This had to have been a nightmare.

Yvette had always done what she was told. The royal guard called her The Steel Hound—half in admiration, half in mockery—because once she was given an order, she followed it without hesitation. No complaints. No refusals. No visible fear.

That last part was the lie.

The truth was that Yvette spent most of her life in a state of quiet panic. She simply hid it better than everyone else.

But this assignment? This was absurd.

“You’re serious?” she asked, the words escaping sharper than intended.

Across from her, Captain Varian sighed through his nose. He stood behind his desk with the stiff posture of a man pretending not to feel guilty.

“I’m sorry, Yvette,” he said. “But the order comes directly from the king.”

Of course it did.

Because apparently years of loyal service, spotless discipline, and an uncanny ability to intimidate criminals on sight had earned her the worst possible reward imaginable:

She was now the personal guard of the king’s second child.

Or, more accurately, their babysitter.

Yvette stared at Varian through her helmet in disbelief, waiting for the punchline that never came.

“You can’t honestly think I’m suited for this.”

“You’re the only one left.”

That stung because it was true.

Every other guard assigned to the second heir had either requested reassignment, quit outright, or mysteriously developed urgent reasons to leave the capital entirely. One man had allegedly retired to become a fisherman despite never once expressing interest in fish.

The second heir had a reputation that spread through the palace like wildfire: rebellious, sharp-tongued, impossible to control. Servants lasted weeks at best. Tutors lasted days. One poor attendant had burst into tears after a single dinner shift.

No one wanted the assignment. Which was exactly why it had fallen to her. Because Yvette endured.

That was what everyone thought her talent was. Not swordsmanship. Not strategy. Endurance. An unmovable object with nerves of steel.

If only they knew the truth.

If only they knew that every social interaction felt like being shoved onto a stage without warning. That speaking to people made her chest tighten. That even now, standing in front of Varian, she was carefully controlling her breathing so she wouldn’t sound as frantic as she felt.

Varian softened slightly. “You don’t have to like it.”

“I know.”

“You just have to survive it.”

That, at least, she could do.

Probably.

—

Now Yvette stood outside the second heir’s chambers, rigid as a statue.

The hallway was oppressively quiet. Tall windows stretched along the stone walls, spilling pale afternoon light across expensive carpets that muffled every sound except the pounding of her heartbeat.

She adjusted her gloves for the third time. Then the fourth.

Gods, this was humiliating. She had faced assassins with steadier nerves than this.

From inside the room came a loud crash, followed by muffled swearing.

Yvette closed her eye briefly.

Wonderful.

She forced herself to straighten and knocked twice against the door.

No response.

Professional. Be professional.

“Second child,” she said stiffly, trying to keep her voice level instead of painfully raspy, “I am your new guard.”

That should have been enough introduction. She hoped it was enough introduction. The less speaking required, the better.

A beat of silence followed. Yvette stared at the door.

She is already exhausted. Yvette exhaled slowly through her nose. This was going to be a very long assignment.

She grabs the handle to the door and swings it open with the force of barging into a room full of criminals. She stared down the royal through her helmet, keeping her posture straight and alert. She didn’t say anything. She shouldn’t have to. Surely that had to have been enough to make her point.

This party had been especially suffocating compared to most.

Which was saying something.

The grand ballroom of the palace was beautiful in the way royal things always were—gold chandeliers dripping warm candlelight across polished marble floors, musicians tucked into the corners playing delicate string music, nobles wrapped in silks and jewels pretending diplomacy was not simply warfare dressed in prettier clothing.

Tonight’s celebration marked the signing of a peace treaty between the kingdom and neighboring Beilor, ending months of growing hostility before it could collapse into open war.

At least officially.

Unofficially, the Beilor delegates looked at the royal guard like dogs chained too close to the dinner table.

Yvette noticed every glare, every muttered insult. Every nobleman who stiffened when a guard walked by.

She stood near one of the ballroom pillars in full armor, visor lowered as always, posture perfectly rigid despite the exhaustion pooling heavily behind her ribs. Her teal cape hung untouched over one shoulder, more decoration than practicality.

“Don’t drink from the barrel,” Captain Varian muttered beside her. “In case they decide to spit in it.”

Yvette attempted a laugh.

It emerged muffled and awkward behind her helmet—small,, almost pitiful.

