**The following takes place two years after "Of Lowlifes, Lutes, & Liars" Chapter 50: Until No More Remain & immediately after Side Story 06: Merkander (Part Four).

Recap: Enraged at the disgraceful singing of the city guards, Mister Hallem returns to beat them bloody. Meanwhile, Khazmine (disguised as her father, Radin) flees The Blanched Hart and backtracks through Cheapside to reach home. The Deceiver evades guards, unaware of a huntress and an observer looming in the shadows…**

Khazmine covered her mouth with a gloved hand, desperate not to make a sound. Invisible to all but the keenest eye, the Deceiver crouched down to spot the huntress approach.

Oh gods… Here she comes.

The Araxian Raider had landed with a rattling thunk, not even bothering to use ether techniques on the way down. Judging by her thick build and armor, the huntress didn’t need ether to soften her landing.

Rugged and resilient, the Raider had a rough-hewn face and deep grooves from frowning. She was the portrait of severity, with thick shocks of hair drawn up in a tight braid, and an expression fixed in a permanent scowl. It was if joy died out for her long ago, giving the huntress little reason to smile.

Step.

The way she moved had Khazmine flinching and her ears drawn. Prowling about, efficient yet slow—not wasting a scrap of energy on a hasty pursuit. If notches in her face, hands, and armor were anything to go by, this was a seasoned veteran Raider, not some mewling whelp.

She isn’t even trying to be quiet, Khazmine realized with a wince. Nor is this Raider worried about me escaping at all. It’s almost like she’s a, she’s—

A persistence hunter.

Unlike most sell-swords and free-lances, Araxians often drove their prey to exhaustion, pursuing their quarry without end. Dark circles under sharp, narrowed brown eyes confirmed it beyond doubt. This hulking woman must have been one such huntress; patient, ruthless, and skilled.

True to form, the gigantic Raider slithered into the alley, crushing offending debris underfoot. She reached with a broad, calloused hand to recover her bolts, wrenching the barbed ends from stone and wood.

Step.

Still obscured with full-body camouflage, Khazmine crept silently, anxious for her movements to be drowned out by hard rains. The Deceiver shambled for cover as best as she could, peeking back at the huntress notching a bolt into her crossbow.

Close now. Too close, Khazmine thought, her throbbing shoulder evidence of an elevated heart rate. The Deceiver had managed to skulk near the cross-point of the alley, but her dogged pursuer was still making their way.

Step.

Reaching the crates where Khazmine once hid, the Araxian paused, taking a slow, measured breath. Steady and silent, the huntress darted behind the hiding place, firing a bolt where Khazmine’s chest should have been.

By the Ancients! Khazmine startled, squeezing her fingers into the palm of her hand. If I hadn’t moved—

A low, husky growl reached the Deceiver’s ear, as menacing as an angry marsh hound’s sneer. The Araxian stooped low to recover her bolts; several untainted, and one with traces of blood.

Drawing the barbed end up to her nose, the huntress inhaled deeply, catching the scent of her foe. But why bother to smell it? What could be gained from the scent of blood? Was there something special about—oh gods.

Brambleberries.

Khazmine could barely trace the lingering aroma from her shoulder wound. The sweet smell of ether was there, distinctive and obvious now that the Deceiver was aware of it. This huntress, this Raider…she could track the outcast by scent.

The major used the same trick, Khazmine recalled as she cowered and shivered. Even in darkness, she could track us all in the night. But is she sharp enough to smell my ether through the rain?

Cold winds and deep fear robbed the outcast of spirit, her energy dwindling as the Araxian trudged closer with heavy, deliberate steps. Hearing her approach, Khazmine dashed to the left, making a wrong turn in the process, into a dead end.

Wait, no! It’s the other way.

Too frightened to move, Khazmine went numb, her vision blurring as she stared at the walled sides around her.

Step.

Already impared from a damaged ear and cruel rain, the outcast was deaf to a creak of old leather drawing nearer. Instead, the pleading voice of Aranthus echoed in her mind, distressed and frightened that he couldn’t find her.

Kiss-Me? Kiss-Me? Where’d you go?

Ears tensed back to flick off harsh rain, and the half-breed homed in on what she could use to escape.

Step.

You’re not dead yet, woman. THINK! Khazmine admonished herself. What do you have? What can you—

A gloved hand brushed against Tatty’s caravan hammer, but her swinging arm was too damaged to make use of it. Assessing her other weapons, Khazmine lingered on her chipped dagger and Major Barshaw’s war whip.

Step.

