The sun dips below the horizon as I draw Sabre to a halt at the town stables. The streets buzz with life—merchants packing up their wares, the aroma of spiced meats wafting from nearby taverns, the distant strains of a minstrel’s tune. I swing down from the saddle, my boots hitting the cobblestones with a dull thud.
“You did well, Sabre,” I murmur, patting his sweat-lathered neck.
He snorts softly, offering an affectionate nicker in return. The gray stallion is spent, but like me, he thrives under pressure; otherwise, I wouldn’t have pushed him so hard.
Handing his reins to a stable boy, I stride over to the manager and place a few extra coins into his calloused hand. “Make sure he gets the good oats and a proper rubdown.”
“Aye, sir, that we will,” he replies eagerly, eyes gleaming at the generous tip. “So what brings ye to our fine kingdom? Is it duty or pleasure ye’ll be seeking? Perhaps I could point ye in the right—”
I turn and walk away. Uninterested in small talk or sharing details of my affairs, I let his words fade into the background hum of the bustling town.
There was a time when I would have returned his smile and exchanged a few friendly words before moving on. But I’m not that man anymore. Not since I returned home to find my father gone, the family business collapsed, and my mother on her deathbed. The day I laid her to rest is the day that man ceased to exist and a new one was born, one who lives for vengeance.
The only problem is I have no plan. But I am nothing if not resourceful. Tonight, I will eat and drink my fill, wash the grime of the road from my skin, and sleep like the dead. Tomorrow, I’ll head into town and gather intel on how I might gain access to my mark.
It’s a task made easier by the fact that I am already familiar with Pentacles and most of its nobles, though they will not know me. As a member of the personal guard to Valen, the prince of Swords, I have visited every kingdom and far-reaching region in Towerfall onmultiple occasions. But nobles born of high blood only ever pay attention to those within their elite circles, never to those below—which will work to my advantage.
The lamplighter moves methodically down the cobblestone street, igniting each lamp and casting a warm glow that pushes back the encroaching darkness. The city is more alive tonight than usual with clusters of people lingering outside taverns, their laughter mixing with the distant strum of a lute.
A man’s bellow cuts through the din, and I follow a line of stragglers drawn in by his shouts. “Next is this rare bird ’ere. Ain’t she a beauty? Hale and hearty, she is. She’d be a fine addition to any proper household, ladies, or for some o’ you gents, maybe an improper house, eh?”
My upper lip curls in disgust. Among the lower classes, servants and pawns perform the same tasks; the difference is free will. Servants are in their positions by choice and receive wages for their work. Pawns, on the other hand, are unfortunate souls taken by force and sold at auction, condemned to a life of unpaid labor. The despicable practice was outlawed in our kingdom long ago, but plenty of regions still cling to the old ways.
I’m eager to reach the Gilded Coin and drink my weight in ale, but when my gaze lands on the pawn standing in the center of the stage, my steps falter. Having accompanied Prince Valen during his role as a royal emissary, I’ve encountered countless faces, yet I have never seen a more intriguing woman.
Her attire is a strange blend of feminine and masculine. Gray breeches hug the curves of her hips and thighs, then loosen around her calves, the hems brushing the tops of her stockinged feet.
But it is the pale blue bodice, held up by slender straps, that makes me thirst for more than just ale. Unlike the typical corsets made of thick wool and rigid boning that both conceal and accentuate the female form, her garment resembles a delicate chemise. The fabric is paper-thin and highlights the turgid points of her nipples and soft swells of her breasts, leaving little to the imagination.
Her heart-shaped face and delicate features remind me of the woodland nymphs in the stories my mother used to read to me as a child. High cheekbones, a pert nose, bee-stung lips, and eyes framed by lashes so thick I can see them from this distance. I can’t discern the color of her eyes from here, but any shade would be striking against her fair complexion and hair the color of autumn leaves kissed by the setting sun.
She is stunning, yet it’s not only her beauty or even her strange attire that has captured and held my attention. It’s the contrast between the quiet confidence in her posture and the emotion flashing in her eyes. It’s not the usual fear or defeat but something more akin to confusion or uncertainty, as though she doesn’t fully grasp her circumstances.
Telling myself that I’m sticking around out of mere curiosity, I step into the shadows of a nearby alley to observe.
“Let’s start the bidding at ten silver pieces!” the auctioneer announces with a flourish of his meaty hand. A flurry of arms shoot up from the crowd, and he eagerly points to those he suspects have deeper pockets, driving the price up swiftly. It isn’t long before the bids reach a hundred silver pieces, then shift to gold, leaving only two determined bidders locked in competition.
One is a woman in a modest black dress and bonnet, the typical attire of a house manager of a noble estate. The other is a man I recognize all too well. He’s the owner of a notorious brothel, eyeing the pawn as if she were a bar of solid gold.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, my muscles tensing as their bids go back and forth. I don’t know which noble the woman works for, but I hope they have pockets deep enough for her to win.
“One hundred gold pieces from the gentleman!” the dealer shouts with a gleeful grin. “Madame, will you do one fifteen? One ten?” She shakes her head, her expression unreadable. “One oh five?”
Again, she declines. I glance over at her opponent. His arrogant smirk makes my fists clench, itching to punch that smug look off his ugly fucking face.
“Do I hear one oh five?” The dealer eyes the crowd, not ready to concede. “C’mon, gents, this sweet cunt could be yours for the taking.” He sticks out his tongue and reaches out to grab her sex. In an instant, she swings her shackled fists and nails him in the nose. He cups his face, screaming in pain as blood gushes between his fingers.
“Touch me again, and next time it’ll be your balls,” she hisses, eyes blazing.
Adding insult to injury, the crowd roars with laughter and hurls emasculating jeers at the dealer.
“You little—” Fury twists his features, and he rears back, ready to strike…
“Five hundred gold pieces!”
I look around with everyone else to see who it was that shouted before realizing it was me. Deciding tofollow my gut, I step out of the shadows, repeat my bid, and commit to my impulsive decision. Though I have the dealer’s attention, his arm remains poised to strike.
“I do not purchase damaged goods,” I say firmly, my voice cutting through the murmurs. “If you want my coin, you would do well to back the fuck away from what is mine.”
