Fire.
Not the wild kind that dances. This fire is deliberate. Purposeful. Lines drawn with oil and torch. Smoke spills through windows like black tongues. The air groans with heat and screams.
In the center of it all, a lizard-boy crouches against a crumbling wall. Trembling. Blood-stained sword shaking in his hands.
"I'm not supposed to die yet," he says.
"Then don't," I tell him.
I crouch low. One hand on the stone. Eyes scanning the square.
My coat is ash-dyed leather, burned through at the hem. My boots crack when I move—coated with blood and soot. My hair is white-blonde, matted to my brow. One loose strand whips in the wind.
Bill—that's his name, I'll learn—tightens his grip on the sword. It isn't his. I can tell by the way he holds it. By the fear radiating off every scaled inch of him.
He didn't want to fight.
Now he has to.
"They're burning everything," he says.
"They always do."
"Are you one of us?"
"No."
"Then why—?"
"Quiet."
Across the square, armored figures herd screaming villagers toward a dry well. A little girl clutches a soot-streaked doll. Her mother kneels beside her, hands bound, lips moving in prayer.
A knight leads them. Helm shaped like a plague mask. Blade dragging behind him like a broken plow. The sigil of the White King flickers on his chest—an eye split down the middle.
My hand twitches toward my hip.
Nothing there.
No sword. No weapon. Just the empty weight of want.
"How many?" I ask.
Bill blinks. "What?"
"Soldiers. How many?"
"Thirty? Maybe less."
I stand.
Bill grabs my coat. Desperate. "Don't! They'll kill you."
"They can try."
I walk into the fire.
* * *
They notice me halfway to the well.
Two soldiers peel off. Clubs drawn.
I don't flinch.
The first swing comes. I sidestep. Grab the second soldier's wrist. Twist. Bone cracks. The club falls. I catch it mid-air and bury the iron head in the first soldier's neck.
He drops.
The second stumbles back. My foot catches his ankle. He falls before he can scream.
The knight steps forward.
He towers above the smoke. Above the world. His armor is pitted and warped. Light scatters wrong off its surface, like it's remembering something painful.
"Drop it," he says.
I tilt my head. "You first."
He lifts his sword.
It hums. I feel it in my bones.
I run.
* * *
He swings.
I dive. Roll beneath the arc. The sword bites the earth behind me, carving a trough in stone. Pebbles lift from the force. Hovering. Lost.
I come up behind him. Slam the club into his knee joint. Once. Twice. Third strike leaves a dent.
He pivots. Faster than a man his size should.
His gauntlet catches me across the face.
I hit the ground hard.
Blood in my teeth. Smoke in my hair. My body screams.
But I'm laughing.
"You're not the first thing I've killed in that armor."
The knight pauses. Sword lowering.
"You remember me," I say.
He nods once.
"I took a Mirrorblade from your brother."
"It was corrupted," he says. "You did something to it."
I push hair from my eyes. Smear blood across my forehead. "I earned it. And you're afraid I might earn it again."
I rise.
Unarmed.
Unbroken.
"Let the villagers go. This ends with me."
His helm tilts. "Our king can offer you land. Titles. A new name. Bend the knee, and the White King would make you his queen."
"I've had enough of crowns." My voice is iron. "And I kneel to no man."
He lifts his sword.
"So be it."
He charges.
I dodge the first strike. Sparks fly. The next blow comes fast—too fast. I try to block with my forearm, then remember I have no armor.
Roll under his reach. But he's already turning. His gauntlet catches me again. I sprawl across the stones.
The knight looms. Blade raised.
"Lady!"
Bill.
Behind a cart. Pale. Shaking. Holding a sword too long for his hands.
He throws.
Clumsy. End over end.
I catch it.
Not my blade. Wrong balance. Wrong weight.
But enough.
The knight swings down.
I meet it.
Steel clashes. The force shudders through my arms. I drop to one knee but twist, using his momentum. The borrowed blade slides under his guard.
I knock the weapon from his grasp.
It skitters across the cobblestones.
He staggers.
So do I.
Both reach for breath. Only one finds it.
I drive my foot into his chest. He crashes backward. Winded. Defeated.
I rise. Sword shaking in my grip.
The villagers stare.
"Run."
They do.
All but Bill.
He inches closer. "You… you're her."
"Alice."
The blade still hums. Softly now. Whispering someone else's name.
The knight groans. Rolls to his side. And laughs.
"You think this wins you anything? The King will come. The Court. The Duchess. They'll tear you apart again."
I kneel beside him.
"I've died once," I say. "It didn't take."
Then I stand.
And I see them.
White King's men. Emerging from smoke. A silent ring tightening around me.
I turn to Bill.
"Go."
"What about you?"
I lift the blade.
"I'll manage."