What can I do? Khazmine wondered with growing panic. The Deceiver drew her dagger and whip, but had little idea how to use them. Too big to tackle, too strong to resist, too tough to damage—what can I even do with this?

Surrounded on all sides but one, Khazmine watched the Araxian turn the corner into the alcove. There was little the Deceiver could do to hide the scent of ether in her blood, and no amount of camouflage could make the Raider give up.

With no way out, except through this cruel beast, and the Deceiver needed courage to rally and flee. Outclassed in more ways than one, the half-breed called on Solanai training to guide her.

In her mind, Jaycen’s words of wisdom echoed, a long-forgotten reminder of how to survive a superior opponent.

“GET UP, KHAZMINE!” Jaycen had shouted at her during a savage bout of training.

She’d been beaten down badly with ether and force, but the half-breed back then had refused to give up. “If you can’t be stronger than me, faster than me, then BE SMARTER!”

Jaycen was right; in a battle of strength or speed, Khazmine often lost. But when it came to wits, the Deceiver came out on top. Lieutenant Mevralls and Major Barshaw taught the outcast well, including the most important lesson of all.

With the proper plan, the outcast would prevail.

Top-heavy, fast, and strong, but bogged down with a crossbow, Khazmine thought, calculating her odds. Fists and kicks could be fatal, but only if she can hit me. Look around. What can I leverage? A few broken crates, a ledge, or an—oh, THAT’S an idea…

Khazmine only had a minute or two left of ether for a perfect disguise, but what if she tried something else?

Perhaps a surprise…

You wanted a chance to practice, and now you’ll have it, Khazmine scoffed to herself.

A whisper of ether jolted the Deceiver within, lending strength to the half-breed for her only chance at escape.

It’s now or never, just—LEAP!

Bounding forward and up, the Deceiver appeared, just in time for the huntress to raise her bolt and crossbow to defend. The bolt sliced through the air, eager to take a piece of the lowlife with it, only to pass through the outcast without making contact.

Instead, the Araxian shuddered where she stood, her calf stinging in pain from the dagger embedded in it. Just as the Raider had swung above at her prey, the illusion dissolved, giving the lowlife away.

An echo.

The Deceiver had used the last of her ether to broadcast an echo of her likeness; a feint to draw the Raider’s attention, just for a moment.

Dashing between spread Araxian legs, Khazmine’s camouflage dissolved as she tumbled through. The Deceiver landed hard, smashing through a small crate, scuffing her forearm and banging both knees.

Move, woman! MOVE!

There was no time to whinge or complain. Khazmine brandished Tazanni’s whip and lashed it to the flophouse eaves overhead. Catching the end and tugging twice to be sure, the outcast scrambled up the whip as fast as she could.

Her shoulder screamed from the fresh crossbow bolt wound, stealing haste and strength from Khazmine’s ascent. Sweat rinsed from damp brows as the half-breed climbed, losing momentum as aching muscles failed spectacularly over time.

Watching all of this happen, the owner of creaking leather boots sprang into action. Soaking wet from the rain, but full of energy, a roguish figure on an adjacent rooftop leapt to Khazmine’s eaves.

Down below, the Araxian Raider bent to rip out Khazmine’s blade, tossing it into the alleyway. She turned with a wince, only to watch the half-breed flailing; an easy target once her strength gave out, and no match for a crossbow anyway.

Limping over to recover her prize, the Araxian loaded her weapon and made ready to fire. With rain poring down and blotting her eyes, the Raider scowled as she raised the cruel weapon to take aim.

Tazanni’s war whip creaked as Khazmine fought for dear life, unable to force her wounded arm to cooperate. On the verge of collapsing and falling to her doom, the outcast shuddered at a tug on her line.

“’ANG ON!” the roguish figure called, yanking the red bullwhip where it had been tied.

Both huntress and hunted had failed to hear the approach of old leather boots from the rogue who’d been nearby. He’d followed the half-breed and watched her for ages, witnessing a house panther funeral and escape from the tavern.

“DOAN LE’ GO!” the hooded figure commanded, wrenching on Khazmine’s tether.

The huntress let her bolt fly, only to miss her target mid-air, the black shaft embedding too high up to recover. Ripping a bolt from her bandolier, the Araxian rushed to load her weapon for another shot.

Hand-over-hand, the drenched rogue had tugged Khazmine away, scraping her up the wall, out of reach and danger. Pulling the whip with all of his might, the stranger yanked the Deceiver all the way up, just as the outcast’s arm was about to give out.

