Morana had spent enough time among the dead to know when the man lying at her feet had joined them. The lack of a pulse was clue enough, as was the ever-widening halo of blood surrounding his head, but even so, she took comfort in seeing the ashen hue of his skin and knowing that her task was completed. Using the steel-nibbed pen on the man's desk, she left a message in blood on his wall, taking care not to stain her dress as she did so. At present, she could pass through this town undetected, but a woman with blood upon her clothes was bound to draw questions.

Turning her back on the corpse, she strode to the window with quick, silent steps, something she'd mastered over the years. Silence was everything, regardless of whether it was applied to one secret or to a mission as a whole, and to break it was certainly to fail. Over the town, the sun was beginning to rise, and she paused to watch— she had always enjoyed sunrise, watching darkness give way to light, and loath as she was to acknowledge any beauty in this land, this was at the very least something that her homeland shared as well.

Shared among the heretics and the holy, she thought, observing how the light tinged the crests of her knuckles orange and the valleys between a deep purple. For now.

Sighing, she swiveled back to the body. The medals on his dark blue uniform were almost entirely coated with red, but enough of the metal remained uncovered that she could see a bronze glint in the light. Her time was limited, so she snatched the medals from his chest and the holy texts from his bookshelf, flipped open to a random page, and wiped both the medals and her fingers clean. Seconds later, the book hurtled through the window, plunging down to the street followed by the glass shards. She jumped after it, landing on the eaves of the roof overhanging a wing of the lower level, balancing on the ridge and crunching frost under her feet.

Already she heard footsteps from above, so she slid down to the cobbled street and landed in a crouch. It was uncomfortable in this stiff wool dress, but better than being caught— still, she had to laugh. Perhaps it made her ill-suited for this, but she loved the way her heart raced at the thrill of being hunted, being one step ahead of the people so determined to find her. As she prepared to run, she caught sight of the book. Next to the streak of blood from the medals was a quote: Hun åpner hånden for den som lider nød. She opens her hand to the one who suffers.

She sneered at it before she sprinted away, taking care to hold her dress for sake of freer movement. Their texts were about love and family and morality, as if they could truly understand any of them. But the words were soon forgotten with the rush of the breeze in her hair, the blur of houses as she ran by, and finally, best of all, the scream that always came with discovery. Usually, she was well away from the target when he or she was discovered and no one with a thought of vengeance could even identify her, let alone chase her, but sometimes there were cases like this, when she wanted them to know how quickly their people could fall and how little they could do to stop it.

Years of military service had not saved that man, and the motley group of militiamen left to this town had no chance of defending their homes without him. Not with her soldiers waiting at the edges, waiting for the barest hint of blood in the water to bring everyone in the town to their knees. If there was one thing she loved more than a sunrise, it was that: absolute capitulation with no hope of resistance, the ultimate proof of their inferiority.

The cold winter air stabbed at her lungs, but she did not pause. Not after rows of houses that she passed in seconds, not as she heard the faint echo of another scream. Not until she saw the man. He had just emerged from the last home on the cobbled street, hat in hand, daytime attire clearly thrown on in a hurry: his dark vest was rumpled with one set of buttons undone, his left sock was rolled slightly so that skin could be seen between its top and the black hodden pants that ended just below the knee, and he hadn't bothered to wear the typical cravat. When he held out a hand, Morana slowed, coming to a halt just in front of him. If she needed to, she knew she could kill him as well, but that was a last resort.

"Why are you running?" he asked her, and she could see his breath in the air.

There was no suspicion in his voice, only concern— the mistake that many men here in Riken made, the assumption that a fleeing woman was a victim rather than a perpetrator. It was an error that she had exploited time after time, mission after mission, that inborn hesitancy to suspect her regardless of knowing that she would hardly be the first to carry out such an act and certainly not the last.

Letting a sob enter her voice, she gestured with a trembling hand back to the house she had just left and said, "I— I was walking, and I heard glass shatter, and — and—"

"It's all right," he said, eyes softening. "Take a deep breath. What is your name, Miss?"

She did, then wiped her eyes. "Margrethe Mikkelsdottir. I'm sorry, it was just... just horrible. He left—" Morana broke off, allowing a tear to slide down her cheek. "He left the Helligtekst on the ground, marked with blood..."

"He?"

"Tall, dark hair... I didn't see much beyond that, because I ran. Oh, sir, I think he killed Løytnant Reidarssen!"

The man stilled. "What?"

"The blood... the glass..."

He took her by the shoulders. She flinched from the sensation of his filthy hands on her, but he did not seem to care. "Is your home nearby?" When she nodded, he continued. "Go there and stay safe. We'll catch him, I promise."

Giving him a tremulous smile, she said, "Thank you. Please, hurry."

The moment he rushed away, back in the direction she'd come from, she let out a relieved sigh and ran her hands along her upper arms, where he'd touched her. Attacks, she could tolerate, but gentleness and affection were unbearable; she knew all too well that kindness from them was merely temptation into evil, because they hid their true intentions the way that wildcats did their claws.

And speaking of hiding... Morana ducked into a narrow alley and sank down, not caring that her dress would get dirty as she sat. The cobble was rough underneath her, and she could feel the uneven stone of the wall through the back of her dress. Judging by the smell— a rancid, sickly-sweet reek— the building she leaned against was likely a butchery. And judging by the empty bottles along the edge of the walls, this alley was likely also the place for exchanges; the sharp, sour scent lingered alongside that of rotting meat. If anyone stumbled across her, they wouldn't believe that she was there for either reason: she was disqualified from being the butcher on the grounds of her sex, and she had neither the immodest clothes nor the glazed, vacant look to be confused for the other. No, if someone found her, she'd wear the same mask as she had with the man, a frightened woman desperate for any kind of protection from the monster, even the darkness of a disreputable alleyway.

