Fierce monsoon winds rushed through Merchant’s Quarter as Khazmine released her clenched fists to cinch her hood tighter around her head. The raucous laughter continued some distance behind her as the outcast strode briskly towards The Blanched Hart. By the sounds of it, at least three men with posh Holloworth accents were hassling the bread peddler’s niece for directions. Khazmine glanced backwards to confirm their numbers and continued walking away, confident that Harriet could take care of herself. As it was, Khazmine scowled at the prospect of being the next target for their disorderliness.

“Come on now, Miss—Missus—Miss Baker,” one dapper man in a plum-colored doublet slurred his speech as he grasped at Harriet’s skirt. “I say again, which way to the nearest tavern?”

Maybe if you used your, I dunno, EYES, you’d see The Blanched Hart right in front of you. Khazmine scoffed as she stopped at the crossroads to wait for a passing carriage. She stayed far enough away from the curb to avoid being splattered with mud as the luxurious, gilded four-in-hand carriage made its way north towards Holloworth’s gated borders. Khazmine never let her gaze drift that far north, as the disparity between the wealthy elite and The Dregs boiled her outcast blood at the sight of such needless extravagance.

She couldn’t recognize which noble house the carriage hailed from, but the gorgeous sapphire coach with its polished, golden accents was clearly slumming through Merchant’s Quarter before nightfall, much like these obnoxious drunks. Khazmine lingered at her intersection for a moment to catch another glimpse of the fancy idiots making fools of themselves on the strip. Unknown to Khazmine, several other sets of eyes had fixed themselves on this scene and watched critically from the shadows.

“I told you lot that it’s just down the way!” Harriet bellowed from the diminishing comfort of her stoop. Even at that distance, Khazmine could detect a note of fear in the staunch woman’s voice. “Now unless you’re meanin’ to buy bread, please, leave me be!”

Harriet scurried away from the drunken reprobates while trying desperately to stay out of groping distance. She had yet to collect the sandwich board sign or her small table of baked goods from out front for the night and wanted to avoid getting scolded by her auntie for taking so long. Unfortunately, two of the men surrounded her table and began taking bites out of the fresh brioche rolls on display. The third, more handsy noblemen managed to seize Harriet’s apron in his plump, smooth fingers and he tugged on it to bring the poor woman closer to him.

“Let me go!” Harriet tugged backwards on her ample skirts and backed up into the sandwich board, splaying it flat on the ground. The other two were laughing so loudly between bites of brioche that they couldn’t hear Tatty’s pleas, even if they’d cared to. “I said ‘no!’”

The forceful sound of skin slapping skin traveled down cobblestone street as Khazmine turned to look and possibly offer assistance. She’d half-expected Harriet to be groveling on the ground for aid but was shocked at the unfortunate turn of events. Instead of Harriet, the largest of the inebriated noblemen was splayed out in front of her on the cobblestones, much like the toppled sandwich board sign. He was still dazed and collecting his wits as the other two men were fondling loaves of bread and rolls from Harriet’s modest table, unaware of what had just happened.

Oh no, Khazmine tugged her hood tighter and found herself racing back to the bakery. It was one thing for a nobleman to strike a commoner, but the reverse was inexcusable in Old Sarzonn. Depending on who these bar flies were, poor Harriet could be lashed, beaten, or worse. Surely, the nobles would have gotten bored of the bread peddler’s niece eventually, but now that she’d done one of them harm…

Khazmine knew she was better served by minding her own business, but Harriet was the only kind human she’d run into in Merchant’s Quarter. She didn’t deserve whatever punishment these nobles would dish out for her insubordination. She had just enough time to groan before breaking out into a run towards the rowdy bunch.

The half-breed took a deep breath and plumbed the depths of her ether core to assess her options as she dashed towards the bakery. A gentle whoosh of warmth rushed through her heart, lungs, and limbs as Khazmine activated what little reserves she had left. A sizzling sensation ignited within before petering out and extinguishing as she ran.

D*mn. Not even enough for a disguise.

Alas, that was no great surprise to Khazmine, who knew she'd barely had enough food to keep herself alive, let alone extra energy to harness much ether. The process required focus, time, and energy to gather—all of which Khazmine had in short supply. The outcast gritted her teeth and strode towards the fallen nobleman with renewed purpose.

Fine. No disguise. Wits alone then.

“What in blazes?” the toppled noble moaned as mist collected on his stupefied face. Aside from his bulbous nose and ample backside, this man didn’t have much in the way of notable features worth mentioning. He did have a handsome leather purse tied to his belt though, which was perhaps the most enticing thing about him. “What happened?”

The stocky nobleman lurched forward into an undignified, yet upright position on the cold, damp cobblestones. His once finely tailored burgundy-wine outfit darkened in the increasing mist as he sat, befuddled. This drunkard rubbed at the stinging pain in his cheek just in time for Khazmine to scoop him up into her arms and brush off the dirt from his rear end with her tattered jacket sleeve.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Khazmine cooed at the unfortunate mess of a human being in her clutches, who stank of cheap spirits and bad choices. The pitch in her voice elevated to sound more like a starling than a crow in that moment, which immediately grabbed each drunkard’s attention. The two men gadding about Harriet’s table with swords tied to their sides turned to face this mysterious stranger who was propping up their companion. “You’ve had a terrible fall, haven’t you?”

“What? I say, wasn’t I just talking to—,” the burgundy bloke swiveled his head to look for Harriet, but the clever woman had snuck behind the bakery during the commotion. She watched his humiliation unfold from the safety of a hole in the wooden fence that walled off the courtyard. “Wasn’t there some red-headed wench—.”

