Elara Consuli, spat blood onto the floor in front of the altar, wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand, and prepared to die.

Ridding her brow of the sweat seemed a pointless gesture. Soon, her body would be expelling more than just sweat and a bloody globule of saliva, but she wanted to be able to see death clearly as it came for her, rather than view it through a blurry haze.

The novice raised his fist to his mouth and slicked a tongue across his raw knuckles, the same knuckles that Elara could still feel against her jaw and left eye socket. Her injured face throbbed, the swollen flesh already taut as if it sought to pull away from her skull.

'You should have just fulfilled your duty, narrag,' the novice said, his thick lips curling into a cruel smile, clearly expecting the insult to sting. Elara didn't care. She'd been called worse than a whore in her time. 'I would have killed you anyway, but at least your death would have been quick,' he continued. 'Now, I have to make an example of you.' He deftly spun the double-bladed scimitars he carried and advanced towards her slowly, each step forward like a torturous slice to her heart.

She'd mistaken his lack of speed for a disadvantage, but what he lacked in pace and agility, he made up with strength and vigour, and unfortunately for Elara, a particularly sinister desire for inflicting pain. He'd enjoyed beating her. She'd seen it up close, a dark light in his eyes that seemed to pulse almost incandescently as his hands had wrapped around her throat, his fingers pinching into her skin as he'd squeezed. How odd to enjoy murder so, she'd thought, as blackness had crept into the edges of her vision, what type of creature lives for death? Only a last-second grasp of the altar pot - once used as a vessel for the blessed waters of the Setelah River and now used to bleed dry the near-empty pockets of the people of Grimefall – gave Elara a momentary reprieve from her inevitable end.

Now, the blood ran from the wound she'd inflicted upon his forehead, streaking in rivulets down over the black slash of oil from the batak tree that all novices smeared across their eyes like a mask. They said the oil burned for seven days and seven nights when applied to the skin – a ritual required when joining the Serpent Order. A sign of a novice's commitment to the King and to duty. Elara was just sorry it hadn't taken this one's eyes. Some would-be novices were not so lucky to come out of it with their sight intact.

This novice's eyes had gone from containing an undisguised lust that had turned Elara's stomach into a mass of writhing kreeworms, to pure searing hatred that seeped from his pores.

'My duty?' she said, edging to her right, feeling her way with her feet because she dared not drop her gaze from his. 'I owe you nothing, droukza!'

The insult wrenched the gasp from his ugly mouth, which hardened instantly into a grimace worthy of a corpse. While Elara was used to being called narrag, the novice clearly wasn't familiar with such slurs being aimed at him and his eyes ignited with a fury that looked almost wild with intent. Droukza – the tusked boar that plagued the dead fields - wasn't far from the truth, especially when he looked more animal than anything, but Elara often thought that to be true about the Order. They were more beast than man. They had to be to do what they did.

'You will pay for that. And for your refusal. By Ban-Keren, you will.' The novice took a side-step up onto the raised dais. The tiles on the edge were loose and he tried to maintain his balance, his huge form struggling with the trembling slate.

'Ban-Keren be damned!' Elara said, seizing the chance – maybe her last – and leapt onto a wooden bench. The old wood splintered beneath her boot, but unlike the novice, Elara had the agility and speed to keep moving, and she cleared the other benches with ease, before the rows of crumbling wood disintegrated.

Launching herself through the doorway, Elara cut to the left, dodging between the dilapidated market stalls, once resplendent with wares of ripe fruit and fish, and now nothing but rotting shrines to a bygone era. Behind her, the novice screamed with rage and as she cleared the edge of the old market, Elara took the chance to glance back, dismayed to see he was already crashing through the maze of kiosks.