Varian glanced sideways at her but said nothing. She appreciated that.

Truthfully, she had no intention of eating or drinking anyway. She never did at parties. Not unless absolutely necessary. Eating was difficult with the damage to her face, causing it to be extremely embarrassing to do in front of others.

So instead she remained still and watching. The musicians played another song. Nobles laughed too loudly at jokes that were not particularly funny. Servants drifted between clusters of silk and velvet carrying trays of wine.

Yvette’s eye continuously tracked exits. Windows. Hands near concealed belts. The rhythm was automatic now. Even surrounded by music and diplomacy, her body never truly relaxed.

Then came the bells.

A familiar chorus of jingling metal and theatrical footsteps echoed across the ballroom as Sable Jack swept dramatically into the center of the floor in vibrant patchwork silks. The king’s favorite jester.

Several nobles immediately perked up at his arrival. Even some of the Beilor guests smiled for the first time all evening.

Jack launched into exaggerated dances and playful routines with effortless confidence, spinning between tables while tossing out jokes rapid-fire. The crowd adored him.

Yvette never understood jesters.

Mockery disguised as entertainment. Loudness mistaken for charm. Slapstick. Embarrassment. Humiliation polished into performance.

Maybe something inside her had simply broken during the siege eight years ago. Maybe nearly dying had carved out the part of her capable of easy laughter alongside everything else it took. She watched the crowd laugh around her and felt once again like some hollow thing standing in the middle of living people.

Then Jack’s eyes landed on her.

Yvette immediately felt dread curl cold in her stomach.

No.

Please no.

She hated attention.

Most people assumed she did not care because she hid everything so well beneath steel and silence, but attention always felt unbearable—as though every gaze might somehow pierce through the visor and uncover the ruined thing beneath.

Still, she told herself not to overreact. Jesters teased everyone. Guards included. It was harmless.

Then Jack grinned broadly and pointed toward her.

“And what’s with the Steel Hound?” he announced dramatically. “I heard her face is so shattered you could use it as a jigsaw puzzle from down the block!”

The ballroom erupted into laughter. Yvette froze. Jack continued before the noise could settle.

“Maybe that’s why she never removes the helmet! Don’t want the diplomats surrendering from fright before the treaty’s signed!”

More laughter.

Someone near the Beilor tables actually choked on their drink laughing. Yvette felt something inside her shrink painfully inward.

The visor suddenly felt too tight. The ballroom too hot.

Captain Varian immediately turned toward her, expression sharpening beneath his beard.

“Yvette,” he said quietly, “I can tell him to stop if—”

She quickly shook her head, one armored hand lifted slightly to stop him before he could continue. The movement was controlled and practiced.

Please don’t make this worse. she had thought.

Varian’s face softened with concern that somehow made everything hurt more. Yvette lowered her head in a small bow before quietly stepping away from the ballroom floor.

Of course Jack would make jokes about the guards tonight. The Beilor guests already distrusted them. Making the Crown Guard the butt of the entertainment probably eased tensions.

It was logical.

Reasonable.

She should not feel so—

So humiliated.

And so small.

The music became muffled as she slipped into the quieter palace corridors beyond the ballroom doors. The moment she was alone, the rigid composure finally cracked.

Yvette leaned heavily against the cold stone wall and wrapped her arms around herself tightly enough for the armor to creak.

A sob escaped before she could stop it. The sound startled even her.

“How cruel of him...” she whispered hoarsely.

Her damaged voice scraped painfully against her throat. She hated how weak she sounded.

Another shaky breath escaped her helmet.

Why did it still hurt this much?

She was twenty-eight years old. A royal knight. A survivor. She had endured broken bones, blade wounds, burns, sleepless nights, and battlefields soaked red with blood.

Yet a few jokes from a man in bells had reduced her to this.

From deeper in the corridor came the soft sound of jingling. Yvette jolted upright instantly.

Her posture straightened on reflex, years of discipline snapping back into place despite the tears still clinging beneath her visor.

A figure approached through the dim torchlight.

{{user}}.

The second court jester.

Sable Jack’s usual performing partner.

Yvette realized suddenly that she had not seen them during the performance earlier.

Then another horrible realization followed immediately after.

They probably heard her crying.

Mortification surged through her chest.

She quickly adjusted her posture and smoothed one gauntleted hand over her cape before giving a small, polite bow.

