Jarold’s left ear screamed with a high-pitched ringing that deafened the battered city guard to the beatdown around him. He’d landed hard on the sticky wooden floor, reeling at the bracing slap the guard just received. The taste of fresh blood lingered on Jarold’s split lip, which he licked to check for additional damage.

Meanwhile, panicked tavern goers were fleeing for the back door, as a star of his eminence’s finest soldiers blocked the front entrance. Only Murdik and Jarold remained where they were, too injured and terrified to try and flee.

The ringing in his ear persisted, with Jarold’s face and head sending shocks of searing, white-hot pain from the silver gauntlet that struck him. It was only in that moment that Jarold realized what happened. The pain wasn’t just from a ferocious backhand, but a holy soldier’s silver gauntlet as well.

Oh gods… It’s burned me.

Sure enough, the Star Guard’s glove had scorched Jarold’s face, leaving streaks of charred flesh on his cheek and ear where they’d touched Hallem’s gauntlet. Jarold had been foolish, spouting nonsense in the face of his betters, and paid the price for trying to shirk responsibility for his crimes.

“LIES. FALSEHOODS,” Zatchery Hallem roared, his fine Star Guard armor clinking as he shook with rage. It was bad enough that these reprobates were singing forbidden songs in a tavern, but to then lie about it? To him of all people?

“Disgraceful,” Hallem sneered. “I ought to string you both up for hogs’ meal.”

A graphic series of disturbing gestures ensued, demonstrating the proper means of gutting and dressing a corpse for the pigs. For his part, Murdik turned away, struggling not to empty his stomach at the horrid visuals. But Jarold remained still, his head turned but eyes peeking at the fearsome monster who’d bashed him.

Knowing Mister Hallem’s reputation, Murdik and Jarold couldn’t be sure that either of them would walk out of The Blanched Hart alive. The Star Guard before them had a mean temper, flying off the handle at anything that displeased him. Even some of their peers bore marks to prove it.

Hallem had no trouble beating down peasants, flaying criminals, or meting out punishment to his own comrades. There was no act of cruelty too heinous for the newcomer Star Guard, especially when he was indignant or enraged.

“How DARE you lie to me,” Hallem snarled, a frothy droplet of spittle landing on Jarold’s face with a wince.

Swallowing hard and trembling on his knees, Jarold steeled his remaining nerves, and forced himself to speak. “I misspoke, sir. It was a mistake. And as for the tune, we’re not truly to blame.”

Jarold gestured broadly, flailing his arm toward where Radin should have been. “It was him, that s-stranger, sir.”

Except that the instigator was nowhere to be seen. Caught by surprise at the vanishing act, Jarold stared off, wide-eyed, a hair's breadth from a heart attack.

Mister Hallem grabbed Jarold by the collar of his gambeson, a silver gauntlet grazing shivering, clammy skin on the city guard’s neck. Hallem’s eyes narrowed at the surprising truthfulness of Jarold’s claim. Someone else clearly sought to sully Old Sarzonn’s good name.

“The stranger? Who is he?” Hallem growled, his patience running thin. “Did you get his name?”

“He was a f-f-foreigner, sir,” Jarold stammered, his face pale and nerves frayed. “A dark-skinned foreigner. He’s m-maybe a merchant, or something.”

“How would you know he’s a merchant? Did he say?” Hallem asked.

“H-he had a caravan hammer, but no tassels or tattoos,” Jarold confessed. “Tall, black hair, chestnut eyes, a-and spots on his face.”

The wheels in Hallem’s head turned, his nose crinkling and muscles twitching as his lips tugged into a sneer.

Of course, he’d seen such a person long ago; a kidnapper who’d killed half a dozen men in the Forbidden Ruins. He was carrying an Outsider child, fleeing from rabid wanderers toward Cheapside or The Dregs.

That was right before the Day of Dark Skies, if memory served. How many months had Mister Hallem searched, never once finding a trace of the lowlife murderer?

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Hallem muttered, his voice so low that Murdik and Jarold could barely hear. “Still alive, it seems.”

Turning to his compatriots, Hallem barked orders for the others to give chase. After all, the ex-Solanai had waited years for another chance to redeem his mistake.

