Siobhan spun her staff, blocking the sharp edge of the blade. On the outside, her staff looked like solid wood, nothing abnormal. Inside, a thick metal lined the wood, making it near impossible to break. She circled the staff around his blade, hoping to knock it out of his hand. This man, compared to his counterparts, knew what he was doing. She back flipped away when he freed his sword and swung at her.

“Foolish,” he snarled. “You should’ve minded your own business, lad.”

He thinks I’m a boy. Perfect, she thought, adjusting her hood to keep it covering as much of her face as possible. With the way her loose cowl covered the cleavage created by the clincher, it was easy to mistake her for a man. There were times when she welcomed that advantage.

Siobhan crouched and smiled. Her eyes darted to the thief still pressed against the dead end. With the speed of his eyes moving across the alley, she knew he was gauging his escape. An escape she’d never allow. He had something that belonged to her, and she was going to take it after he caused this much trouble for her. She righted herself and spun the staff in one hand. One finger twitched next to the button that would release her hidden blades on either end. Her lips twitched when the moronic thief leaned down and grabbed a brick by his feet.

About time you showed some balls, she thought. He heaved the brick at the man’s head, who ducked as if he knew it was coming and spun around. It was the distraction Siobhan needed. Spinning the staff, she lifted herself up with one end and slammed both feet into the man’s back. He stumbled forward. Her wrist twisted the staff back toward him, cracking him on the back of the head. It took three whacks before the man finally went down.

Siobhan twisted her staff, breaking it apart, and pressed the button to release the blade from one section. It folded out and snapped into place. The thief’s blue eyes widened when she lunged toward him, forcing him back against the brick wall, and held the blade to his throat.

“I just saved your life!” he shouted.

“No.” She grinned and pressed the blade closer, holding back enough to refrain from drawing blood. The stench wafting from his clothes made her eyes burn. “You distracted him, but I was perfectly fine without you. You’re the one who was going to die if I hadn’t stepped in.”

Siobhan carefully slid the unused half of her staff back into a loop on her belt. With her free hand, she reached around the fool and patted his backside and both arms.

“I have no weapons,” he said.

She kicked at his worn boots, feeling for signs of hidden daggers. He truly was a fool, an unarmed fool at that. Both his arms rose, touching the wall, when she smiled. While he was far from wise, he knew she could take his life with the flick of a wrist. The metal of her blade reflected the darkening sky, his breath left steam against the smooth polish.

“Now,” she said, “where’s the purse you stole from me?”

He grinned, his teeth stained yellow but otherwise straighter than any vagrant she’d ever met. “What purse?”

Greasy strands of light brown hair clung to the sweat on his brow. Dirt streaked his round cheeks and whisker speckled chin. That close to him, the stench was near unbearable. It was a mixture of urine, sweat, and Goddess knew only what. Smooth skin on his hands, the lack of scars on his face, and the missing wrinkles of sun kissed skin told her this was no vagrant. Though he wasn’t pale, he didn’t have the same darkness Siobhan did from days spent in the sun. This thief once came from privilege; she held no doubt of that.

“You get one chance, boy,” she snarled. Her amusement was waning with the heavy stench burning her nose. She wanted her purse and to get away from the moron before the crimson-cloaks woke up. “Give me my purse back, or you start breathing through your throat.”

This time when she pressed the dagger closer, she made sure to draw a drop of blood. If he wanted a closer shave, she’d give it to him. He sighed and reached for the bottom of his baggy shirt.

“Slowly,” she snapped when his hand started to lift.

The fool hesitated before he tugged on the shirt and exposed his stomach. Tucked into the rim of his stained pants were five pouches. Siobhan recognized the frayed edges of her worn leather purse. With her free hand, the dagger still pressed to his throat, she slipped her purse free. It took several months for her to master the art of tying her purse without looking at it. At the time, it seemed silly for Master to insist she learn. Right then, she was grateful. She tied it back to her belt and hid it under the loose edge of her shirt.

Siobhan smiled. “And now the other purses.”

“Oh come on!”

She jerked her blade and the fool hissed, lifting the shirt again. Three of the pouches joined her purse tied to her belt. When she grabbed the final pouch, a fine cloth decorated with red and black swirls and the embroidery of an eagle in flight, she stepped away. Moron wiped away the speckling blood and sighed. His sagging eyes watched her as she tossed the pouch in the air, the coins inside jingled when it landed in her palm.

“How long have you been a thief?” she asked.

“Long enough.”

She smirked. Spoken like a true novice who’d picked up thieving out of necessity more than desire. If she had to guess, she’d think he hadn’t been on the streets more than a week. Not enough time to harden himself. His chest heaved with his gasps for breath, hands shuddered beside him, and he was a step away from pissing himself. If he didn’t wise up, he’d be dead by months end.

“Do you know who you stole from?” She nodded toward the slumbering men. He didn’t answer. “They’re Vanguard Generals.”

Buffoon snorted. “They’re not mages!”

“By the Goddess are you that stupid?” Siobhan kicked one of the crimson-cloaks legs. “No, they aren’t mages, but they’re still Vanguard. There are two kinds of Vanguard, Moron. These men are worse than Vanguard mages—those are soulless minions bounded to their bracelets. These men are very much human and very much in charge of their emotions. No one controls them. When they kill, they do it because they want to. They enjoy it. Not because some magic pulsing through them is compelling them to. Vanguard Generals control the Vanguard and they are the last person you steal from.”

How did he not recognize the crimson silk cloaks, the black polished boots, and the wing-spread eagle insignia on the hilt of their swords? Even before she came to the lowlands, Siobhan knew the stories of the Vanguard Generals. Ruthless truly didn’t begin to cover them. Stories traveled long and far of the men and women they tortured for sport. Mages were run down like dogs and forced to the Spires where they’d be forever bound to the Vanguard Generals and the king who ruled them. Those who managed to put up a fight often paid with their life.

If Siobhan was a wiser person, she would’ve left the fool to his own fate instead of following her need for fun . . . and getting her coin back. She should’ve allowed the crimson-cloaks to take him to their dungeons deep within the Spires and use him as a test subject for the mages. Perhaps she deserved her fate for not doing the simple thing for once in her life. Already this buffoon was proving far more trouble than his insignificant life was worth.

Her hood hadn’t fallen off, she didn’t think those men could identify her when they woke, but to be safe this would be her last night in Scanla. The second the sun peaked enough light into the valley, she’d set off to the east and travel as far as she could to get away from them.

“You get two choices, boy.” She leaned down and set the purse on top of the back of the bleeding, still passed out, crimson-cloak brute. “Leave this money and run, hoping they didn’t see your face. Or take it and prove yourself a moron.”

With the push of the button, the blade folded back into the staff half. Her eyes stayed on the moron as she backed slow toward the market. While he had no weapons, there were plenty of rocks, bricks, and other loose material by his feet. It would be asking too much to hope her reflexes could protect her every time. She had to be vigilant with any potential threat. The final sword had landed close enough to the thief it would take only one distraction for him to jam the blade into her gut.

No matter what she thought of the Vanguard Generals, she didn’t intend to die that day. Least of all at the hands of the pathetic thief. He stepped forward, glancing down to the prone body of the crimson-cloak. His hand twitched as if he were debating taking the money. Siobhan wasn’t going to stick around and find out. Her purse was back, and then some, her fun complete, he was on his own.

When she reached the wide gap of the alley opening, she turned and sprinted into the thinning crowd of the market.