The Fury shot from the thicket. Coiled heels skidded into pavement. Bathed in black from head to toe, a sparse kit wove into her suit so not a single part hung free. A handgun’s grip poked out from the hip. A hammer known as a levelin was ready to pull from the other. Three knives of varying sizes ran flush in sheaths along the abdomen.

A thought pushed through Lenith’s panic. Every part of the Fury served as a weapon, a defense, a way to harm. Reflections twisted along the jagged, black gemstones that covered her helmet.

The Fury didn’t make a sound—not a breath—as if she had no lungs to breathe through. The ventilation of her shining helmet hid well. A nimble suit bolstered her confident gait and flattened her chest to asexuality, if she had breasts in the first place.

A shimmer of silver caught Lenith’s attention. A word—a name—reflected over the sightless helmet; glimmered in the stones when the helmet turned just right.

She—this Fury—this Fopaz—launched and swung down from high. She let out a pert, pleased grunt at the peak and rammed a studded fist down into Herielt’s sternum.

Bone cracked. Herielt’s body went rigid, falling. Aching knees caught him.

Fopaz landed. The levelin whipped free in her iron grip. The spiral handle ran the length of a forearm and ended at a steel mallet. A small, pinprick blade punctuated either end.

Lenith screeched and swung her hands up. She put her last, fried effort into stopping the bloodshed. Out of misguided desperation, she reached for the levelin.

Instead, she grabbed Fopaz’s wrist.

Fopaz pivoted. A moment’s hesitation by the Fury opened an opportunity to strike. Lenith failed to take it. The wrist ripped away.

The freed hand shunted Lenith aside. She toppled into the mud. Dead leaves scattered. She brought her satchel into a tight embrace.

The levelin plummeted.

Lenith buried her face in mud-caked hands. She longed for a way to silence the world—to silence the wet, sucking thwack of hammer cracking her father’s head. All the memories he had locked away, severed. Lost forever. Spurting out in red streams.

She made the horrible mistake of parting her fingers. The sight of her father tightening and then drooping in the throes of death stamped an irremovable mark on her mind. She listened as Fopaz yanked back the hammer. Its blade tore free with a red squelch close behind.

Iggy let forth his war cry. Lenith prepared to lose him as well, scraping her gray-mudded cheeks red.

He latched onto Fopaz’s shoulders. She shrugged him off.

He went for her helmet. Her studded fist rammed the dwindled man’s gut.

Stumbling back, Iggy geared up with another bellow. Fopaz dodged his every strike with nimble indifference, trained close to perfection. She was something a simple-minded man could only hope to defeat. Still, Iggy tried. He had no other option.

Lenith fought hard to retake mastery of her body. She lacked control of the most elementary of movements. Shock was ruthless. Mud from Fopaz’s footwork slapped her face. The granular muck snuck into her mouth.

Iggy’s next swing went wide. Fopaz rammed his head across a tree.

The tears that bloated Lenith’s vision couldn’t hide the red splitting Iggy’s forehead. He tripped, stumbled, and tackled a shrub in his confusion.

Lenith’s quivering lip let out babbles of regret. All fell silent. Iggy had failed, leaving her to face this trial alone.

Then, without provocation, the Fury spoke.

“Two handfuls of wasted potential. The prototypical Graymen daughter can’t throw a proper strike,” Fopaz said in the quietest of voices. She spoke fearless, direct to Lenith. She indulged her absolute control. “Lenith Thaymen can’t move.”

She ripped the satchel from Lenith’s hold. It and its contents cascaded across the clearing, into the bushes, lost forever.

Lenith contested with a tortured gasp.

Fopaz grabbed the nape of her neck. The grooves along her gloved palm dug in.

“No more running.”

Lenith’s face had turned a pale shade of green, splotched with gray muck. A vile pendulum banged inside her stomach with every forced step. Fopaz’s unflinching grip led her, and she followed without resistance. Dad’s dead, Lenith told herself. He’s dead and I’m done.