The first time she'd snapped a neck without using her hands happened after the passage of her seventh birthday, at the time she still was under the vigilant gaze of the lawyer of the Crown, Lord Brek Haywire himself.

He'd never liked her, and the feeling had always been mutual. She had no idea why Lord Regulus had assigned her to learn under his wing. Him, out of all the rest of the Apostles close to the Crown, the man who never in his life had hid his blunt hatred towards her.

Pharah still hadn't settled into her life, nothing more than a variant, the daughter of the woman who under the request of Lord Regulus had taken her in. She'd raised her into a living weapon, but there was something that the noblest woman of the empire didn't know on her account.

It happened after angering the former Apostle IV, who in reply to her accusations of him deceiving the common crowd had decided to lock her up into one of the many cells under the Imperial Citadel for a fortnight or so.

Dull food was considered luxurious, clean water a privilege reserved for few, and the light of the day a mirage lost in an oasis of desolation.

For ten days she sat back against the wall inside that tiny dark decadent cell. The faint light of the torches positioned on both sides of the door becoming an anchor to the last sliver of sanity still burning in her heart.

Things changed when she was paired up with a cellmate, a man who; lost in a delirium induced by alcohol, had stoned to death three young lives, staining the streets of District Street a crimson red.

Death was the only sentence the judge offered to him.

But that sentence hadn't been enough to break his spirit, the dark fire burning his heart flared out when he met his cellmate. He started asking questions on how she'd gotten there, on what she'd done to receive such conviction.

Rosalynde spared him no words as her eyes kept on staring at the fight torches burning in the dark.

The man however didn't give up asking as Rosalynde had thought, and by the third day - or night he decided to try a different tactic to make her talk to him.

He went for her meal, a meal made up of stale bread and what looked like sewer water mixed with crumbs of dirt, avidly stealing it from her weak grip before throwing it on the ground.

She didn't see her food falling, the only sound being the crash of the wooden plate hitting the iron bars, wasting it all. He laughed with vicious delight at the choking sound that escaped from her chest each time he did it.

He starved her from that day, some days eating her daily meal, while the rest of the time mercilessly throwing it away as she cried out in confusion.

As the guards did nothing, hunger kept growing day by day, while her strength slowly started withering away.

A rose with thorns slowly dying was the only thing her mind could focalize on, her hands leaves which with every passing day lost the viridian color of life, her body a marron dying stem ready to be crushed under a foot.

But nevertheless, she kept her gaze locked on the blazing torches flames, her light blue eyes shying away from the darkness slowly creeping inside.

She dreaded to reach that light at the end of the underprison, to feel the warmth of the burning torches under the palm of her hand.

The shackles to her feet were removed the next week, when two guards forcefully dragged her out of the cell.

What they didn't expect was to discover the corpse of the condemned to death lying against the wall Eye sockets empty while blood was seen pooling inside his ears, the blood still sliding down his face alerting them that it hadn't been long since someone had killed him.

They both looked towards Rosalynde's barely breathing corpse, discarding immediately of any involvement coming from her side, sure that someone had poisoned his meal before the day of retribution dawned on him.

How stupid of them to deny the undeniable.

She hadn't physically killed him, for her hands had never come into contact with his sturdy body, but her mind...

Her mind had.

It'd taken less than a minute, her gaze forcefully moving from the lights of the torches as the red fury drowning her heart had decided that enough was enough.

Lying from her side of the cell she watched his eyes pile up with tears of blood, his nose and mouth following the same fate as his body started to shake uncontrollably. He didn't emit a single sound as he started choking on his own blood, his tongue losing the ancient ability to speak, his shoulders following the rest of his body as he convulsed.

She trapped him in that state for an uncountable number of minutes. Her eyes slowly lost sight as the shadows wrapped their boney hands around her face, cutting her off completely, hiding her from the rest of the world.

A sliver of euphoria struck her as he released his last agonized breath, euphoria that morphed into sheer terror as his eyes popped from the sockets in an act of frenzy, rolling down his body and onto the dirt as they were halted by her leg in posing as an obstacle.