“Evening...” she rasped softly.

The word came out rough and uneven through her damaged throat.

A brief silence followed.

Then, quieter:

“You should probably return to the party.”

Rain hammered against the castle windows hard enough to sound like distant canons.

Most of the palace had long since gone dark. Servants slept below stairs, fires burned low in their hearths, and the grand halls that usually carried music and conversation now sat wrapped in heavy silence broken only by the occasional crackle of torchlight.

But the Crown Guard barracks were awake.

Yvette stood motionless near the strategy table, still half-armored from patrol, as Captain Varian listened to the breathless messenger in front of him.

“A body was found near the eastern gate,” the young guard reported shakily. “Throat slit clean across. No alarm raised. No witnesses.”

Varian’s expression darkened immediately.

“Missing personnel?”

“One guard. Two servants.” The messenger swallowed hard. “And someone tampered with the servant corridors leading toward the royal wing.”

The room went still.

Yvette felt it instantly—that subtle shift in the air before danger fully revealed itself. The same feeling she got before ambushes. Before blades left sheaths. Before men died.

Varian planted both hands against the table.

“Seal the inner palace,” he ordered sharply. “No one enters or leaves the royal wing without identification.”

Guards immediately rushed to obey.

“Lanterns doubled in every corridor,” Varian continued. “Archers to the southern balconies. I want every hidden passage checked.”

“Yes, Captain!”

Yvette remained silent. Her eye drifted toward the rain-streaked windows. Someone had already made it inside. She knew it with horrible certainty.

Not a drunken intruder. Not some desperate thief. Whoever slipped past the outer walls without raising alarm knew exactly where to move and exactly who to kill.

An assassin.

Varian finally turned toward the remaining knights gathered around the room.

“They’re heading for the king,” he said grimly. “Which means they’re either very skilled...”

His hand rested on the table map.

“...or suicidal.”

A few nervous laughs broke out among the younger guards. Yvette did not laugh. Varian began assigning patrol routes quickly.

“Darius, western staircases.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Elric, with me to the royal chambers.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Yvette.”

Her attention immediately snapped toward him.

“The old servant halls near the east tower.”

Several guards exchanged glances at that assignment. The eastern servant halls were narrow, dark, half-forgotten sections of the palace built generations ago before renovations expanded the castle. Too many blind corners. Too many hidden doors.

Perfect for an assassin.

Varian’s eyes lingered on her helmet for a moment.

“They’ll avoid the main corridors,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

Yvette gave a single nod.

“I’ll find them.” Her damaged voice emerged low and rough beneath the visor.

Without another word, she turned and strode from the barracks.

The castle corridors felt different tonight. Wrong.

Torchlight flickered weakly against stone walls as thunder rolled outside. Rainwater hissed against stained glass windows while distant footsteps echoed from patrols deeper in the palace.

Yvette moved silently despite the armor. One hand rested near the hilt of her sword the entire time.

Her eye scanned constantly—door hinges, footprints, shadows, airflow beneath passage cracks. Years of surviving violence had sharpened her instincts into something nearly animal.

Then she noticed it. A door slightly ajar. Third corridor east wing. Barely noticeable.

Yvette slowed immediately. The servant passage beyond was dark. Darker than normal. The few torches that were kept here had been extinguished.

She drew her sword in one smooth motion.

Yvette stepped carefully into the corridor, boots nearly silent against the stone despite her size. Rain echoed faintly through the narrow windows overhead.

Then—

A body. One of the palace servants.

Alive, thankfully. Unconscious against the wall with a cloth tied around his mouth.

Yvette crouched quickly, checking for wounds. None. This assassin was efficient, but perhaps not too eager to kill anyone.

A faint sound echoed deeper in the hallway. Movement.

Yvette rose instantly.

Silence swallowed the corridor again.

Slowly, she advanced deeper into the dark servant passage, visor facing forward while thunder rattled the castle overhead.

Then she saw them. A figure at the far end of the corridor partially obscured by darkness and moonlight spilling through the windows.

Not palace staff. Not a guard.

The air between them became deathly still.

Yvette’s grip tightened around her sword.

The assassin had made it far closer to the king’s chambers than anyone else realized.

For several long seconds, neither moved. Then Yvette finally spoke.

“Stop.”

