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Rhea

M y future was to be spent at parties with a husband of middling rank, a step up from our fading house. But when the cruel hand of fate stole my mother, and with her, my innocence, that path vanished, and I abandoned the thorns from our garden for the dagger and the expectation of a society wife for the swift, dark path to becoming a murderess.

I’ve fantasized about killing Neutro Mortimer Cindergrasp many times, but it never once involved me wearing an evening gown. Yet, here I am, adorned in a lace-trimmed black dress, a dagger nestled against my thigh. The fabric shimmers under the candlelight, flowing like liquid silk from the waist down, while the bodice clings tightly to my torso, a tantalizing layer of lace hugging my arms, my neck, my breasts. A waste of a perfectly good dress.

Maybe the bastard will be too busy looking at my figure to notice his impending doom. Not a desirable prospect. I want him to know he’s going to die by the hand of one of the many people he has wronged, the Neutro who tore my life apart.

I stare demurely at the guests, realizing this is one of those momentous days that are pivotal in someone’s life.

A party. A murder.

An end. A beginning.

I mean to wipe the slate clean before the Rite of Flight takes place tonight. No old, moth-eaten baggage will weigh me down as I take the last step to fulfill my destiny.

The enormous hall brims with too many men in dark suits and not enough women in colorful gowns. We are but a mere splash of color against a sea of darkness. Socialites and dignitaries from every corner of Embernia are here. Even the King will make an appearance. We’re in his castle, after all. Flickering candelabra and intricate tapestries adorn the walls. The heavy scent of perfume and cologne hangs in the air, intertwined with the smoky aroma of the many candles. The buzz of chatter fills my head, an annoying backdrop to the whirring gears inside my mind.

Neutro Mortimer Cindergrasp, my mark, arrived only moments ago. He’s as tall and spindly as I remember him, though the lines that mark his face are deeper, and he’s added a toupee that looks like a dead cat to the top of his head. One thing that hasn’t changed… my hatred for him.

He quickly engages in conversation with Commander Cora Voltguard. No colorful gown for her. She wears a Sky Order formal uniform, obsidian trousers and jacket, the cuffs and collar embroidered with gold thread in a pattern of dragon scales. An obsidian cloak, lined in red velvet, completes the ensemble, though she’s not wearing it at the moment. She left that at the door. She’s an imposing woman, tall, with her gray hair tied in a top knot as if she expects to mount her dragon at any moment.

I meander around the edges of the room, a glass of white wine in hand, pretending to admire the tapestries. I’ve never been to Castle Stonefall, and it’s a shame my attention must be split between admiring the decor and stalking my prey. But beggars can’t be choosers. Neutro Cindergrasp is a sort of recluse who rarely leaves his own, less-impressive castle. He only comes out for official events such as this one—the first of its kind I’ve ever been able to attend, just the reason the bastard is still breathing.

I’ve dreamed of killing this man since I was an eight-year-old child. Eighteen years is a long time for anyone to carry that sort of urge. It will be a relief to be rid of it, like the cool breeze from my window that soothed my fevered brow every night I woke up screaming as his hands strangled my happiness. Cindergrasp gave me those nightmares. Today, he’ll pay for every single one of them.

I glance at the massive skeleton clock tucked in one corner. Its exposed gears tick and turn. On close inspection, I notice rust eating away at some of the mechanisms, the way they say paranoia eats away at our King’s sanity.

The clock informs me the Rite of Flight will begin in a little over an hour. Sometime between now and then, Cindergrasp will have to use the facilities, his old bladder begging for a respite from all the wine.

My Academy mates hang together in a cluster, whispering behind their hands, wearing their nerves on their sleeves. Maybe I would share their anxiety about the ceremony if my mind weren’t otherwise occupied. Maybe not. I will be chosen. There is no other option. I’m the best in the class. The Scions would be wrong to waste me.

The Scions know nothing about your success at the Academy, Rhea.

A party. A murder.

An end… another end?

This is also an equally likely outcome to the night if I’m not chosen.

Nonsense!

My gaze snaps from my mates to the Neutro. All my doubts about the Rite of Flight disappear. My hand itches, ready to reach for the dagger.

Minutes tick by. An ember of anger comes to life in my gut. I empty my glass in one gulp and set it on a circular table laden with colorful mini pastries. Some look like wrapped gifts, others like shiny coins or fanciful hats. I pop a tiny pumpkin in my mouth and distract myself trying to identify the flavors… cinnamon, clove, allspice?—

Cindergrasp pulls away from the Commander and heads out of the hall. At last, the privy calls. I make my way out through the closest door and slip out, unnoticed. I arrived early and acquainted myself with this area’s layout. I know exactly the path I need to follow.

As I go around the corner, Cindergrasp’s retreating figure grows smaller down the length of the long corridor to my right. The lady’s privy is to the left, so I hurry along before someone sees me heading in the wrong direction.

A servant carrying a tray topped with more mini pastries enters my path from a side hallway. He startles at my presence.

I put on a clueless expression. “The lady’s privy?” I ask demurely.

