.

"The last time someone was taking me somewhere to be safe, he died."

Coward.

The voices whisper and growl.

Coward who ran into the ice.

"I need to get back to Warroll," I say, lowering my face from the sky and deciding it's the only course of action. There's no other road to take—no other option—but to find Jile and remove his head from his shoulders.

"I can't let you do that," the man replies, shifting so he fully faces me, his fingers flexing at his sides.

"Why not?" I question, a muscle under my eye twitching.

"You'll be walking into your grave."

I step towards him, tilting my head. "There'll be no grave for someone like me. Just a barge of burning bodies drifting towards the Blood Ocean. Only the rich or fortunate get burials." I look him up and down now, from the expensive leather of his boots to the thick wool of his tunic and hood.

We clearly walk different paths in life.

"I've never been particularly rich or fortunate. And I just saw a bunch of kids die that'll be put on that barge in the morning, and I'd really like to see one more join them."

I shove past him but his hand shoots out and he grabs my upper arm. Every muscle within me stiffens, my focus narrowing down to the place where his hand touches me, feeling like an iron branding that sears to the bone.

"We have an offer for you."

I look down at his hand that curls around my arm, breathing shallowing. Then I move my gaze up to his, looking into his eyes, daring him to continue touching me.

He removes his hand and I step out of reaching distance. A feral growl rises in my chest but I swallow it, swallow that instinct to make him hurt for thinking he has a right to touch me.

"Who's 'we'?" I ask.

"The Order." His words echo through the trees and my brow rises.

"The Order of Hunters?"

He nods.

I tilt my head back and cackle, diluted blood dripping from my chin, the cold of it numbing the cuts and bruises. "You fucking rebels." I shake my head, teeth glinting in the moonlight. I meet the man's gaze again. "What could you people possibly want with me?"

"If you come to the Order, we'll explain."

"Not likely," I scoff.

"Az," he sighs.

My eyes narrow. "How do you know my name?"

"Your face and name is on every wall within Warroll."

I huff out a breath. Fair point. I can't go anywhere in Warroll without staring at the ghastly image of myself.

"You need help, and the Order is in a position to give you that."

"I don't want help, just one person dead."

The man nods, straightens his shoulders, and untethers his horse from the tree. "We can give you that."

Brows pinching, I look at him again, the sincerity in his gaze almost seeming real. "You'd allow me to cut someone's throat?"

All he does is dip his chin in reply. It's not a confirmation of the rebellion's malice, but it's not a denial of it either.

My jaw works as I think back to the warehouse, how he set all those soldiers on fire without blinking an eye. Even I have to admit that finding Jile now that he's got his tail between his legs will be much harder. Rats are always the best at scurrying into hidden places. The task is made even more difficult with the Sharlik Empire scouring the place for me.

I look down at my hands, wrapped in the gloves Dax got me. He deserves justice for what happened to him. Street rats don't get justice. They get the barge and nothing else. They don't get investigations or friends looking out for them. Dax deserves more.

"And if I don't like your offer I can walk out anytime I want?" I question, continuing to stare at my hands, Dax's teary eyes shining with the glassy sheen of death flashing in my mind every time I blink.

"I'd advise against it, but yes."

I take another moment to breathe and to look into the trees, to ponder and weigh the costs. What would my brother have me do? He warned me of the Order, that they could be dangerous in abusing my gifts.

I glance down, my eyes upon my gloved right hand, the golden markings hidden beneath. Could they know? Not even I know what the marks mean, I just know they're dangerous, that my brother saved me from the soldiers that took me because of the marks.

They want what you're hiding.

But not even I know what I'm hiding.

"I'll hear your offer," I say to the man, peeling my gaze from my hands. "But I can't promise anything more."

"That's all I ask."

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

The Order of Hunters, a part of the rebellion meant for schooling. My teeth are gritted as we ride through its wrought iron gates, twisted with vines and roots. The buildings within the cobblestone walls are ancient, made of stone stained with age and water damage, cracked from the sodden land that's always moving. The only thing that seems relatively new is the glass windows, emblazoned with depictions of the gods. Strange for such art to be new, most don't care for the gods anymore.

We pass overgrown gardens writhing with weeds and garish roots from bowed and craggy trees. The place was perhaps once a great mansion, now it's beginning to fall apart, succumbing to its age.

