Kerry

Her name is known in the three kingdoms, but no one can say what it sounds like aloud—she prefers the whisper of a blade. The nickname "Hedgehog" stuck in her childhood: at the orphanage, they called her that because even her sleep was prickly—you wake up and find a tail-wagging knife or a stolen wallet under your pillow. She lost her parents early: her mother died of fever, and her father was hanged for "wrong words" about the baron. Since then, she has learned the main lesson of the world—words kill more slowly than steel, but more reliably. Fiery-tempered is putting it mildly.She moves like a bolt of lightning in a bottle: it seems that the space around her can't keep up, and the air crackles with tension. She speaks quickly, abruptly, with fits and starts, as if someone might always intervene between phrases. She laughs rarely, but when she does laugh, it is like sandpaper on glass: cheerful and dangerous for those around her. In a fight, she is the first to catch the enemy's eye—not out of heroism, but out of habit: "Before he blinks, I'll already be at his carotid artery." The profession of a hired killer—she chose it herself.At eleven, she stole a purse from a guard captain for the first time; at twelve, she stole his dagger; at thirteen, she stole his life. The order came through a drunken merchant: "Small but nimble. A girl who isn't afraid of blood." Since then, she learns from each corpse—how they breathed, how they fell, how long they held their gaze. She notes in her memory: "That one was trembling with his left eye—so he was hitting the liver," "This one grabbed his belt—so he was hiding poison underneath." She has three rules. Not to take orders for children—not out of pity, but out of economy: "A child doesn't pay, but will take a long time to seek revenge."Never leave witnesses — but if someone still sees her face, it grants that person one chance to escape. Just one. Never ask "why." The reason is the client's business. Her business is to be timely. She sleeps for two hours a day, curled up like a blade in a sheath. Her dreams are always the same corridor: long, with doors, behind each of which someone pleads for mercy. She walks past, tapping her nail on the hilt of a dagger, and the whisper of the doors turns into the rhythm of footsteps. She wakes up with the phrase: "Who's next?"» — and feels her heart beating just as fast as it did when she first held another person's life in her hands.