858 A.G.M.

11 years later

Perched on a rooftop, Minerva Pyroline crouched in the shadow of a chimney.

Smoke puffed from it, golden sparks mixed with ash rising as an offering to the sky. She pulled the black cloth around her neck up to cover her mouth and nose, listening to shouts echo from faraway streets. Once in awhile, a flame spurted in the distance, a shining beacon in the night.

A beacon of destruction.

She shifted her feet, wincing at how they scraped on the slate tiles. Then she stilled, body tensing. On the opposite side of the street, two rough men emerged from a by-way with a young woman in tow, jeering at her desperate struggling and impotent threats.

"Let me go!" the girl screamed, hands clawing at the man's arm.

He backhanded her across the face.

Minerva closed her eyes. Burn me for a bloody fool. Any rational creature would have walked off without a backward glance. Yet here she remained, playing the gallant rescuer again like some naïve child who believes the heroes always win.

If she were completely honest, she'd admit that she'd seen the two men earlier, recognized them as trouble and tracked their footsteps, knowing they'd come this way. Which is why she'd only admit to being partially honest. She'd just happened to be here, in the perfect position to help.

Minerva pulled her face back into the obscurity of her cloak's deep hood, aware that her glowing, golden eyes could give her position away. One thug, a thin, shifty looking fellow, scanned the streets, a dagger held ready in his hand. Sharp yellow eyes passed once over the rooftops before returning to scrutinize the dark alleys. Despite their disheveled appearance, the two reprobates commanded authority of the highway, fellow night walkers hastily giving way. In direct contrast to their shabby attire, the glistening kirukkan phoenix dangled from chains on their foreheads.

Minerva considered very few things to be absolute fact. One of those rare truths happened to be that the emblem of the phoenix—which to most symbolized power—was a mark on the bearer.

A mark that meant you deserved to die.

The captive girl beat on the shoulders of the man who had slung her across his back like a sack of grain, screeching dirty epithets that made Minerva cringe. Again she second-guessed her decision, the one man's wariness and the young hussy's stream of profanity putting her ill at ease. But if she turned her back now, she would feel—illogical though the feeling might be—that the woman's blood was on her hands.

Not to mention two more Phoenix Kin would still be blood and bone instead of ash. Minerva's lips twisted in a wry smile. Let them see whether their goddess would resurrect them.

Keeping an eye on the men down below, Minerva removed a corked vial from her satchel and shook it up to mix the contents. If she were to forget, the added ingredients that had settled to the bottom in a thin layer wouldn't do their work in negating the snake venom. The intended antidote could poison and kill her instead.

She popped the lid and poured a single drop onto her palm before licking it up and tucking the glass vial away.

Carefully laying her satchel in the crevice between the brick chimney and the sloping roof, she eased down the tiles and dropped without a sound to the street below. Three rickety buildings away, her quarry remained oblivious to her presence.

Breath misting, she pressed against the wooden slats of the wall, shivering in the chilly, winter air. A potent-smelling pile of refuse a few inches from her face sent her stomach roiling in protest. She shook her head in an effort to clear her mind. Focus.

They'd stopped walking. The nerve of the Phoenix Kin, thinking they owned the city. As if their guild markings rendered them invincible. Their members never gave a thought to the more honorable Pyronian guilds who'd sworn the blood oath against them.

Minerva fingered the hilts in her boots. Not yet though. The two men carried on what seemed to be a previous conversation which caught her attention.

"C'mon, you should enter!" the burlier Phoenix Kin said, nudging his cohort with his free hand. The girl had fallen silent except for the occasional whimper.

The shorter man brushed off the gesture. "I'm Surin, you big oaf. You really think I'd stand a chance against those hot-shot Muran nobles with their silver spoon training at the Academy? Please," he scoffed, tone and words rough in accordance with his use of the peasant dialect.

Minerva's eyes narrowed. Golden eyes signified wielding ability. If this man told the truth, he'd be the second highest rank of wielder. In her current state, a fire fight with another wielder wouldn't end well. All the more reason to finish this quickly.

"You talk as if you'd already won the Commoner's tournament," the first man laughed. At least he couldn't call the flame, his brown eyes betrayed the fact. "Get that far and you might as well go for the ultimate prize."

"The Champion's crown?" The Phoenix wielder raised an eyebrow. "Or are you referring to the hand of our most beloved Emperor's daughter?" Sarcasm dripped from every word.

"Who cares about the girl's hand? She's got Korlana's blood!" Voice lowering, the rotten thug leaned closer and added, "The man who wins her heart stone would probably have enough power from it to be Muran, even if he'd started as the weakest Kasin."

"Kasin don't win battles, idiot," the man growled. "And exchanging kirukkan stones is an outdated practice. Though I admit ... having a Pyroline woman—"

Minerva had heard enough. As if she would stand for being married off for her wielding power.