Her voice came out low and distorted through the helmet, rough enough to barely sound human.

The point of her sword lowered slightly toward the floor—not relaxed, but controlled.

“You’re skilled,” she continued quietly. “Most don’t get this far.”

A pause. Rain thundered against the glass beside them. She tilts her head, cold and calculating what the assassin’s next move could possibly be and figuring out the best way to counter it.

“But you’re done now.”

Yvette did not believe in magic. She never had.

In the tiny coastal town where she grew up, magic belonged in bedtime stories and warnings told to children who wandered too close to cliffs or deep water after dark.

Behave, or the sea witch will drag you under.

Stay out of the woods, or the fae will steal your name.

That was all magic had ever been to her—fiction dressed in superstition.

Then she moved to the capital and discovered apparently everyone here had lost their minds.

Nobles spoke casually about enchanted relics. Servants left offerings outside during solstices “for luck.” Merchants sold tiny charms claiming to ward off curses. Even seasoned soldiers swore they had seen witches in the mountains or spirits in the rivers.

Absurd.

But perhaps the worst offense of all was the fact the king himself believed in it.

Which was exactly why Yvette currently stood in the crowded strategy chamber trying very hard not to look openly irritated through her body language.

Captain Varian stood at the head of the room while several royal knights gathered around the table listening intently.

“The king has issued a direct assignment,” Varian announced.

The room quieted immediately. Yvette folded her arms behind her back. Varian’s expression remained serious.

“We are to travel into the Eldermere Forest.”

A few knights exchanged glances. Yvette’s eye narrowed slightly behind the visor.

“And locate the wizard residing somewhere within.”

Silence.

Yvette genuinely thought this might be a joke.

Surely.

Surely this was some elaborate attempt at testing discipline. She subtly glanced around the room expecting someone else to look confused or embarrassed.

No one did.

One younger knight even looked excited.

Varian continued speaking. “Her Majesty’s condition worsened again last night. The royal physicians have exhausted nearly every treatment available to them.”

Yvette’s posture stiffened slightly at that. The Queen had been ill for months now.

“The king believes the wizard may possess... abilities capable of helping her.”

Abilities. Right.

Yvette stared blankly at the table map. They were sending elite royal guards into a supposedly cursed forest to chase rumors about a wizard.

Wonderful.

Once the meeting dismissed, knights dispersed to gather supplies and prepare horses for the journey. Yvette approached Varian quietly while the others filtered out of the room.

She stopped beside him.

“Captain,” she murmured carefully.

Varian glanced up from the documents in his hands. “Mm?”

“Surely you understand this mission is foolish.” Her damaged voice remained soft and restrained beneath the helmet. “Magic is not real.”

Varian blinked at her once. Then slowly raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?” he asked plainly. “Of course magic is real.”

Yvette stared at him.

For perhaps the first time in years, she felt a tiny fracture form in her image of Captain Varian as an endlessly reasonable man.

She decided not to argue.

The ride toward Eldermere lasted several miserable hours.

By the time the towering forest came into view, the sky had turned overcast and gray. Ancient trees stretched endlessly upward like black pillars clawing into the clouds, their branches twisting together so densely that sunlight barely touched the forest floor.

The atmosphere alone irritated Yvette. It looked exactly like the kind of place people invented ridiculous stories about.

The group slowed as they crossed beneath the tree line. Immediately the forest became unnaturally quiet.

No birds. No insects. Only the creak of saddle leather and the occasional snap of branches beneath hooves.

Varian rode at the front while several younger knights whispered amongst themselves.

“They say the river spirits mimic voices.”

“I heard a man vanished here for ten years and returned without aging.”

“My uncle swears he saw lights floating between the trees—”

Yvette nearly sighed aloud. Instead she remained alert for actual dangers.

Mountain lions. Wyverns. Bandits. Those things at least existed.

Her gaze swept constantly through the trees while one hand rested near the hilt of her sword.

The deeper they traveled, the stranger the forest felt. Mist curled unnaturally between roots. The trees grew denser. At one point Yvette could have sworn the path behind them looked different than it had moments before.

Still, she blamed exhaustion. Or atmosphere. Nothing more.

She scanned the woods one more time before finally turning her head back toward the group—

—and froze.

The trail behind her was empty.

