The moonlight, thick as blood, spilled over the rooftops of the royal capital of Alkarra, casting an ominous purplish-red hue over the silhouettes of the Gothic spires. Deep within the slum known as "Rustwater Alley," a slender figure moved along the damp brick walls, blending into the shadows. Lysandra Thorn held her breath, her red hair deliberately smeared with mud to a dark brown hue, her emerald eyes glowing brightly in the darkness.
"Damn Red Moon Night," she muttered under her breath, her fingertips brushing over an unhealed whip mark on her left arm. Sheriff Renard's hounds were closing in—the bread she had stolen from the docks three hours ago wouldn't be enough to offset the cost of the chase.
The putrid stench of the gutter was suddenly mingled with an unusual sweet fragrance. Lysandra looked up abruptly and saw two carriages adorned with black obsidian crests rolling over the gravel road, heading straight for the marquis's mansion on the hillside. A glimpse of a wrist wrapped in a gold chain flashed through the curtain of the carriage window, and the glow of the sapphire ring on her wrist stung her eyes.
"Blue Tearstone..." she murmured, her tongue pressing against the roof of her mouth. That gemstone could buy enough food to feed the poor of Rustwater Alley for ten years, let alone the marquise's recent "feat" of publicly flogging a vegetable vendor last month. The Red Moon is the thief's bane, but it is the eye of the goddess of vengeance.
***
As the marquise's rose-iron gates slowly closed, Lesandra had already scaled the western tower like a lizard. Her toes hooked onto the gargoyle sculpture, and she twisted her waist to hang beneath the balcony. Through the cracks in the stained-glass windows, the scene of a lavish banquet burst into view: the jewels worn by the nobles beneath the crystal chandeliers were enough to illuminate the entire slum on a winter night.
"—To eternity!" The marquis Adonis raised his goblet, the liquid within shimmering an eerie silver-blue. The ring on his ring finger caused Lysandra's pupils to contract sharply—the blue teardrop stone embedded in the ring was as large as a pigeon's egg, but its core contained a drop of blood amber, pulsating like a heart in the candlelight.
As the guests were intoxicated by the string music, the marquis quietly left his seat. Lysandra followed the figure cloaked in purple sable fur through the corridor lined with portraits of ancestors. The deeper they ventured into the castle, the sweeter the scent became, eventually transforming into a rusty, metallic stench. In the secret study, the marquis turned the serpentine candlestick, and the bookshelves slid open silently, revealing a stone staircase leading downward.
Hundreds of white candles illuminated the vaulted ceiling of the cellar, yet they could not dispel the bone-chilling cold. In the center of the stone chamber, a ragged youth lay on an altar, his chest covered in glowing runes. The marquis pressed the ring to the youth's forehead, and the bloodstone within the blue tearstone suddenly boiled: In the name of the seven bloodlines, sacrifice this body to extend my lifespan—"
"Who?!" As the marquis spun around, Lasandra plunged down from the iron chains on the dome. Her dagger sliced past the marquis's ear and embedded itself in the stone wall. She seized his wrist in the momentum. The sound of shattered bones and the marquis's screams echoed simultaneously as the ring rolled to the ground.
"Thief! Peasant!" The marquis screamed, clutching his deformed wrist. Lysandra kicked him in the jaw and picked up the ring, feeling a burning pain in her fingertips. The serpentine runes on the inner side of the ring were glowing hot, and the candles in the four corners of the stone chamber suddenly turned green.
The youth on the altar suddenly opened his eyes, his pupils dilating into pitch-black abysses. Lysandra retreated three steps as the youth's body swelled like an inflated bladder, his skin cracking open like a spiderweb—
Boom! Fragments of flesh and black blood splattered on the stone walls. Lesandra burst through the cellar door and ran wildly, hearing inhuman howls behind her. As she slid down the drainpipe from the second floor into the courtyard, the alarm bells of the marquis' mansion rang out like funeral bells.
"In the name of the Holy King! " Sheriff Renard kicked open the shack door, just as Lysandra was stuffing the last half of a rye bread roll into the mouth of a feverish boy in the corner. The kerosene lamp illuminated Renard's bulldog-like jaw as he gripped the marquis's steward by the collar.
"Search!" Renard's boots crushed the bread crumbs on the ground. As the silver-inlaid handcuffs clamped around Lasandra's wrists, she saw the steward gesture three fingers toward Renard—the price of three bags of gold coins for the life of a commoner.
A crowd had gathered at the gallows in the central square. A cold rain fell at dawn, washing away the brown stains that had accumulated over the years on the stone bricks. Lysandra was chained to the execution post, hearing muffled sobs from the crowd. Martha the old woman from Rustwater Alley trembled, clutching her tattered holy emblem, while several children she had once rescued from slave traders were beaten with spear poles by the guards.
"Lysandra Thorn!" Renaud's voice pierced through the rain, "Murder of the noble Marquis Adonis, theft of royal treasures—sentenced to branding and lifelong hard labor!"
As the red-hot branding iron was drawn from the charcoal basin, steam mingled with the smell of burning flesh, hissing loudly. The tip of the branding iron was shaped like a roaring lion's head—the royal emblem. As the scorching metal pressed against her right cheek, Lasandra's scream caught in her throat. The excruciating pain sharpened her senses: she saw the blond man in the crowd suddenly clench his fingers, saw his expensive leather boots crush a bloodstained wild rose, and saw the blue tearstone ring slip from Renard's pocket as he bent down.
"The key…" The marquis's dying whisper suddenly echoed in her ears. As the branding iron was lifted, the charred flesh bore a clear lion's head imprint, but Lesandra was smiling, her bloodstained teeth grinding with a grating sound.
Leonard grabbed her hair and forced her to look up: "Laugh now, but when we reach the black mine, you'll beg wild dogs to gnaw off this face!"
The sound of a crossbow string trembled through the rain. A steel arrow embedded itself three inches from Leonard's feet, its white feathers trembling. As the guard mutinied, Lesandra used her last ounce of strength to knock over the executioner, the rusted shackles sparking against the stone pillar. She charged into the crowd like a wounded she-wolf, her branded face igniting sparks of fear and anger in the eyes of the poor.
Street fighting erupted on the slippery streets. Lesandra seized a short spear and pierced the throat of a pursuer, warm blood spurting onto the brand. When she burst through the door of Martha the old woman's attic, the elderly woman pressed a linen cloth smeared with ointment onto her face: "Go through the rat hole! Find 'Rat' Finn!"
As Lesandra climbed out the back window, the sound of bells rang out from the square. The blood moon had not yet faded, and under the leaden sky, the charred lion's head brand on her face burned with fresh pain. In the shadow of the distant bell tower, the blond man was using a dagger to slice off a blood-stained rose branch, his icy blue eyes reflecting the red hair of the fugitive.
"The game has begun, little kitten." Orion Blackwood whispered as he sniffed the flower branch, the old scar on his left eyebrow twitching slightly in the morning light.