With too much momentum, Khazmine toppled into her savior, landing on top of him like a sack of wet grain. There on the Cheapside rooftops, the outcast had been saved, at least for the moment anyway.

Exhausted and breathless, Khazmine had no words to thank him. She was on the brink of passing out, only to startle when shaken by a long, slender hand. The Deceiver shuddered, too weak to prop herself up, her shoulder wound cold and saturated from a torrent of rain water.

“Sorray, young mess. No time for ah rest,” the foreigner insisted, helping the half-breed to her feet. Khazmine tried to push away, only for the pair’s eyes to meet. “At lease, no’ yet. C’mon, I know ah safe spot. Doan you wonna escape?”

Suspicious by nature, Khazmine tensed disbelieving ears. The rogue before her had offered salvation, but the outcast was too wary to take a stranger at their word. Sensing resistance, her savior begged off, sparing a quick glance below to confirm the danger still present.

“Dozen make ah diff’rence eitha way,” the rogue added with a frown and knit brows. “Juss figured ya’d wonna get outta thus place.”

Wounded and woozy, the outcast assessed the man at her side. He was desperately foreign, and had a glint in his eyes. An accent, a strangeness—there was something about him, a quality that put Khazmine at ease, but she couldn’t describe it presently.

A brief, aching nod was all the outcast could spare, eliciting a smirk from her new companion. The smile that emerged crinkled warm, orange eyes, and the rogue beside Khazmine offered his arm for support.

“Then less go, young mess. Well need ta loose ’er first…”

Down below, the Araxian Raider hunched at her treasure escaping. Though not fatal, Khazmine’s dagger strike had wounded the Raider considerably, preventing her from ascending. Not that it mattered; Tazanni’s war whip had already been pulled up, stranding the huntress in the back alleys of Cheapside.

By the time she shambled up to where the quarry once strayed, the huntress’s bounty would have long since gone away. A thick crossbow bolt snapped in her hand as her prey made their departure, only to remind the huntress of her latest defeat.

***

In a darkened, rented room on the north side of town, a single candle lit the shared space where Khazmine was receiving medical care. The cramped apartment was modest and neat, as if its occupant only stayed here to sleep. Short of that, no linens were soiled, nor dishes used; the renter clearly didn’t spend much time here at all.

Khazmine narrowed her eyes, taking everything in. Only a single pair of old boots, a cinched-up bedroll, and a stuffed messenger bag were all that he had. No keepsakes, no treasures; just a traveler’s pack. From her seat at the small round table, the Deceiver could count every item inside on both hands.

There was a grating discordance, suspicious and odd; from the lack of personal items to the bare shelves and sparce furniture. It had all the basic trappings of a real home, no doubt, but the Deceiver couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

The damp outcast shuddered as another frigid strip of green healer’s tape was smoothed flat on her skin. Its icy coolness robbed the half-breed of what little warmth she still had. Distressed and shivering from the unwelcome cold, Khazmine sucked air through clenched teeth and hunched over to conserve heat.

“’Old still, young mess,” the roguish man pressed, his hands awkwardly burnishing tape against goose bumped skin on her shoulder. “Juss ah lil’ bet left, an’ yer good ta go.”

Impatient and wary, Khazmine shifted in her creaky wooden seat, boring holes in the rogue with a suspicious glare. He had a vague, unremarkable blandness, neither handsome nor homely—just an average-looking chap and not much noteworthy.

Medium-colored skin and brown hair did little to help the outcast pinpoint his origins. At least some strange color or shape might have helped, but no. The only hint of difference came from rich, orange eyes that Khazmine had never seen before in Old Sarzonn. Well, that and his accent were bracingly foreign.

Who are you, mister?

The outcast didn’t know the first thing about this strange man, aside from the fact that he’d offered to help Khazmine hide and treat her wounds. Stitches were beyond his medical skill, but a patch of healer’s tape would get the job done for a while.

“Thank you,” Khazmine muttered, still unsure and on edge. “For saving me earlier, and well, for this.”

Wait. There it is. That feeling again. The Deceiver flinched at a sound pricking her ear.

“Doan thenk me juss yet,” her savior replied, jingling the pair of purses he’d pinched from the Deceiver’s wet jacket she’d stripped off to let dry. His pickpocketing skill was so advanced that Khazmine hadn’t even noticed. “Ya doan know ’ow much et’ll cost ya, now do ya?”

Realization dawned belatedly behind darting blue eyes, as Khazmine reached for the drenched bolero jacket that once held her hard-earned prize.

“Hey, wait! Those are mine!” Khazmine exclaimed, her hackles raised. “GIVE THEM BACK!”