The young man blushes, points vaguely the way I came, then quickly disappears in search of hungry guests. I roll my eyes. Such stiffing propriety! We’re supposed to ignore people have physiological needs, especially women. We don’t sweat, don’t burp, don’t relieve ourselves. Ridiculous! I was cured of that notion at the Academy. Only women with top elemental abilities are admitted, while most of the spots are given to men. Four years of training surrounded predominantly by males—no matter how educated—made me as coarse as a Scale Coast sailor.

I hurry along the corridor, holding my dress up. My heart speeds up, restless energy buzzing in my veins. I throw half a dozen furtive glances over my shoulder, sure someone will see me, but I take the last turn with no one the wiser.

My steps are firm as I make my way to the archway that leads to a set of privies. I raise a hand to push the door open, and suddenly, I freeze, doubt slamming into me with the force of an axe blow. The feeling is so strong I nearly gasp.

What the hell is wrong with you, Rhea?

The idea of taking revenge against this man has made me feel many things, but doubt has never been one of them. He has to die, has to pay for what he did to me… to my family. He ruined everything, turned my father from a gregarious man into a withdrawn, unhappy soul. Cindergrasp stole my father’s zest for life in one botched Cleansing procedure. He must die.

Except I’ve never killed anyone in cold blood. I’m not a?—

I take a deep breath and steel myself. I will not cower now—not after everything I’ve been through.

I push the door open and enter. Cindergrasp stands in front of a mirror, rearranging his toupee. His face twists in irritation in the looking glass, but when he notices me, his eyes widen.

“Madam, you are in the wrong place. This is the man’s lavatory,” he stammers.

I ignore him and engage the lock.

His eyes widen even more. I can see the gears turning behind his dim eyes. Why would a woman more than half his age lock herself in a privy with him?

I approach. He turns to face me, mind still whirring.

He sees the Scion pin tacked to my dress by my left breast and seems to come up with an explanation for my presence.

“If you believe you can sell your favors to me for a victory in the Rite of Flight,” he sneers, “you are highly mistaken, woman. Go do your whoring elsewhere.” He flaps his hand toward the door.

Of course he would reach this conclusion.

“I doubt even a rotted corpse would willingly do any whoring with you,” I reply.

“How dare you? I am the?—”

Fast as the sweep of a dragon’s tail, I put my forearm across his throat and shove him against the wall. In the next instant, my dagger’s point is pressed right below his left eye.

“Scream and I’ll pop your eye out like a malignant tumor.”

His chin trembles, and he makes no attempt to fight back.

“P-perhaps I can help, after all,” he stammers. “I can talk to the Commander, and?—”

“Shut up,” I hiss. “I can get a place in the Sky Order without your help, Neutro .”

“Then what do you want? Anything, I can get you anything.”

“Yes. You will do for my purposes since it’s only blood I’m after.”

A whimper escapes him as his eyes, wet and desperate, rove around.

“Are you trying to figure out who wants you dead?” I ask. “Must be hard. Most people only have to remember a few enemies, but you? So many possibilities. Maybe, instead, you should ask yourself... who doesn’t want you dead?”

When he says nothing, I apply a little more pressure on the dagger.

He blinks rapidly. “I… I have lots of gold.”

“I don’t want your gold. I already told you. I’m after blood.”

A trickle of crimson slides down his cheek, and at the sight of it, the doubts that assaulted me only moments ago completely vanish, consumed by a wave of visceral satisfaction.

“My name is Rhealyn Wyndward,” I say, and that’s all it takes for the Neutro to do what he came here to do: empty his bladder.

He still remembers my name.

The stench of urine fills the room. I pull him away from the wall and whip him around. He faces the mirror, while I stand behind him, dagger posed on his jugular. With a quick glance down, I confirm my dress is safe from the growing puddle. I still have a Rite of Flight to attend. Damn it if I’ll let this asshole ruin anything else for me.

I meet his gaze in the mirror. He breathes hard, chest pumping. The lonely gas sconce on the wall casts shadows over our faces. My expression is haunted, my mouth an unforgiving line, my eyes two shadowy puddles. His expression is one of horror and realization. I see the moment he understands his life is truly forfeit, the instant he knows no offer of any kind, no matter how generous, will save him from the fate I’ve mapped out for him.

His mouth opens as he prepares to scream, but all that comes out is a strangled moan as I change the grip on my dagger and slide it between his ribs all the way to the hilt. I step out of the way as he performs a macabre dance in which he attempts to reach for the dagger. With strange detachment, I watch as he staggers backward and hits the door to the privy stall, slamming it open. He collapses right on top of the commode and slumps, panting, blood dripping onto the floor behind him.

“For my mother,” I say as his panicked gaze meets mine. “For my father, and for the child you forced to live with her mother’s blood on her hands. Now, the right blood coats my fingers.” I lift my hand and show him the stains.

I watch him for several moments until he goes utterly still, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. Using my clean hand, I close the door to the stall, turn to the mirror, and check my dress. It looks as pristine as before. Good.

I turn on the spout and begin washing my hands.

Steps outside. I freeze.

“Someone in there?” A knock rattles the door and my nerves.

Oh, fuck! Now what?!