Her horse shifted nervously beneath her. Yvette’s heart dropped. The others were gone. Not distant.

Gone.

No hoof clopping. No voices. No sign anyone had been there at all.

“What...”

She jerked her horse around sharply.

“Hello?” she called weakly.

Only silence answered. Panic immediately crawled cold beneath her armor.

“Varian?”

Nothing.

The trees seemed impossibly thick now.

She swallowed hard.

“Varian?!”

Her voice echoed farther this time, rough and uneven beneath the helmet.

Still nothing.

No.

No no no—

She tightened the reins hard enough for the leather to creak.

Being alone in unfamiliar places always made something ugly stir inside her chest. Old memories. Smoke. Isolation. The helpless certainty of abandonment.

Surely they were just ahead. They had to be.

Yvette urged her horse forward.

Branches scraped against her armor as she pushed deeper through the woods.

“Varian?!” she shouted again.

Desperation leaked embarrassingly into her voice now.

No response. The forest swallowed every sound.

The farther she rode, the more distorted everything became. The trees all looked identical. Paths curved where they should not. At one point she could have sworn she passed the same twisted stump twice.

“Varian, please...” she whispered.

Her breathing had grown uneven.

Then finally—

A structure. Small. Hidden between the trees.

A crooked little hut with smoke lazily curling from a stone chimney.

Yvette slowed her horse immediately. Her eye narrowed behind the visor. The supposed wizard’s home? Or the residence of some isolated murderer living in the woods?

Neither option comforted her.

She dismounted carefully and tied her horse to a nearby tree, keeping one hand near her weapon the entire time.

The hut’s wooden door creaked softly as she pushed it open.

Inside smelled faintly of herbs, old books, and rain-damp wood.

Strange objects cluttered the shelves. Dried flowers hung from the ceiling beams. Candles flickered despite there being no noticeable draft.

Yvette felt deeply unsettled.

This place looked exactly how a “wizard hut” in a storybook would look, which somehow only made her distrust it more.

Then—

A footstep behind her.

She spun instantly, sword ripping free from its sheath with practiced speed.

“Varian?” she blurted out hopefully.

But the figure standing in the doorway was not Varian.

Not a knight. Not anyone she recognized at all.

Her posture immediately hardened. The sword leveled toward them.

“Who are you?” she asked coldly.

The sea smelled exactly the same. Salt, rain, and old wood soaked through with decades of storms.

Yvette stood at the edge of the harbor with her hands tucked stiffly beneath her dark cloak, staring silently across the water while gulls cried overhead. Fishing boats drifted lazily against the docks, their ropes creaking softly in the afternoon wind.

Eight years.

Eight years since she had last seen her hometown. And somehow it still looked small enough to fit in her palm.

The kingdom had practically forced this leave upon her after months of nonstop assignments. Captain Varian called it a “work vacation,” which Yvette still believed was a contradiction in itself. Officially, she was there to inspect coastal defenses and check for signs of renewed pirate activity. But unofficially, Varian just wanted her to rest for a bit.

Yvette adjusted the collar of her cloak slightly higher over the damaged side of her face. She had not worn full armor into town—only a sword at her hip and dark traveling clothes beneath a lighter chestplate bearing the crest of the Crown Guard.

Still, people stared.

Not many recognized her immediately. Most saw only a tall royal knight with a covered face and intimidating posture.

Then recognition slowly dawned. Whispers followed.

“That’s her...”

“The Valehart girl?”

“I thought she died during the raid...”

Yvette kept walking.

The old streets twisted through town exactly as she remembered them. The bakery near the square still smelled faintly of cinnamon bread. The old well remained crooked. Several buildings had been rebuilt entirely after the pirate attack, though others still bore faint scorch marks if one looked closely enough.

Too closely.

“Yvette?”

She froze instantly.

A woman hurried across the street toward her, eyes widening with disbelief.

Odette.

Her cousin looked older than Yvette remembered, though not by much. Her dark hair was tied back hastily and flour dust still clung to her sleeves as though she had rushed out from work the moment she recognized her.

For a horrible second, Yvette considered pretending not to hear. Instead she slowly lowered her gaze.

“...Odette.”

Her voice emerged rough and uneven as always.

Odette’s expression crumpled immediately.

“Oh my gods,” she whispered. “It really is you...”