At the time she hadn't really realized what she'd done, all her mind seemed to remember was as if something had imploded from within his body, as if an animal had gutted him from within.

But deep down she knew that wasn't possible, meaning that there was only one possible hypothesis, and that was her.

She'd killed him, she didn't know how, but she'd killed him.

Her second kill, two years later, she'd struck again.

It was then that the pain struck, that excruciating pain in her small young chest, eating her body. It spread down, her toes twitching as her breathing faltered.

That was the price she would have paid for using such an arcane curse. The headache being the first indicator, followed by her own body shutting down, in the throes of excruciating attacks throughout her bones and flesh.

To bend blood at her will, that was the curse she'd been born with.

To make that crimson liquid stop flowing, to make it evaporate, leaving the body and mind to rot for all eternity.

She seldom used it, fearing the aftereffects it could have slowly brought her.

That time in the cell she'd cut off his blood, rounding it up in the throat, choking him to death. That first method had become her favorite modus operandi; she privileged it so much that both Bishop Ferdis and Madame Hellenia had experienced that treatment.

And she would have done the same to the dunkard kneeling on the floor, but the number of people present inside the tavern could not be overlooked.

Tilting her head to the right, she made that innate ability surge. The man's cheeks lost that prime rosy color to a cadaveric white, veins popping as his eyes started to lose focus. His head fell heavily on the table, his hands dangled like a corpse.

Grey simply stared as Rosalynde tilted her head on the other side, not knowing she was ordering the man's blood flow to go back to normal.

"So this is what made Hellenia tremble in fear the other night," the man scurried away under Rosalynde's menacing grin as Grey spoke those words out loud.

She turned to look at him, pleased with the reaction obtained. He was smart enough to understand the message she'd just sent him.

Try something and you'll be the next one which I'll play with.

Grey opened his mouth to speak, but promptly shut it as his eyes settled behind her head, coincidentally where the entrance door was.

Their targets had finally arrived.

Rosalynde glanced at the hanged clock, they - she had been drinking for over an hour, the hands of the clock dangerously close in striking the advent of the first hour after midnight. Shifting her legs in obvious trepidation, the tavern around her seemed to disappear thanks to her state of mind.

Something went to hit her leg, that something being Grey's leather shoe leaving a mark on her dirty trousers.

A retaliation for their dance perhaps?

"Don't move, drink more if you can." Grey whispered as he poured himself a new glass of whiskey, Rosalynde did not contestate his suggestion and did the same. His left disappeared under the table

The front door bell chimed, the cutter of plates fell to the ground as they mixed themselves with the cheers of the patrons occupying the establishment. In other words, the perfect chaos where people could speak without the fear of being heard.

The Smiling Dame went to rub with her hands the spot where Grey had kicked, ducking her head under the table to take a better look.

Her movements halted the second her eyes settled on something resting over his knee.

A tiny oval mirror, that from the looks of it was bound to fall to the ground any second now.

She quickly snatched the mirror and inserted it inside her vest pocket, raising her gaze as she tucked some rebel silvery locks behind her.

Straightening her back she took out the oval reflecting her gaze. Raising it to her lips in fake interest to check the remaining red tint she'd put on the hour before the ball.

Her objective however was another, to spy herself on the conversation, and he'd come prepared.

"You see them now?" He asked. Gaze sliding down to meet her focused stare before, she felt his gray eyes piercing her own before he was absorbed once more into subtly eyeing the two entries.

"I'll thank you later," she replied. Later earning a half-chuckle from him.

"I shall remind you later then," they fell quiet after that, watching as the two men slid inside their seats and ordered something to quell their thirst.

Both dressed in black tailcoats reaching their knees, hands anchored to the table as they waited for their orders to arrive. Rosalynde slowly and steadily rotated the mirror to her left, seeking for a better angle to spy their reflection from.

They looked calm, too calm and too friendly when the waiter came back with their drinks, their eyes hiding something she still couldn't place her finger on.

The one in her line of view was a beardless man who still had not reached the threshold of forty years of age, pale skin blending with his dark coat as he leisurely chatted alongside his partner.

Rosalynde's smile thinned in an instant, lips quivering in as his companion turned around shouting for another beer.