“Finally. You won’t get away this time,” Hallem whispered, simmering with rage behind cold, hateful eyes. “Even if my men don’t find you, she certainly will. Make no mistake…”

***

I did it! I can’t believe I actually did it! Radin thought as he leapt through a narrow gap between flophouses.

Filled with an abundance of enthusiasm and a last cache of euphoric energy, the foreigner navigated away from the main thoroughfare, favoring the lesser-used alleys.

Boots landed with a thump-thump-thumping as the Deceiver twisted and turned through the claustrophobic backstreets. There wasn’t a single person about, as the vast majority of Cheapsiders were already well asleep by full-dark.

All the better then. Nobody’s awake to give me grief.

Radin dodged slicks of filth, overturned barrels, and smelly food waste; all the hallmarks of creeping poverty as the outcast made his way through. Progress was stymied by debris strewn about, forcing the Deceiver to bound over obstacles the whole way.

He didn’t have time to linger over the worsening condition of Old Sarzonnese passageways, nor think about how clean these cobblestone streets used to be. No, Radin was singularly focused on navigating home, and couldn’t afford to be distracted presently.

Double-back around Larchess and Greene. Avoid the Founder’s Fountain. Take the long way to Aurora and Crescent…

With every exhilarated footfall came a subtle jingle of treasure tucked away. Beneath his bolero jacket, Radin could feel the melody of coins clacking against one another, as sure and steady as a racing heartbeat. Was it the danger of capture or the thrill of victory that added speed to every stride, and music to every coin’s clink?

It’s a windfall, for certain, Radin mused as he made a swift getaway. Too tempted by the symphony of success in his pockets, the Deceiver allowed flickering fantasies to cloud his mind as he sprinted. Hot food, warm sheets, fresh clothes, baked sweets…

Radin’s breaths grew heavier as the mad dash continued, and he kept peeking behind while beating a hasty retreat. Turning around Larchess Street, the Deceiver held his course, reassured that he’d make it despite gathering rainclouds overhead. Concealed under eaves and surrounded on both sides by stout buildings, Radin’s mind wandered to new possibilities.

Butterpuff twists and fresh beecher’s corners, slathered in cream, with flaky layers beneath. The Deceiver conjured visions of long-lost treats, some exotic, some common, but now within his reach. With a twitch catching on dried lips, Radin let himself drown in a wide-awake dream.

I’ll buy you piping-hot handpies and cinnagran drizzlesticks, firstday cakes, and festival treats. Take care with the jammy handpies, though. I’ll show you how to break them right, little ones, and get at the sweet filling.

Half-blind from the darkness and half-deaf from happenstance, Radin’s senses were dulled to all but the streets. That's Greene up ahead, and the fountain to the east. Just a few more blocks, then home, boys. Please, wait for me.

The clattering of distant armor caught his ear, jolting Radin away from his backtracking to avoid the Founder’s Fountain. With no Feast of Merkander nor festival goers, the Deceiver hadn’t expected to hear guards making their rounds here so late.

Damn. Surely a couple pouches of gold aren’t worth chasing me.

Forced to alter his path, Radin cinched his hood up, desperate to contain the dread trapped underneath. Any thoughts of baked goods were dashed, replaced entirely by anxiety. It was no use cowering or trembling from fear, but the outcast couldn’t stop thinking about the dead house panther in the alley earlier.

Whoever killed that poor creature’s still out here, Radin realized, his earlier triumph smashed flat by reality. The outcast hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any interlopers, yet couldn’t shake the feeling of being observed, followed—hunted.

Dark, rounded ears twitched and shoulders raised at a sound Radin couldn’t recognize. It was almost like cord, pulled taut and drawn until aching, filling the Deceiver with discomfort anew. Rattled and wary, Radin grasped for reassurance any way he could, reciting song lyrics silently where he stood.

He’s on a crusade,
But never for greed.
Just gives food and aid
To those most in need…

There it was again; a creak of tensed string. But where was it coming from? Radin swallowed a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth, alerting the Deceiver to danger. A rippling shiver worked its way up both arms, and the outcast lent dwindling ether to his cause.

What is it?

Flooding his bloodstream and boosting dulled senses, Radin homed in on two noises of interest. The first was a figure hunched nearby, the leather of their boots creaking and bent. But the other…

ABOVE! Radin screamed without sound.