Clearing the market square, Elara headed towards the nearest street, her footsteps echoing along the winding lane. It was quiet in the Druvarian slums today with every citizen expected to attend the Gathering in the citadel. Of course, that didn't extend to the Order, who were sent out to scour the deserted streets in search of anyone choosing to disobey the instruction to honour King Ban-Keren. Refusing to attend came with an automatic charge of treachery and treachery was dealt with by the blade. There would be no trial and no exemptions. A man could be on his death bed and if found languishing in his home, the Order would ensure he reached the end of his time far quicker than Fate had planned for him. With no one residing here today – or, at least, no one willing enough to risk their own life to help someone stupid enough to have been caught lurking – Elara knew no one would be coming to her aid.

She had only two choices – outrun the bastard, or kill him, and what could one girl do against a trained assassin, novice or otherwise?

The dwellings either side stacked high overhead, blocking out much of the daylight. Laundry lines criss-crossed between the ram-shackled buildings, the stench of damp clothing pervading the air as it fought to dry without the sun's touch. Elara scoured the shadows as she ran, knowing that if they concealed another Highguard of the Order, then the novice would no doubt be granted his wish after all. Fortunately for her, she was more accustomed to these streets than he was, having spent most of his novice life cloistered within the training grounds of the citadel, but even this part of Grimefall wasn't as familiar to Elara as she would have liked. Her mission to the temple today had taken her a little farther away from her lodging in the upper east quarter, and with more and more dwellings being constructed in Grimefall every day, it was an ever-changing map of winding, over-populated streets where most roads looked like the one before it and where visitors could find themselves lost for hours if they didn't know their way through the maze.

When the stench of damp and rot grew stronger, Elara dug into her dwindling reserves of strength and pushed forwards, breaking out of a narrow alley. Behind her, the novice was still in pursuit, the sound of his boots on the ground like the death toll of the great citadel church bell.

The street beyond opened up and Elara headed towards the source of the foul smell, her feet almost slipping on cobblestones slick with sea lichen. Dead fish lay scattered alongside the pathway, having found their way here from the clean waters of the neighbouring kingdom of Dreynia, following the current down to the citadel. There was always an old fisherman, foolish enough to believe he could get to them before the waters did, who would scoop them up in his net and discard them when he realised, they were dead long before they reached these shores.

Elara ignored the smell and kept running, feeling the burn inside her chest as she struggled to keep her breath. Everything hurt now, not just the parts of her where his fists had pummelled soft flesh. Each muscle felt like it was on fire. Her bones felt ready to crumble under the strain. Ahead, she saw the old pier stretching out into the bay, the end of it disappearing into the water.

The novice's laughter rang out as she reached it, stepping out onto the boards, feeling it sway underneath her.

'Where, by Ban-Keren, do you think you are going to go, narrag?' The novice called out, having cleared the alley and was now casually strolling towards the pier. He stopped at the edge, dark amusement dancing in his eyes as he watched Elara inch backwards. 'Come back. There is nothing out there for you but death.'

'Not by your hands though, droukza.'

The novice grinned. Goodness, by her foremothers, she despised this one. She had no love for any Highguard of the Order – they instilled fear, never love – but this one was reckless and full of his own sadistic lust. He hadn't yet reached that point where inflicting pain and killing evoked as much emotion as taking a breath. It would come to him in time, when his days of being a novice were long gone and he was so indoctrinated into the Order that he undertook every task with dead eyes and a silent soul. Of course, Elara hated those Highguards too, but she'd rather meet her death at the hands of someone who cared nothing for the act, than someone who would put his hands between his thighs and enjoy himself for days after, as he remembered the pain and desperation in a dying girl's eyes.

'You should come back. Look, here, I'll give you back your trinket.'

The novice pulled the chain from his pocket, the one he'd snatched from her hands when he'd found her in the temple. She'd been too foolishly preoccupied with her find to realise she was about to discover why you should never let down your guard on the day of Gathering, when the Order was on the hunt for dissenters just like her. He dangled the chain in front of his face, swishing the pendant back and forth. Elara's heart juddered. He didn't know what it was. How could he? He was as stupid as he was ugly, but that didn't mean Elara's anxious soul would quiet knowing it was in the possession of an ignorant novice. Even if she was fortunate enough to live out this day, it would only take the eyes of one much wiser than this Highguard to realise what it really was, and then the entire Order would descend upon Grimefall searching for Elara. They'd tear the place, and her friends, apart until they found her, and she couldn't bear that.