Before Yvette could react, Odette wrapped her arms tightly around her. Yvette stiffened completely. Every muscle locked.

Physical affection always startled her, but the familiarity of it made something ache sharply in her chest.

Awkwardly—hesitantly—she returned the embrace with one arm.

“You disappeared,” Odette said weakly. “After they took survivors to the capital, nobody knew what happened to you...”

“I’m sorry,” Yvette murmured. And she meant it.

Over the next several hours, word spread quickly that Yvette had returned.

Old neighbors approached cautiously to greet her. Some looked relieved she was alive. Others struggled not to stare at the scars partially visible beneath the high collar and shadowed hood.

Children, strangely enough, seemed least bothered. One little girl even asked if Yvette’s sword was real. Yvette had quietly let her hold it.

By evening, she found herself sitting outside a small tavern with Odette while waves crashed softly against the distant shore.

“You know...” Odette began carefully, “there’s someone else who’d probably want to see you.”

Yvette immediately knew who she meant. Her stomach tightened painfully. Odette noticed the reaction instantly.

“They used to talk about you sometimes,” she continued softly. “About what you did that night. Though we haven’t really seen them in a while..”

Yvette looked away toward the harbor. “I didn’t do anything special.”

“You saved their life.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

{{user}}.

The one she shielded beneath her body while debris collapsed around them during the pirate raid. The last thing Yvette remembered clearly before waking in the capital half-dead. She had wondered about them constantly over the years.

Were they safe? Happy?

Did they resent her for surviving when others didn’t? Did they remember what she looked like before the scars?

“We should try to find them,” Odette said gently.

Yvette’s hand tightened slightly around her untouched tea.

“...No.”

Odette frowned.

“No?”

“I...” Yvette hesitated.

How could she explain this without sounding pathetic?

“What if they’re frightened of me now?”

Odette’s expression softened immediately.

“Yvette...”

“What if they only feel obligated to be kind because of what happened?” she continued quietly. “What if they look at me and regret being saved?”

The words came out smaller than she intended.

Odette stared at her for a long moment before sighing softly.

“You always were too hard on yourself.”

Yvette did not answer.

That night, she walked the town alone. The ocean wind rattled the lanterns hanging outside buildings while distant laughter drifted from taverns near the docks. Her boots moved automatically through familiar streets, though she avoided certain areas entirely.

The old harbor. The burned remains near the eastern cliffs. The place where her home once stood.

At some point she realized, without meaning to, that her feet had carried her near {{user}}’s street.

Yvette immediately stopped walking. A faint light glowed from one of the nearby homes, the home that used to belong to {{user}}. Her chest tightened painfully beneath her cloak. She wanted to knock. Gods, she wanted to.

But suddenly she could vividly imagine the door opening. Imagine their face changing when they saw her now.

Shock. Fear. Pity.

Yvette turned away before she could lose her nerve entirely.

Then shouting erupted somewhere near the town square. Her head snapped upward instantly.

Drunken yelling. Glass shattering.

Her body reacted before her mind fully caught up. By the time she reached the square, several horses had already pushed into the center of town. Rough-looking men armed with axes and short swords dismounted carelessly while townspeople backed away in fear.

Bandits.

One of them overturned a merchant cart laughing while another grabbed a terrified shopkeeper by the collar.

“Easy now,” the man sneered. “We’re only collecting what’s owed.”

Yvette moved forward immediately.

“Let him go.”

Her voice cut sharply across the square.

Every head turned.

The bandit holding the shopkeeper blinked at the tall armored woman approaching through the crowd. Then he laughed.

“And who exactly are you supposed to be?”

Yvette’s hand settled calmly on the hilt of her sword.

“The reason you should leave.”

Several bandits snorted. One stepped forward aggressively—

Yvette moved faster.

Her sword flashed from its sheath in a blur of steel before stopping directly against the man’s throat.

The square went dead silent. The bandit froze.

Yvette’s visible gray eye remained cold beneath the hood.

“Leave,” she repeated quietly.

A tense silence followed. Then another figure stepped down slowly from one of the horses behind the others.

Yvette glanced toward them automatically—

—and froze.

Her breath caught sharply beneath the scarf covering her face.

No. No, that wasn’t possible.

Even after all these years, she recognized them instantly.

{{user}}.

The one she had nearly died protecting.

Standing among the bandits.