Her smile widened again as his face came into view, fingers gripping the mirror so tight she swore she heard it crack under her grasp.

Her soul hollowed with trepidation. Like a beast waking up from their winter hibernation. Hungry, greedy, and with the thirsty need to tear apart that one prey that'd been running from its claws ever since the spring before.

Krinston, the bastard that'd been betting all his wife's assets in the Black Tide three full moons ago.

A memory flashed inside the back of her mind, rewinding inside her head the events that'd led her to meet the man sitting in front of her.

He'd said something to Hexford before she'd lured him and his friend into her polished claws. He'd found them, he'd become one of them.

The dots connected as her eyes found Grey's cheek.

Krinston too, was a member of Verity. Just like Mary Clark, just like Madame Hellenia.

How obvious, all the indicators had been there, all the signals blandly exposed to the world. Yet she hadn't figured it out by herself.

And judging by what she'd heard that night, he'd been initiated into the group just before their encounter at the Black Tide

Hexford on the other hand had seemed pretty clueless at the time, nevertheless, she couldn't rule out his involvement with the barere's of the windflower.

"I had my suspicions the night when we first met, he seemed joyful too for a man on the verge of bankruptcy," Grey seemed to read her mind, restlessly rubbing on her already faltering pride a barrel of salt to aggravate the wound.

"We'll chat with them after they get out," a slight nod in reply came from him.

And they waited, the minutes passed without both of them moving, the only action worth remembering was when Grey stood up and went to pay for the liquor, stopping by the restroom to alleviate himself.

The hour passed in the blink of an eye, and in between the cheering crowds chanting old songs wrapped in dust and forgetfulness; Rosalynde's patience started to come less.

Her fingers twisted under the beige gloves, eager to wrap themselves around soft skin. That subtle need to squeeze the life out that shell of flesh and blondes still hadn't left her, it'd only amplified itself after using her curse twice in the matter of months.

Her fault, she should have been more careful on the matter, she knew the after-effects of using her curse, and yet had knowingly decided to ignore them.

A pang of guilt towards Pharah's uncountable recommendations slid into her mind, hammering it with bricks of knowing concern.

"They're moving," Grey stated all of a sudden, his words made Rosalynde lower the oval mirror on the table.

She fixed her gloves, pulling the edges upwards, her stare on the ground as she calmed her beating heart from exposing her excitement to the unknown crowd.

They sat up from their seats, quickly making their way toward the exit, pushing past the drunkards - who in their wake fell like dominos to the ground.

꧁꧂

They kept a reasonable distance at first as they followed Kriston and the other man down the labyrinth of District Street.

Every house looked the same. Windows without glass, doors with piles of eviction papers, most of which without even a proper lock to keep the residence inside safe at night.

There was a motto famous in the Rowlian Empire.

If you're born poor, count the number of teeth in your mouth before you pass. If you're born rich, count the number of teeth you were not able to switch out with the golden ones.

And that was nothing but the truth. The people who lived there would have never savored the sweet taste of the fresh pastries that the bakeries in the High Strads baked every morning before dawn, nor would they have ever cried for a dress that another young lady had decided to wear for the same ball.

Priorities changed, they varied with the elevation of the social class.

She had been an expectation, born poor, and later thrown into the world where gold bars were enough to create a bed and later sleep on it.

"They're slowing down." The two Apostles hid behind a mossy wall just in time, before Krinston's partner turned around to survey the scene.

Rosalynde held her breath in the worry of being found out. Not now, too soon. They needed to see exactly what those two were going to do.

Grey frowned as Krinston halted all of a sudden, drawing a sigh of relief when the man lit up a cigar, the ashes falling to the ground sizzled as they came into contact with the puddles of melted snow.

"Any news?" A guttural voice Kriston snorted at that, a halo of smoke enveloped him.

"Nothing, absolutely not a single word from them. The cargo was thankfully moved before that Apostle incursion to Clarks warehouse," She was the one. The Apostle he'd just mentioned.

The gutted swam was a threat, a well-crafted message for them, for her in particular. Why did she know that? That was a question she had no answers for.