“There, there. You mustn’t move your head around too much,” Khazmine fussed over him and attempted to guess where he hailed from. The nobleman’s brooches were tacky and overly large, but not readily identifiable. Not that it would do Khazmine much good if she could put a name to him, but it could add credence to her ploy of playing as “one of them.”

At the sounds of their lordship’s distress, the noblemen who appeared to be ineffectual house knights rushed forward and their eaten bread was soon forgotten.

“You there, woman. What are you doing to his lordship?” the scrawniest of the trio asked as Khazmine obscured her face behind the shelter of her forest-green hood. “Lord Farthing, are you quite all right?”

All smiles and pleasantries, Khazmine beckoned to the other noblemen to encourage these drinking buddies to aid in their companion’s rescue. “I saw the whole thing. It was the pavers, sirs. They’re still slicked wet from the rain. It’s terribly unsafe out in this ghastly weather. That said, wouldn’t you three like to warm up at the tavern?”

“A tavern? Why, yes! Lead on, miss!” Lord Farthing commanded with renewed enthusiasm from the arms of his compatriots, who were eager to relive their prior drunken adventures. They had believed her flimsy lie, almost certainly due to the advanced depths of their intoxication. If not for that, Khazmine would have had trouble ensuring Lord Farthing’s compliance.

“Not so fast, miss. Wait for us!” one of the knights called out through the mists. It was far too dark and gloomy to get a good look at this hooded stranger, but her voice had the elegant sweetness of a songbird, which was enough to entice the three men to follow her. Khazmine took great pains to stay ahead of the men as she guided them to doors of The Blanched Hart, until the scrawny knight in hand-stitched navy-blue finery darted around to tug at her hood. “Come now, miss. Let us have a proper look at you!”

In a heartbeat, Khazmine flinched as her head was exposed by the sudden tug at the threadbare hood. Lord Farthing and his knights had guessed that this interloper was an Outsider from her clothing, but that black hair was a dead giveaway. Instead of some exotic woman from parts unknown, this was an outcast, a half-breed mongrel, and a fake.

“What the—what trickery is this?”

Khazmine knew in her heart of hearts that trying to talk her way out of this situation was pointless. She’d been caught by these miserable drunkards and had little choice on what to do next. Whether it was true or not, Khazmine would be accused of misleading these “upstanding citizens” for some nefarious purpose or other, and likely thrown in the stocks for a week. No, it was simply unacceptable.

Instead, Khazmine inhaled sharply as she called on the last of her ether stores for a jolt of energy. This action sent a brief flicker of ether out in all directions, enough to draw the interest of the shadowy figures skulking in the alley across The Blanched Hart.

Time stood still for the outcast as her slit pupils dilated to round, open discs and the mist hung in the air motionlessly like a great curtain of water. Khazmine dropped low to the cobblestones and swept her leg to upend Lord Farthing’s teetering carcass into the plum-doublet drunkard behind him. Using what little inertia she had left, the outcast pushed off the pavers and sprung backwards to get out of striking distance. She’d seen the short swords strapped to the house knight’s belts and knew not to let them get too close.

Though out of range from sword strikes, Khazmine was completely blindsided by a sharp, stinging pain on her forehead. The half-breed stopped where she was, and her hands shot up to protect her throbbing head from whatever had hit her. A quick glance to the ground allowed Khazmine to spot a chunk of stone as hard as a hammer’s head scuttle about on the still-damp street below. She staggered to her feet and was now on an equal footing with the inebriates downwind.

For as badly as their heads hurt from drink, Khazmine’s head pulsed with pain from a stone thrown by the scrawny, navy-clad knight. She’d found out firsthand how, despite his feet lacking balance, the knight’s aim was true. Khazmine’s disorientation shaved precious seconds from her dwindling chance to get away and the larger knight seized the outcast’s arms to detain her.

“Well done, Sir Caitiff. Hold her steady now.” Lord Farthing called out to the sturdy knight before ruffling himself to see if everything was where it should be. “And Natton, check my purse. Is it still there?”

“Certainly, my lord,” Sir Natton tugged on his navy jacket and fondled the leather pouch to find it still full of gold stags. “It is still here.”

Of course it is, you lowlife lout, Khazmine grimaced. It wasn’t as if she wouldn’t have snatched his crummy purse, but that the outcast hadn’t had the opportunity to yet. She winced at the notion that ‘no good deeds go unpunished’ and sneered ruefully as her gaze drifted up at Sir Caitiff. The broad knight watched carefully as his master counted his coins some distance away.

He's distracted. Now’s your chance! Khazmine tucked her body low and shifted her right leg between Caitiff’s slackened stance. She whipped her hand out of his grasp with as much strength as she had and sent a bracing elbow strike upward into Sir Caitiff’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. As soon as her bony elbow met his breadbasket, Caitiff released Khazmine fully and the outcast darted away from him.

“That d*mned witch!” Caitiff mouthed unsuccessfully as Khazmine took off. His calls for help went unheard as he struggled for air. “Sire! She’s getting away!”

Silencing that wretched knight had bought Khazmine much needed seconds to flee, and she ducked into the alley across from The Blanched Hart. It was no sooner than she staggered into the unexpected darkness that Khazmine felt a firm hand latch onto her buttoned bolero jacket and tugged her weary body into the depths of the shadows.

All sounds from the outcast were silenced as feeble footsteps from the drunken men approached the alley.

“I don’t care if that monster didn’t take anything,” Lord Farthing roared to Natton and the winded Caitiff. “I want her head!”