People whisper my name like it's both a curse and a warning. Yvara. Angel's Blade. Trouble wrapped in skin. They're not wrong.
Steel flashed in front of my face as the mercenary lunged, his dagger a hair's breadth from splitting my cheek open. I ducked, shoved my boot into his stomach, and grinned when the air whooshed out of him like a dying bellows. He staggered backward, dropping the blade. Rookie mistake.
I caught it midair, flipped it in my hand, and pressed the point against his throat before he had time to beg. "You know," I said, tilting my head, "if you're going to come after me, at least try to look like you belong in the same league."
The man's eyes darted left, then right, searching for backup. Too late. His friends were already face-down in the dirt behind me, courtesy of my fists, knives, and one well-placed headbutt I was particularly proud of.
He swallowed hard. "I-I didn't—"
"Oh, don't insult me," I cut him off. My voice dripped venom. "You knew exactly who I was. And you thought you'd make your name off me." I leaned closer, close enough that he could smell the copper tang of blood on my hands. "Bad. Idea."
The crowd that had gathered around us in the marketplace shifted nervously. No one moved to help him. No one ever did. Not when Yvara, daughter of the world's most feared assassins, was in the mood to prove a point.
I could feel the weight of their stares—fear, awe, maybe a touch of envy. That's what I thrived on. The legend of my parents had paved the way, but me? I carved my own path, blade by blade.
Still, being a living storm had its drawbacks. Like the sound of armored boots marching my way right now.
"Yvara." The captain of the city guard—an old bastard named Rhalek—shoved his way through the onlookers, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. His expression was the kind people reserved for dogshit stuck to their boots. "What did I say about turning the market square into your personal arena?"
I smirked and stepped back from my quivering opponent. "You said, 'don't.' I ignored you."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. No one spoke to Rhalek like that. No one but me.
The captain's jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might shatter. "One of these days, your arrogance is going to put you in a cell you can't break out of."
I flipped the stolen dagger once before tucking it into my belt. "And one of these days, Captain, you're going to admit you're just jealous."
The crowd half-laughed, half-panicked. They loved the show, even if they knew it might end with me swinging from the gallows.
"Guard her," Rhalek barked, signaling his men.
As two soldiers moved to flank me, I rolled my eyes and held out my wrists like a spoiled princess demanding jewelry. "Fine. Let's go. But you're paying for the wine I'm missing out on tonight."
The guards clamped irons around my wrists, and the weight of them sparked a bitter memory of cold iron biting into my skin. I shoved it down. That was then. This was now.
I lifted my chin, flashing the crowd a wicked grin as the guards dragged me away. "Enjoy the show, darlings. You'll be telling your grandchildren you saw Yvara arrested... again."
The truth? I wasn't worried. Not about Rhalek, not about the cell, not about the bounty hunters who never seemed to learn. Trouble was my shadow. And I had no intention of stepping out of the light.
***************************************************
The cell stank of mildew, piss, and regret. I was guilty of two out of three.
The guards had tossed me inside like a sack of rotten potatoes, and now I sat on the edge of the wooden cot, shackled wrists resting in my lap, humming a tune loud enough to annoy the drunk slumped in the corner. He groaned, rolled over, and promptly vomited.
Charming company.
"Third time this month, Yvara." Captain Rhalek's voice echoed down the corridor. Heavy boots followed until his shadow loomed across my cell bars. "You think this is a game, don't you?"
I met his stare, unblinking. "Everything's a game. You just play it badly."
His jaw worked. I could practically see him counting to ten in his head before he snapped the keys against the bars. Clink. Clink. "One day, your mouth will write a check your blades can't cash."
I smirked. "Good thing I'm rich, then."
His eyes narrowed, but he didn't rise to the bait. He never did, not really. Rhalek had been in this game long enough to know what I was: dangerous, yes, but also useful. I'd done his dirty work more than once, and he hated himself for it.
He leaned closer, voice dropping low. "You keep this up, girl, and you'll end up just like them."
The air left my lungs before I could stop it. Them. My parents. The assassins who'd carved an empire out of shadows, the ones who'd raised me on steel and secrets—and vanished two years ago without a trace. No bodies. No farewell. Just gone.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and leaned back, forcing a lazy grin. "Then I guess disappearing runs in the family."
For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes—pity, maybe? Or fear. Then it was gone, replaced with the usual disdain. "Rot here for the night. Maybe it'll teach you something." He turned on his heel and marched away, leaving me with my thoughts.
And that was the problem. Thoughts were worse than chains.
I closed my eyes and pictured the way Mother's daggers glinted under moonlight, the way Father's laugh had sounded like gravel and thunder. The memory burned hotter than any blade. Whoever had taken them thought they'd silenced a legacy.
But Yvara wasn't the type to stay quiet.
A low hiss interrupted my brooding. My eyes snapped open, hand instinctively going for a weapon that wasn't there. A shape moved in the shadows just beyond the cell bars—hooded, lean, silent as death.
The drunk in the corner didn't stir. Which meant this visitor wasn't meant for him.
The hood tilted. "Angel's Blade," the voice rasped, low and female. "Your parents send their regards."
My blood turned to fire. I surged to my feet, chains rattling. "Where are they?"
But the figure only pressed a parchment against the bars before slipping back into the dark, vanishing as if she'd never been there at all.
I snatched up the parchment with trembling fingers. Three words, scrawled in ink blacker than night:
"They're still alive."