A demon can be found in a city of sin, plague riding on his coattails. A saint can be found in the firelight, a smile upon her lips. Their love can be found in the golden kingdom they've made.

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Trigger Warnings: Arson, Blood, Canons, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Plague, Murder

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Words: 832

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THE DEMON

All stories about Dirtyhands started with the same thing: The Queens Lady Plague.

It ripped through the streets of Ketterdam, and it's said the plague is what made him a demon. It gave him claws and a voice of steel. Whoever Kaz Brekker had been, the bright cheery boy no one wished they knew, did not survive, and a demon took over the corpse of him. The boy's name? Lost to time.

Kaz Brekker crawled his way off the Reapers Barge, people whispered over glasses. His hands were clawed and he had horns of fire on his head. The horns sputtered out but the claws, they stayed. That's why he wears his gloves, to hide his claws, dripping with the blood of those he's killed.

From close to his home to the northernmost point of the Wandering Isle, his name was known. Was whispered in reverence, was discussed over flaskes of brandy in dingy pubs. Criminals aspired to be him, the stadwatch slammed their hands on the table when he slipped their grasp for the hundredth time.

Kaz Brekker knew everything said about him. He watched the way people moved out of his way with a smile and frowned when there was yet another feeble attempt on him. He revelled in the chaos the click of his cane brought or the way men's eyes would widen when his silhouette appeared in their room.

He remembered the time he ran into a mercher, and how they had looked at him. Their eyes, wide as a newborn doe's, had searched his head for the horns of flames and looked for the hint of claws beneath his gloves of stained leather.

He had tipped his hat to them, smiling in a way that made them press against the wall and its horrendous wallpaper. Then he's simply turned and left out the back door, humming a tune from a time he could barely remember.

Kaz Brekker walked home through his kingdom, death and destruction, the after-effects of a plague, trailing behind him. As he walked, everything bad in his wake, he thought of a saint.

THE SAINT

The waves crashed against the hull of the ghost ship of a living saint.

Her braid flew in the wind as she pulled next to the ship and her knives glimmered in the moonlight as they slid across the first man's throat. He fell to the deck, the crash barely heard over the wind and waves.

Her crew moved quietly, but she was silent. The only sign of her for her victims was the brief hint of pain from her blade as it cut across their body, and then they were dead. Once they were dead, and the blood was staining her trousers, she would go below deck.

There, she used what the hand of a demon had taught her to unlock the padlocks. People cried and whispered her name. Sankta, they prayed. Sankta. Sankta. Sankta.

Sankta Inej.

She would smile at them, brush the hair away from faces. She had given up on insisting she was no Saint and embraced the legend. She kissed foreheads and those who couldn't walk were hoisted up and brought to the safety of the ghost ship.

Those who could walk helped. Then once they were all safe, the crew would gather all items of value; to be split amongst the crew as their payment. She would always be the last to leave. Then once she boarded her ship, The Wraith, she would order cannon fire.

And in the flames of slave ships, Sankta Inej, patron saint of the taken and the vengeful, can be found smiling.

THEIR LOVE

Saints shouldn't fall in love with demons, he whispers to her.

I am no saint. And you are no demon, she replies.

They stand together, not touching, but together. Her eyes glimmer with mirth, his bare hands are on the desk. Her hands twitch to touch them. They don't.

I hear whispers though, his smile is coy, of a living saint who roams the high seas. Who stands in the glow of the flame that ends her enemies. Whose blades glow like shards of the moon.

And I hear rumours too. She meets his eyes.

Really? He tilts his head. Of what?

Of a demon with hidden horns of fire. Of gloves made of dead animals hide, that hide claws. But that's not true. I know why he wears them, and I wish that I could help. Her hand hovers above his cheek. He smiles at her, and she wishes she could bottle it up. May I?

He takes his time. Their eyes don't part. Then he nods. Her touch sends shivers up his spine, yet he finds the strength to cover his hand with hers. Their heavy breathing fills the empty room.

If I'm not a demon, and your not a Saint, what are we then? Two kids with zero luck?

Kings and Queens. She replies.

Were Kings and Queens, Kaz.

The next two chapters are graphic at points. Final Warning. Please Enjoy.