By the foremothers, Elara Consuli, you have been reckless this time. Reckless and foolish and maybe this is what you deserve. But your friends don't. They don't deserve the suffering your carelessness will cause them.

'It is, as you said. A trinket.' She shrugged. 'Throw it into the water. It's worthless,' she said, giving a silent prayer to her foremothers for forgiveness for the blasphemy and hoping her desperation didn't show as she watched the tarnished gold pendant swing in front of his stupid face.

The novice slipped it back into his pocket.

'Maybe I won't kill you after all. Maybe I will just get you down on your knees and have you worship me just as much as you were worshipping that worthless old god of yours in the temple? How about that?' To add insult to all the injuries he'd inflicted, the novice slicked his tongue over his teeth in a lude manner and grabbed a handful of his crotch.

'How about you kiss my arse?' Elara spat. 'For your information, I worship nothing and no one, and I would especially not worship anyone who smells worse than the rotting fish of the Setalah, has teeth blacker than the dark moon itself and only gets hard when he invokes the name of his false king. You know, your devotion to that repulsive old man is quite nauseating. If you denounce the Order now, you might just be saved from a life of getting down on your knees and worshipping Ban-Keren. Has he called you to service yet, droukza? I hear he likes the young, devout ones like you.'

The novice's grin faded quick, morphing into pure venom.

'Bitch!' he hissed. 'You will worship him before you die, by Ban-Keren you will. You will say his name, right before you say mine. Luca Zar-Kuron.'

Fuck. Elara knew of the Zar-Kurons. Wealthy gold merchants, they'd lived in the upper echelons of the citadel core for generations and had strong ties with Ban-Keren himself. It was said that the eldest son was a member of the Druvari sect – the high priests acting as close advisors to the King. It was also said – albeit in whispers, lest you wanted to find your decapitated head impaled on a spike - Venetia Zar-Kuron was one of the King's many mistresses before she was married into the Zar-Kuron dynasty.

Triple fuck, thought Elara. This wasn't good.

Disobeying the Order – no matter what they demanded – was never good, but when your assailant happened also to be a Zar-Kuron?

Oh well, if I am to die today, then I might as well make sure this beast never forgets me.

She pretended to consider his words as if the name terrified her. 'Zar-Kuron, you say?'

The novice took a step forward, emboldened by the fear he thought he saw in her face. 'Yes, narrag. Zar-Kuron. I like hearing you say it, but I'm afraid it is not enough. You will scream it for me before the day is out. I would like to promise you pleasure as you do, but unfortunately, there will be only pain.'

Elara laughed. 'I doubt very much that tiny kreeworm between your legs could make anyone scream with pleasure, but if it is pleasure we are talking about, I hear your beloved king pleasured your mother many times. But hey, look on the bright side - at least you made it this far. It means you were not one of his unfortunate bastard offspring, destined only to have your tiny head bashed out on the rocks before they let the waters take what was left of you.'

The novice screamed with rage and ran at her, his huge bulk thundering along the pier and shaking the boards beneath her feet, but Elara had hoped for this. The Order were known for their control, and this was clearly not something the novice had yet mastered. A lack of control meant she could use her agility against him, and as he swung at her with his huge fist, she ducked to the side, feeling the air woosh past her ear. It was close, but fortunately for her, not close enough and taking her chance, she tried to dart through the gap, only to find herself yanked back as he grabbed at the hood of her tunic.

Tumbling into him, they went down in a jumble of limbs, rolling farther down the pier as it inclined into the waters. When a fist to the stomach sent the air screaming from her lungs, the novice managed to gain purchase, and pinned her down as she struggled beneath him. His face loomed over hers, grinning with triumph.

'What now, eh, bitch?' he said, breathing heavy as he leered at her. 'What shall I do with you? I could slice open your throat, but that would be a wasted effort, wouldn't it? The light dies far too quickly when the blade ends a life. No, no, I need more than that. I need to see it.'