"Ah, the Apostle that's been snooping around? Hellenia did warn us about her. The leader knows, do not fret."

Leader.

He said Leader.

Verity's Leader.

It was the confirmation they needed. An undisputable verbal ratification.

That behind those curtains moved by puppets of death and retribution sat a singular puppeteer. Not many, with each moving their precious string. But one, just one, a single foe threatening the ranks of power that for centuries had gone untouched.

The true opposer they'd been searching for.

But that wasn't all, the man's words had subtly confirmed another doubt which lingered in her mind. Verity knew about the Apostles, all of them except for...

She turned around to meet Grey's gaze, which too was fixed on the backs of the two men standing still in the middle of the dark alley and didn't even look down towards her couched form.

Hellenia had only mentioned her, not Grey, meaning that the information of him being part of the Apostles had still not reached their shores. A detail that could still be used to their advantage in the near future.

His face half hidden by the shadows made her narrow her eyes in search of his handsome features: the barely visible dimples, the dark unruly hair, and those eyes gray barrel like the gun strapped around her waist - hidden by the thick jacket.

She found his chin in the dim light of the streetlamps, far enough to be confused with the torches families lit to mark the way home for their members.

"The next cargo will arrive when?" Krinston asked impatiently.

"The date still hasn't been decided Gregor, be patient, our time will come." Rosalynde's ears sharpened, her body pending forward to try and hear better.

But Grey didn't let her, and wrapping an arm around her slim waist he pulled her back, holding her frame with one hand. She lowered her gaze for a second, the puddle of melted snow inches from her foot made her realize the grave mistake she'd been so close to commit.

A single sound and they would have been found out, shame invaded her subtle smile at that mere thought.

He brought a finger to his lips, imposing between them a deal of eerie silence, taking a couple of steps backwards as the two members of Verity started walking again.

"I hope so, Hellenia barely escaped death that day when she encountered her." Rosalynde's smile widened at his statement.

The fact that Hellenia hadn't died saddened her, but knowing she still had the opportunity to finish the job had been enough to cheer her up.

"You know what to do now. Don't you, Krinston?" Gregor nodded in reply. After that, he finished his cigar, throwing the remains against the rundown walls before they turned the corner.

"Of course, I'll make sure everything goes smoothly. I won't fail." He coughed before continuing. "Unlike Clark, you have my word as the proud Head of the Krinston house."

Proud Head her ass, the only thing he was good at was throwing money down the endless well people called hubris, when in reality all he could be called was a poor man with zero-to-nothing quality

Rosalynde grinded her teeth together, moving heightened the chances of them being discovered.

In case of failure, Gregor wouldn't have been difficult to track down, a loosey aristocrat like him never strayed too far away from his banal habits. The other man, though, was a completely different story.

He was the second key they'd found, the first being Mary Clark.

Rosalynde vowed to not make the man resort to the same method Mary Clark had used to keep her mouth shut. She would have not forgiven herself if she ever did, hoping her lucky star would help her honor that vow.

Little did she know that her lucky star wasn't shining brightly among that dark, jeweled, winter sky.

A cat emerged from the shadows of an abandoned building, the shadow of what once had been a normal house aiding his slender walk before it stopped right beside Rosalynde's still body.

Grey placed a hand over her shoulder, reminding her to not make any movement that could have allermed the stray in front of them, but his reminder was lost in the frigid wind that swept the alley. The animal started purring, rubbing his dirty body against Rosalynde's leg, his head happily laying on her bent knee.

Slowly, the gazes of the two members of Verity turned around, just as the cat started climbing on Rosalynde's back, feeling her spine before purring louder.

It was too late, the shuffling of iron clanging together froze the two Apostles on spot.

The cat jumped from Rosalynde's back, striding right in the middle of the alley before turning back to look at the two Apostles' tense silhouettes blending in the dark.

Someone was loading a gun, the clear sound of the bullets entering the loading chamber unmistakable to her trained ears.

A clack resounded throughout the air, slicing it in two as Kriston's companion spoke with a different voice, more guttural, more intimidatory. "Gregor. I hope you don't mind if you get back home a bit late, it appears we have company."

They'd been discovered.

All because of a cursed cat.