Lunging forward and tumbling into a half-rotten crate, the outcast evaded a projectile hurtling his way. The weapon pierced into an old wyrwood barrel, embedding itself deep into the wood like a nail.

Recovering his footing, Radin darted away, evading another whistling thunk of a hideous black stake. No, not a stake…

A crossbow bolt.

Two more black bolts sliced through the air; one ricocheting off a stone wall, and the other through Radin’s waist sash as he fled. Chilled from terror and the onset of hard rain, the Deceiver bolted for cover in the cramped alleyway. He couldn’t get a read on the angle exactly, but the shots must have come from above to hit so accurately.

Good gods, why? What do you want from me? Radin wondered as he made for a large crate. Wait. No, it can’t be…

A crunch of ceramic roof tiles overhead helped the outcast triangulate; this person, this huntress was moving for a better shot at Radin. The beastly woman stalked the roof ridge overhead, as agile as the house panther she’d already shot dead.

Sheets of rain gave the huntress away, providing just enough clues to piece together her identity. She stood nearly as tall as the Titan of Tevrose, with hand-hammered armor that clinked in the rain like raddilbak scales. It was too dark and dreary to make out many details, aside from the thump of a bandolier of bolts when she ran, and the enormous crossbow in hand.

This wasn’t just any old free-lancer…

Oh gods. An Araxian Raider.

Tremors shook Radin’s limbs as he rallied to run. He searched left and right for the best avenue of escape, listening to heavy footfalls eclipsing the rain.

Aside from Major Barshaw, the Deceiver had never seen a woman so large and imposing. Tazanni rarely commented on her old life abroad, but rumors of the gigantic Araxians traveled all the way to the mainland and Old Sarzonn.

Hunters for hire. Gods, how bad is my luck? Radin thought as he sprinted to another stack of haphazard crates. She’s right overhead. Come on, woman. Give up…

There was no way the holy house hired her, not a chance. For as stingy as Lord Vythorne was with gold, he’d blanch at an Araxian’s price. Even Old Sarzonnese children knew how rare it was to see a Raider in real life. Better still, they knew to steer clear from hunters and their prey.

No, this huntress must be a contractor, sent by someone foreign and rich. But what could they want with the Deceiver, anyway?

I’m nobody, nothing special, just some starving half-breed.

Another bolt landed, this time an arm's reach away. Radin withered, terrified, but with one more card to play.

The Deceiver dropped his camouflage, reverting to the half-breed she’d always been. Eyebrows that were tented with worry scrunched as the outcast closed her eyes, desperate for her final trick to take shape. Khazmine needed to focus, to fix her mind and ether properly, before it was too late.

THINK, woman! Sing a song, recite a poem, SOMETHING!

A black crossbow bolt blasted into her crate, its barbed end sticking out where the Deceiver’s face might have been.

Many’s the penny for—no, dammit! Khazmine scolded herself for mucking up the lyrics.

Fear was creeping through the outcast, unbridled and worsening. The huntress above had notched a bolt, then went silent, exacerbating Khazmine’s anxiety. With nerves frayed as they were, the outcast needed an easy song to sing. Still fresh in her mind, the Deceiver rallied, fixing her attention on a familiar tune to channel her energy.

So, if you see through,
Despite his disguise.
Regardless of who,
You’ll get a surprise.

Ether swirled from the outcast, rippling around her body and the dingy stack of crates. Two more crossbow bolts landed, threatening to topple Khazmine’s refuge as she concentrated.

Take a good gander,
And say thanks again.
Good ol’ Merkander,
A man—

The Deceiver vanished in the filthy alley, but not before a ferocious barb raked over her shoulder, slicing into her skin as it whizzed by.

“Ahhhh!” Khazmine cried out in agony, her hand rushing to cover her split shoulder and tamp down the bleeding.

Heavy rain continued in thick, awful sheets, but not loudly enough to deafen the Deceiver’s pained outburst. Still coming down hard, Khazmine watched the trickles run red from a fresh crossbow bolt wound, washing the half-breed’s blood into the cobblestone streets.

And with horrid rain came a thunderous sound; a jingle of metal landing not too far away. Breath hitched and terror amplified as Khazmine cowered behind her crates. By the sound of it, the Araxian huntress was well on her way…