'See what?' she said, as her breath wheezed.

'I need to see that moment when you realise you never had a chance... and then, when I am finally done with your body, I will throw you into the water with the rest of the rot.'

A backhand to the jaw sent stars crashing across her vision. Elara let her body go limp, tasting blood in her mouth and she tried to focus, as he busied himself with his leather britches. They were close to the edge, where the black, rotting boards of the pier sunk into the water.

But was it close enough?

The stench of his sweat and the weight of his body was unbearable, as was the pain that now raged in her skull, but Elara concentrated on her breathing – as her foremothers had taught her - and, letting her hand drop open, she reached out.

At first, there was nothing. Just stillness and the cruelness of his laughter in her ears.

Then, came a tentative ripple at the water's edge.

Lesser beings wouldn't even see it. It was a ripple, after all, nothing more. A simple sway of the water, no doubt created by the vibrations of the pier as it juddered under their weight.

But Elara saw it. Felt it. That undeniable pull.

She reached again, beckoning with her fingers, letting them curl – pull – curl.

A tiny tributary of water broke from the edge, and she watched through blurry eyes, barely daring to hope, as it slowly travelled up the inclining pier, soon joined by more tributaries that stretched out from the water's edge.

The novice, far too busy – and too excited – to notice, carried on, thrusting his face into Elara's neck, his hungry mouth finding her skin, his tongue slick and gross on her flesh. He was so preoccupied with what he was about to do, that when the first finger of water latched onto his boot, he didn't even feel it. Elara beckoned again, watching as the waters crept up his leg, little by little, but aided in strength by more water that flowed freely now up the pier.

When the first pull came – that first moment, the novice realised something wasn't quite right – Elara turned her head to face him.

He'd been right, after all. Wanting to see it. Elara doubted there was much she and the novice would have in common, but on this she could agree.

She needed to see the moment he realised he never had a chance.

The water pulled on him, and he looked down to see the water now engulfing his leg below the knee. Elara smiled as his eyes widened, his jaw slackening in horror.

'What now, eh, droukza?' she whispered. 'What shall I do with you?'

His head snapped back to face her, and she saw it.

The confusion. The realisation. And then, finally, the fear.

Because they did fear her kind. How could they not? Oh, they might have pretended it was only hatred – pure, undisguised hatred – but she knew it for what it was. They had all been taught to fear her. Not just the Order and the Druvari sect. Not just those who sat comfortably in the upper echelons of the citadel, but those they ruled over too. The slums were rife with stories about her kind. As parents tucked their children in at night, they whispered stories of Elara's foremothers.

Warned them about those women who had the power of the waters at their very fingertips.

The Naiad are monsters, they all said. Monsters!

'Naiad! Witch!' the novice said, as Elara curled her fingers into her palm and the water pulled him hard enough that he fell onto his back.

Elara dragged her legs out from underneath him, but stayed kneeling on the pier, watching as the water began pulling him closer and closer to the edge. The novice struggled, desperately trying to clutch onto the boards, his fingernails scratching at the rotten wood, but by now the water had reached his other leg. When he was close enough and the water began pulling him in, submerging both his feet, he began to scream.

Elara glanced back at the deserted street.

It looked deserted and she could see no one peeking from any window or doorway, but that didn't mean there was no one there and she couldn't risk anyone hearing the screams of the highguard. The people despised the Order, but they would despise Elara more if they knew the truth.

Sighing, she followed the novice down into the water, feeling the rush of it against her body as she straddled him, clapping her palm over his mouth. He beat at her in his blind panic, but she asked the water to hold his arms and it did. Blessed waters. She sent it a silent prayer of thanks, as she looked down at the struggling novice. His eyes bulged now, fear pulsing out of him in waves.

'I lied to you and for that I am sorry,' she said. 'I said I worshipped nothing and no one, and that was falsehood. I do not like to lie, but your king has forced my hand in the matter. I worship my foremothers, those who went before me and died at Ban-Keren's hand. I worship the power they gifted me, for it is not the evil that people believe it to be. And most of all, Luca Zar-Kuron, I worship the water.'

