Chapter 20
Thenightaircarriedthe scent of roast meat and spiced wine, rising from the courtyard below in visible waves of warmth.The merchant estate blazed with torchlight, every window aglow, every door thrown open in celebration.Laughter and music spilled into the darkness like stolen gold.
On the rooftop above, Nyraxa Varkesh lay flat against the tiles, her dark clothing making her near invisible in the moonless night.Beside her, stretched in either direction along the ridge line, her girls waited, fifteen of them, the best she had, each one with their hair and mouth wrapped, eyes lined, and harnesses stocked.
They slipped in the upper room windows, crouching and crawling until they were directly above the main gathering.Through the gaps in the wooden floorboards, the banquet unfolded like a stage play.
Merchants in Kemetian linen and Thessaran satin crowded around low tables piled high with roasted fowl, honeyed dates, and bread still steaming from the ovens.Servants wove between them, refilling cups with wine that had travelled further than most men ever would.At the head of the hall, on a raised platform that marked him as master of this house, sat a man with a booming laugh and rings on every finger.
He raised his cup.
"To Orda Naiman!"His voice carried, thick with wine and satisfaction."May his shadow stretch across the Grass Sea and his name be feared from Kuraltai to Kemet!"
The hall echoed his toast, cups lifted, and wine poured in libation.Men laughed and clapped each other on the shoulders, already counting the coin this alliance would bring.
Nyraxa's lips curved.
Orda Naiman.The warlord who had been making noise in the north, swallowing territory as if it were beads, growing fat on the fear and chaos he caused.The same Orda Naiman had somehow found allies here, in Tarsyn.
She looked left, then right.Caught the eyes of her girls—Zara, Yelena, and little Amara with her knife already in hand.They nodded, one by one.
She raised three fingers.
One.
Below, the host was telling a story, his hands gesturing expansively, his audience laughing on cue.
Two.
“—And of course!”The host howled.“To the King of Kings!”
Three.
Nyraxa's fingers closed into a fist.
They dropped through the roof, the sound of wood splintering disrupting the jubilation.
The first anyone understood of the attack was the scream—high and cut short as Zara's blade found the throat of the guard nearest the door.He crumpled without a sound, his blood painting the wall behind him.
Then the torches went out.
Nyraxa had planned it that way—her girls positioned above the lamps, ready to smother them at her signal.Darkness fell, disorienting the prey in the room, sealing their victory.
You can't kill what you can't see.Nyraxa had taught them that.And you can't fight what you can't find.
In the chaos, her girls moved like wraiths.Deadly, vicious, and stunning.Amara worked the edges, her small frame slipping between panicked merchants, her knife finding kidneys and throats with sharp brutality.She was seventeen, the youngest of Nyraxa's inner circle, and she killed like she'd been born to bring about Ukhel’s will.
Yelena took the centre.Men swung at shadows and hit nothing; she swung at flesh and never missed.Zara guarded the exits, gutting anyone that tried to run, be they merchant or customer, slave or free man.
Nyraxa walked through the slaughter.Her blade was in her hand, but she barely used it, finding her girls more than capable of taking care of mere men.
Twelve guards down.
Fourteen.
Nyraxa noted.The merchant's personal protectors are rallying by the platform—Yelena sees them.
The host himself had crawled under his table, his fine robes dragging through spilled wine and worse.Nyraxa could see him there, a lump of terror, rings glinting in the faint light from the dying embers of the torches that lined the walls.