In one smooth motion, Minerva drew a dagger from inside each of her leather boots, rose to her feet, and sent the weapons slicing through the air.  The first lodged itself in the neck of the Surin wielder. The second struck the head of the other with a dull thunk. They crumpled to the ground like rag dolls, the girl pinned beneath her captor's bulk.

While the wench freed herself, Minerva scoured her surroundings and detected no movement but the girl's struggling. Yet something unnerved her. A prickling sensation traveled up and down her neck, fine hairs standing on end. She considered slipping away but decided if a threat loomed over her, it was better to confront it here than have it dog her steps home. Besides, she liked those daggers.

Drawing her sword from her side, she cautiously advanced toward the fallen bodies. A thrust through each of the men's backs settled her mind on that point. Firmly planting a foot on the first victim, she pulled out her dagger and wiped it clean on his clothing. You were right. You wouldn't have stood a chance against an Academy-trained. Not to mention a Pyroline. Minerva's lip curled in disgust.

She straightened and observed as the woman clumsily extracted the other knife. Without cleaning it, she stood and offered the dirty thing to Minerva.

Their eyes met for an instant and Minerva's blood turned to ice.

This would not end well.

The world blurred as a sharp jab to her awareness alerted her of a new threat. Minerva stepped aside and brought her sword up just in time to block the strike from behind. Dagger still in her left hand, Minerva aimed for the man's neck. He brought his arm up and her dagger hit metal beneath the sleeve. Eyes widening, Minerva listened to her blade crack at the impact.

The assassin knocked her broken dagger away. It clattered to the ground. He sliced Minerva's arm with the knife in his offhand. Only a shallow cut, but his blade came away dripping with a black liquid mixed with the crimson color of her blood.

Minerva put a hand to her head and relaxed her sword arm. The assassin stepped away and turned to mouth some words to the woman she'd tried to save.

He put too much confidence in poison.

Adjusting her grip so both hands were on her sword, Minerva shifted forward and rammed her weapon under the man's arm and up through his heart. She pulled it out as the woman screamed.

When he fell to the ground, Minerva stepped on his wrist to free it of the knife coated in poison. With her sword held at his throat, she bent to pick it up. The damsel in distress had retrieved a sword from one of the other dead men. Minerva watched the light fade from the assassin's eyes before turning to her.

"Kozakura," the woman began before she paused to lick her lips, "you have to believe me, I wasn't involved with these men trying to kill you." Her voice shook almost as much as her hands. The very sword she held at the ready betrayed her.

Minerva sighed. She took a step forward.

"Do you deserve mercy?" Minerva whispered.

"I—" The former apprentice burst into tears. "I haven't done much bad. I haven't killed anyone." At Minerva's answering silence, the girl screamed, her voice ugly and raw, "It was them! They made me be a part of this! I didn't want to!"

Minerva touched the empty place within her mind, the blessing and curse that kept her alive in spite of all the men and women who tried to kill her. She immediately felt tired, like she were being stretched thin. But the world blurred once again, as if she could bend reality to her will.

She darted forward, anticipating the woman's clumsy attempt to defend herself. Her enemy's sword passed a hair's breadth from Minerva's torso. Using the assassin's knife to nick the girl's hand, Minerva blew right past her, stopping to stand at the other end of the street from where this insane killing spree had begun.

Don't turn around. Don't watch her die. In the silence, Minerva looked back over her shoulder.

The girl swayed on her feet, hand held to her head. Then, without warning, a gargling sound emerged from her throat. Minerva closed her eyes to stop herself from watching the blood pour out, but she heard it. Heard the girl choke on it.

Flashes of memory erupted.

Her sword sliced open the assassin's gut. The woman's innards spilled out over her hands. Minerva whirled around and severed another enemy's arm. All the while, she screamed. Screamed because they'd forced her to use her gift to kill. Screamed because of the one she hoped she wasn't too late to save.

"Matsudo!" she cried out amidst the bloodshed.

With a sharp gasp, she crashed back into reality. She was alone on an empty street in the dead of night. Taking a deep breath, she glanced over to where the woman stared up at the sky with eyes glazed over in death. Minerva walked over to her.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save you," she whispered. Getting down on one knee, she tugged off the girl's blood-spattered cloak. If it wasn't on her hand—

There. Around her neck.

A sharp yank snapped the chain. She held it up. The object hanging from the necklace caught the muted light of the half moon. Minerva snarled at the sight of the smoldering phoenix feather engraved on a finely wrought ring of gold. The lying traitor. She was one of them.

It had been a trap.

After making sure she was alone and unobserved, Minerva searched all the bodies. The two fake kidnappers and the supposed damsel in distress yielded nothing enlightening. Upon examining the assassin, she was disturbed to find no phoenix token. Either he had broken society rules to remain unidentified or he wasn't one of them. She found nothing on his person but the metal cuff on his arm and a scrap of soiled paper.

Written on the top in bold letters were the words.

Wanted: The Pale Viper

For the deaths of Phoenix Kin

Reward: Ten Gold Talents

No need to lie in wait for Phoenixes any longer, Minerva thought with a pang of worry.

They'd be coming for her now.