But that was only if someone found her. From her vantage point in the shadows, she could see the town coming to life, men sprinting toward the scene of her crime, with some women and older children following— none of them even seemed to notice the woman in the alley, much less care. She just needed to wait for them to pass; were she to leave now and run toward the edge of town, someone would stop her, and it was a matter of chance to see if they would be more wary than the other man. So she endured the stench and the cries of the townsfolk until they were out of sight. After all, she was used to the stink of bodies, so what was some animal fat and laudanum to her?

The last one passed, a boy too young to cope with a scraped knee, let alone a murder. She shook her head. There is no 'too young', she reminded herself, standing and peering around the corner. They've brought it upon themselves.

When she saw no one, she stepped back out into the light. Undoubtedly, there were some who had remained in their homes, but if they weren't willing to come out with the protection of most of the town, they certainly wouldn't do it when the streets were empty and the killer could be lurking anywhere. She continued on in a quick lope toward the edge of town. It was walled, but the townsfolk hadn't had the money to properly fortify, and so it hadn't been particularly difficult for her to get in.

Her black patent-leather shoes clicked against the cobblestones as she went. The snow that had settled on them had been disturbed by the throng, but the stones were still slippery and as fun as the chase was, it was significantly less fun with a broken tailbone. She knew that from experience, back before she'd tempered the fire in her veins with better judgment.

Ah, the early days. Shaking her head, Morana suppressed a grin and slowed to a halt as she came to the wall. Like the streets, the stones of the wall were slick with ice, and snow had packed into the widening gaps between each individual rock. That and the height of the wall, which was twice hers, would make the climb difficult— exactly why she had no intention of climbing. It wasn't impossible, but there had to be an easier way. One of her soldiers had given her a boost to get into the town, but she'd assured him that she could get out on her own, and she would.

There was nothing left at the border of the town: the buildings and streets had given way to hardy grasses that peeked above the snow and sharp bits of rock that had been blown off the top of the wall by bullets. Morana looked around. Propped against the side of the nearest store were some old wooden planks; she grabbed them, setting one on top of another on top of another at an incline against the wall. Stepping up, she tested the planks to see if they would hold her weight. They creaked slightly but seemed stable, so she carefully made her way to the front edge of the plank.

The difference between her chest and the edge of the wall was now half her height again, and she smiled. Simple. Settling into a low crouch, she sprang straight up, landing on the top of the wall with her knees braced. She could see her soldiers in the distance, their red uniforms easily visible against the dusky-brown haze of trees behind them. There weren't many soldiers, only a little over two dozen, but they were healthy, well-fed, and well-armed, unlike the townsfolk they held under siege.

And, she thought, landing in the snow on the other side of the wall, their leader is still alive and with them.

Thumbing the medals she'd taken, she continued her journey back to her soldiers. Her shoes, ill-suited for this sort of travel, sank into the snow and offered little grip on the terrain beneath, and her woolen socks soon became saturated with moisture. Complications like this were few of many reasons why she preferred active combat to mission work, but it was a small thing in the face of having to pretend to be like them. The one positive aspect about wearing their clothes and speaking their tongue was that she could take joy from deceiving them.

Shouts rang out behind her, and she paused. It seemed that some of the townsfolk had finally caught onto her, but she knew the approximate range of their rifles and knew from several days' observation that few of them were even half-decent shots, so she turned to face them. Reaching up slowly, she took the collar of her dress and tore it down to the hem, imagining how they would flinch if they were close enough to see it properly. The fabric, stiff white linen almost entirely covered by a rich blue apron stitched with flowers and swirls, fluttered in the wind like a flag, and she flourished it above her head.

"So you figured it out," Morana called, folding her arms across her chest. She knew they could hear her, even over the wind; much like judgment, a battlefield commander's voice was something she'd improved over the years.

They could see her for what she was now, take in the bone-white soldier's uniform with the distinctive red embroidery that ran down her chest like rivulets of lifeblood that had been veiled just as well as her intentions. Morana drew her knives from each sock and caressed the hilt of one before placing it back in the sheath on her belt and pinning the dead lieutenant's medals to her uniform. She'd missed her blades just as she missed her rifle now, but at least the knives were easy to conceal.

"Rifles up!" someone shouted. 

She snorted. They were lost without Reidarssen, one of the few among them with true military experience, but she found it entertaining to watch them try and play soldier now.

Dozens of men aimed at her, and with a smile, she waved at them. "Hopefully, you do better than Reidarssen— he didn't leave so much as a scratch!"

Another low shout, and then: "Shoot!"

Working on revisions, because I dug myself a far deeper hole than I was able to rectify with the first draft, and there are changes I wanted to make anyway... so welcome to the second draft, in essence. Also, if you speak a Nordic language, please help me out on this pronunciation! It's rather difficult for me to hear it properly.

Pictured above: the traditional Norwegian costume (bunad) as described with the townsfolk's attire, next to the uniform described for Morana.

Hun åpner hånden for den som lider nød (HOON | OB-neht | HUN-dehn | FOHR | DEHN | SOHM | lih-DEHT | NUHD): She opens her hand to the one who suffers. Some of you might recognize something similar from Proverbs; this is from a Norwegian Bible.

Helligtekst (HEH-lihg-TEK-st): Sacred Texts.

Løytnant (LIGHT-nahnt): lieutenant. 

Laudanum is a tincture of opium, and it is highly addictive. Opiates were used quite a bit back in 1800s, for everything from menstrual cramps to helping fussy children sleep, and since they were actually relatively cheap, it made for a nice sort of replacement for alcohol during America's Prohibition era. It was popular in Europe as well, and if you've heard of the Opium Wars, then you might know that it was (initially forcibly) popular in parts of Asia.