The man dismounts from the horse and looks up at me, waiting for me to follow. I sniff as I spot others also watching me, cloaked in shadow, their hands upon their weapons.

If all schools are like this one, then it's no wonder most of the kids in Warroll can't read a word.

I jump down from the horse, meeting each of their gazes, daring them to test me, to make a move. These people are strangers and the rebellion has done nothing for me. The only thing I wish for in this moment is a weapon.

My gaze flits to the weapons these people have. Swords and daggers, bows and crossbows. It won't be hard to acquire a weapon. Even a twisted branch from the garden will do just fine.

"This way," the man says, turning on his heel, expecting me to follow once again. I can't tell whether he's confident or just stupid. I mull the question over for a moment before following him, curiosity shoving me forward.

I flex my fingers as we pass the people that watch us, silent and eager to peer at me.

Never let them look too closely, little flame. Don't let them see what makes you weak.

What makes me weak, brother?

The man leads me into the light interior of the crumbling mansion. But inside it's not crumbling. I stop when my grubby boots connect with polished marble, glimmering within the light of candles. My figure reflects in the marble, dwarfed in an over-sized tunic. I lift my gaze, taking in the dark oak and the clean smell of wood and soap. I shoot a glance behind me, reassuring myself that I didn't just step into a dream. Beyond the wide door still sits the tangled gardens and dreary sky, beginning to turn a deep grey with the coming of dawn.

"What the f—"

"Outward appearances can be deceiving," the man says before the swear can touch my lips. He pulls down the fabric over his mouth and nose, revealing the rest of his face as he pushes back his hood. His dark hair is cropped close to his head, deep brown skin warmer within the glow of the candles. Light scars mar his features, wounds of a warrior that has fought and bled in many battles. But his eyes are softer than I first realised, the brown of them holding a softness I've not seen in a long time.

He doesn't seem so dangerous anymore.

Never believe what you see.

"Clearly," I mutter, not sure who I'm replying to.

The rebels have managed to shock me twice in one night. Perhaps I've underestimated them all along.

"Well?" I ask. "Lead the way."

We walk through neat halls of dark wood, the sweet scent of flowers floating through the air. I wrinkle my nose.

The man leads me into a room and every muscle in my body tenses as I step through the thick doors and onto carpet filled with so many patterns and shapes that my gaze struggles to differentiate them. Then I look up and meet the gaze of a woman who stands like she already owns the world.

Her dark, dread-locked hair falls to her waist, midnight skin littered with pale scars. Her amber eyes—almost gold in the light of the candles—rake over me. But it's the set of her shoulders—auburn fox fur draped over them—that has my hand reaching for the blade in my belt that's no longer there. Stern, ready for conflict, ready to give the order to kill without hesitation.

"I asked you to bring me a warrior," the woman speaks, her voice like molten liquid, smooth but with a deadly undertone, "yet you bring me a half-starved girl."

A warrior? Maybe I could be a bandit if I put some effort into it, but I'm nowhere near being a warrior.

"This is her, Mira," the man says at my side, bowing his head, lowering his gaze to the awfully patterned carpet.

"The stories about you that come from Warroll certainly don't match your appearance." She leans her hands against the oak desk before her, clear of any sort of clutter, anything that could tell me what she wants from me. Not that I'd be able to read any of it anyway.

I swallow my nerves, sniff at the sweet air, and meet her heavy gaze. "What do you want from me?"

"What's your name?"

"Az."

She lifts her chin and the man grabs the back of my tunic. My heart lurches as he shoves me, urging me to my knees before the desk. I lift my gaze, eyes pools of black as I glare at the woman, almost daring her to do anything more.

Nothing left. Nothing at all to live for.

"Your real name," she orders.

A muscle in my jaw flutters. "Azura."

She nods and the man steps back.

I stand, righting my tunic and keeping my head high, not impressed by this display of dominance. I've already played a similar game with Jile.

You're going to be afraid. The trick is to not let them see what makes you scared.

How do I hide it, brother?

"Now that the introductions are over," I say, venom in my voice, "are you going to tell me what you want?"

"I have a job for you."

"I'm listening." Impatience grips my stomach, causing my teeth to grind together as she meets my eye and judges my worth.

"I want you to assassinate Emperor Ulric of the Sharlik Empire."