The waters surged now, growing in strength, swelling up the sunken pier and rising over the novice's body until even Elara was half-submerged up to her waist. Beneath her, Luca Zar-Kuron continued his struggle and Elara begrudgingly had to acknowledge and admire his strength, even if she thought him stupid and deserving of his fate. His head broke free of the surface and Elara withdrew her hand from his mouth.

'Naiad!' he spluttered again, and Elara could see the waters had already claimed him. Black spores had already started to spread over his skin. Blessed waters of the Setalah. Blessed waters of the foremothers. 'Witch! Sorceress! You will burn... you will bleed and then you will burn.' The hatred poured out of him.

Elara leant down until her face floated just above his.

'Do you know, you say the loveliest things, Luca Zar-Kuron.' The veins beneath his skin were black now, and she knew the poisoned water must be tearing his body apart. It would be a mercy to let him go. Elara knew of mercy, even if the Highguards of the Order did not. 'Now... now, I will let the waters take what is left of you.'

The water swelled again, submerging the novice completely and reaching up to Elara's neck, but she was not afraid. It would do her no harm. She was at one with the water, and always had been.

When his waning struggles finally ceased, Elara sunk below the surface, feeling the blessed waters embrace her. She longed to swim then, to let her body relax into the Setalah's hold, and just swim. Go as deep and as far as she could. The lure of it was a comfort to her, but sadly, the only distance she needed right now was from the dead body of Luca Zar-Kuron, before the people returned from their worship at the citadel. No one could find her here.

Under the water, the poisoned body of the novice stared with dead blackened eyes, but Elara ignored it, instead, reaching into his pocket for the pendant he had stolen from her in the temple. Encasing it in her palm, she swam away, easily gliding through the waters, following the shoreline until she reached the small inlet, just past the temple, where the whole sorry saga of today's adventure had begun.

The inlet cut into the jagged black rock, allowing her enough shelter from the prying eyes of the citadel and from all those who would see her bleed out to feed Ban-Keren's sick lust for a life he did not deserve, and to rid them all of their nightmares.

Pulling herself up onto a ledge, Elara allowed herself to relax – finally.

Opening her palm, she held the pendant in her hand, the chain dangling between her fingers.

'If only you'd realised sooner what you held in your hand, Luca Zar-Kuron,' she whispered. 'What are they teaching you novices at the citadel these days?'

The pendant was tarnished, too long hidden away in the damp under the altar, but to Elara, the small symbol on the surface was unmistakable. No, it was like a scimitar to the heart. As she brushed her fingers over it, she felt the blade slice deep. She thought of her mother then. Of the way she would make the water ripple in the bathtub, mini tidal waves that rushed over Elara's toes that made her giggle. She smelt the faint tang of seawater in her hair and on her skin. She heard her voice, the gentle song of her lullabies. Prayers to their foremothers, whispered in secret. She thought of her mother's stricken face as she was dragged away by Ban-Keren's Highguards. Of how, even at the end, she sought to protect her only daughter from the same fate.

'Blessed waters. Blessed foremothers.' Elara sent the prayer out, bringing the pendant to her mouth and pressing her lips against the symbol of the Naiad, the water witches who had cursed these waters and brought darkness to the lands of King Aldolus Ban-Keren.

A faint breeze tickled at her neck, and she touched her fingers to that point behind her ears, feeling exposed. Damn. The sealant skin was gone – the fake layer she sealed across her flesh to conceal the respiratory organs of the Naiad that allowed them to breathe underwater. She kept her hair long just in case, but you could never be too careful in Grimefall. There was always someone putting their hands where they weren't welcome. It was a dog-eat-dog world in the slums of the citadel, and everyone was always hungry for the next bite in order to stay alive.

Elara climbed to her feet, pulling her sodden hood up over her head. It would have to do. Kissing the pendant one last time, she pocketed it inside her tunic and took one more look at the waters of the Setalah.

'Soon,' she said, already longing for the waters embrace again.

Soon. But not now.

Now, there was much work to be done.