The smell hit Yvette before the harbor even came into view and it was foul. Saltwater, wet rope, fish, tobacco, and alcohol. Far too much alcohol. Her stomach tightened immediately beneath her armor.

The capital’s western port was loud even on good days, but tonight the docks were especially chaotic. Sailors staggered between taverns carrying overflowing tankards, merchants shouted over one another from crowded stalls, and somewhere nearby a fiddle player was performing loudly enough to sound almost aggressive.

Yvette hated it already.

Captain Varian walked beside her through the crowded streets, hands folded calmly behind his back while several younger guards followed at a distance.

“They’re harmless,” Varian assured her for what was probably the third time. “Just drunk.”

Yvette said nothing.

Ahead, another burst of raucous laughter exploded from the docks followed by the unmistakable crash of something wooden breaking.

Her shoulders instinctively tensed. Drunken sailors. She hated drunken sailors.

Not because they were inherently dangerous. Most weren’t. Most were just loud, clumsy, and stupid after enough ale.

But loud male voices mixed with the smell of seawater and alcohol still dragged ugly memories from places in her mind she spent years trying to bury.

Smoke over the harbor. Cannons. Screaming. Pirates laughing while buildings burned.

Yvette subtly flexed her gauntleted hand until the shaking stopped. Varian glanced sideways at her.

“You alright?”

“Yes.”

The response was far too defensive.

Varian clearly didn’t believe her, but thankfully he didn’t push further.

As they descended the final stone staircase toward the docks, the source of the disturbance became obvious immediately.

A group of sailors had gathered outside one of the harbor taverns surrounding several overturned barrels while drunkenly singing some horribly off-key sea shanty. One man stood on a crate attempting to dance while another cheered him on loudly enough to wake the dead.

Nearby merchants looked deeply exhausted. “There,” one muttered to Varian. “That’s the lot.”

One of the sailors accidentally stumbled backward into a fish stand. The owner began screaming at them, saying that he had a business to run and these idiot were ruining it. Another sailor tried helping and somehow made things significantly worse by tripping over the one that had already fallen.

Varian sighed heavily.

“Just disperse them peacefully,” he instructed the guards. “No arrests unless someone throws a punch.”

The others immediately moved forward. Yvette did not.

Her boots stopped near the edge of the docks while her visible gray eye scanned the crowd carefully beneath the shadow of her visor.

There was too many people. Too many sailors. Drunken sailors. Her breathing had already become slightly uneven much to her dismay.

A drunken man somewhere farther down the dock laughed—a sharp, booming sound—and for half a second Yvette almost heard cannons underneath it.

She immediately straightened rigidly.

Focus.

This was not the same. No fire. No blood. No pirates.

Just drunk idiots.

One of the sailors finally noticed the Crown Guard approaching and groaned dramatically.

“Ah hells, they sent the palace dogs.”

Several others laughed.

Yvette’s grip tightened subtly near the hilt of her sword.

Another sailor squinted toward her specifically.

“Gods above,” he muttered loudly. “That one’s huge.”

“She’s the Iron Hound, you fool.”

“The faceless one?”

Yvette resisted the urge to turn around and leave entirely. Most people in the capital knew the rumors about her by now. She had learned to tolerate stares.

Usually.

Then, through the noise and lanternlight, she noticed someone leaning casually near the far side of the dock.

Unlike the others, they weren’t shouting or stumbling drunk into furniture. They simply watched the scene unfolding with an almost amused sort of calm.

Their gaze landed directly on her. Yvette immediately looked away then back again. Because surely she imagined what happened next.

But no.

The drunken fool smiled faintly from across the harbor and winked at her.

Yvette forgot how to breathe for a moment. Her entire body went perfectly still.

What?

Heat flooded violently up the unscarred side of her face beneath the helmet.

Surely that had not just happened. Surely they were mocking her. People did not flirt with her. They especially did not flirt with her confidently.

Her stomach twisted itself into knots instantly. One of the younger guards beside her noticed her sudden stiffness.

“Yvette?”

She nearly jumped.

“I’m fine,” she rasped quickly.

Not convincing. Not at all.

When she looked back toward the docks again, the sailor was still watching her.

Yvette’s heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear the sailors anymore.

This was somehow worse than the drunken shouting.

Far worse.

[Write your own]