Stalking the Darakaians, the figure crept along the gutter, keeping the duo in range. Nearing an intersection in the backstreet, he swung down onto a crooked veranda, hugging the exterior of the building while they rounded the corner.

“By the Fates, you southern street sweeper!” Glass clunked against the cobblestone as the figure arced over the railing to see a pair of fine-dressed Unitarians, lost in their cups, cutting off the Darakaians’ advance. “That bottle cost more crupas than the militia makes in a month!”

“Take your drunken coin back to your country estates, gentleman,” the alpha warned, sidestepping in front of his beta, partially shielding the cross-caste. “Marketown has catered to enough yancies tonight.”

“Who the Depths do you think you are?” the first nobleman sputtered, spitting on the alpha’s shoe. “You can’t talk to the nobility like that—”

“Eh, well, what do you got there?” his companion slurred, rapping his ornate cane. “I spy a diamond in the drainpipe! Yannis, you could fetch…” the stumpy nobleman burped, “…fetch a few aurus for that thing.”

“The cub’s not for sale.” The alpha balled his fists, shifting to further block the boy from their sight.

“Now, now, not so hasty, friend…” Yannis splayed out his palms. “Last y’siti cross-caste I sold went out of Port Niall for three aurus and then some. Splitting the gains, you could be a mighty rich southerner by the morning.”

The figure squinted, only then recognizing the distinct bulge in the nobleman’s hooked nose. It wasn’t long ago that Alora had the figure chasing a wealthy Unitarian slaver out of Port Niall. Ire shot through him, scathing his parched throat. The number of nobles managing their own slave exchange was limited, specifically out of that port, and the figure had lost faith in coincidence. His eyes fixated on Yannis, studying him. The slaver trader, sweaty and red in the face from his earlier entertainment, licked his hand and smoothed the thin hair he had left backwards, then offered the same hand to the alpha.

“Ano zà,” the alpha snarled. “I said, he’s not for sale!”

“Uh, Yannis…” The partnering nobleman peeked around to the Darakaian beta. “Forget the deal. I think it might be dead, anyhow.”

The slaver gripped his belt heartily and grinned, revealing a golden tooth. Rocking back on his heels, he sniggered, “Well, there’s another market entirely after they’ve expired, it’ll triple—”

The alpha grabbed Yannis’s lapel and punched him square in the jaw. Whirling around, he snatched the partner’s cane and, with one end, smashed the slaver in the gut, pitching him across the street. The huge beta lurched back when the alpha spun again, swinging the cane, and caught the other man’s fine boots as he tried to run, hooking him to the ground. The Darakaian’s braids whipped through the air as he threw the cane aside and seized the silk of the man’s collar, then proceeded to beat him senseless.

“Ahoté, doru.” The beta marched forward, adjusting the corpse in his care. “Doru, stop. Zaeth, he’s out cold.”

Shoulders sagging, the alpha backed away from the groaning slaver. “Uni. We need to go,” he agreed, panting slightly. “Don’t need this to be tomorrow’s gossip, either.”

A few yards off, Yannis spat blood and lurched to his feet, putting some distance between himself and the retreating Darakaians. Without regard to his unconscious partner, the slaver departed the alley before he awoke, hobbling toward the safety and raucous noise of merchant row.

The body now lost to the Darakaians, the figure leapt to the next balcony, in pursuit of this older target. Dangling off a corroded pipeline, the figure dropped another story lower. Anticipation charged through his aching limbs, greasing his joints into action.

The figure sprung from the ledge as Yannis passed under the unstable balcony. The stench of liquor wafted off the plush suit when he landed on the other man’s back. Grappling over the stonework, they rammed into a cart of stale grain. The figure drove Yannis’s face into the feed, earning a warbled groan from the slaver. Straddling his abdomen, he wrapped both gloves around the base of Yannis’s fat neck. Calculations consumed his mind, as he counted the ships of people one man could have arranged since the figure had failed to put an end to the slaver’s enterprise. An inhuman strength jolted through his fingertips as they twisted ruthlessly, suffocating his prey.

A hawk’s screech shot through the darkness. She screamed again, her heralding cry shrill and commanding, disrupting the figure’s senses. Gradually, the ringing faded from his ears, and he let go. Quietening his lungs, he listened closely. The slaver still wheezed against the grain, his breathing shallow and weak.

Slinking off the cart, the figure left him there, falling into the shadows and looking to the skies. The hawk’s wings flapped ferociously as she crossed the moon, steering him northward toward the light. Toward the only home he’d ever truly known in Bastiion.

Alora.

SEVEN

Luscia

   Luscia simmered as she and the Najjan were led along a wide corridor to her apartments. Being forced to surrender her father’s gift—her beautiful kuerre—was a grievous insult, but only in private confinement would she exhale the rage that could never fill these halls. Any heated, emotional response might invoke something worse than political friction, and Boreal had significantly more to lose than their precious metal. Still, while she’d been warned to expect disdain from other members of the Ethnicam, such blatant hostility was entirely unanticipated.

How long has Alora endured this? Luscia wondered. And why would she downplay these shocking conditions to the elders?

Hidden behind Declan’s wide breadth, Luscia tinkered anxiously with the thin bands of polished bone gracing her knuckles. Pride in her younger brother, Phalen, blossomed at their touch. He’d presented the radials to her as a farewell gift before she left Roüwen. Phalen had inherited his imagination from their late mother, who’d made every mundane thing somehow enchanting and beautiful when they were young. His recent apprenticeship under the Najjani luxsmiths had given Phalen’s overactive mind an opportunity for innovative freedom, and his affinity for the dangerously practical was borderline genius. It was almost as if her brother had expected the confiscation of their weapons and crafted the perfect device to have on hand at all times, despite Bastiion’s pursuit to seize such things.

To anyone else, the tiny weapons would appear as nothing more than a pair of strange, three-fingered rings. But when engaged by an unseen catch near each thumb, a series of hidden luxiron blades opened in a fan-like design, providing the wearer with an advantage in hand-to-hand combat. They were fully collapsible when not in use, so while an onlooker might remark on Luscia’s odd choice of jewelry, they would never suspect to find the deadly arcs embedded within.