The tavern’s air hung thick with spilled ale and the acrid tang of sweat. Vierra’s knuckles, already bruised and scraped, connected with the jaw of a burly dockhand. The man reeled, a guttural grunt escaping him as he stumbled back into a table, sending a cascade of empty tankards clattering to the sawdust-strewn floor. The familiar thrum of a brawl—the roar of voices, the splinter of wood, the sharp crack of bone—vibrated through her. It was a symphony she knew intimately, one that had been the backdrop to countless nights in the Lower Quays of Ostras. But this time, something was wrong. Her last memory was not of a fistfight, but of searing pain, the scent of blood and herbs, and the midwife’s panicked whispers. She’d been in childbed, five years from now, giving birth to a stillborn child, her lifeblood draining away, Garrick nowhere to be found. A cold, absolute void had consumed her. Yet, here she was. The bruising on her knuckles was fresh, the ache in her shoulder a familiar aftermath of a powerful swing. The faces around her, distorted by rage and cheap spirits, were years younger than the specters of her dying moments. Her own reflection, caught in a shard of a broken mirror near the bar, showed a face unlined by grief, eyes burning with a fire not yet banked by betrayal. Five years. She’d been hurled back. Not a ghost, but a weapon forged in a crucible of what was yet to come. The disorientation broke against a sudden, sulfurous rage. Not for the dockhand she’d just flattened, but for Garrick Daltry. Her husband. The man who would leave her to die while he ascended to the High Seat, stolen from its rightful heir, Zarek Vossen. The man who would bring Liora Fenn, his simpering mistress, into their bedchamber before her corpse was cold. “Enough of this quibbling, Vierra!” a voice boomed from the tavern's arched doorway. The brawl, which had been a maelstrom moments before, froze. All eyes, including Vierra’s, snapped to the newcomer. Garrick Daltry, cloaked in expensive, deep crimson wool that bespoke his rising station, stood framed against the drizzle-slicked street. His retinue, a half-dozen heavily armed enforcers, fanned out behind him, their faces grim. He strode into the tavern with the casual arrogance of a man who owned the very air he breathed. His gaze swept over the disarray, over Vierra, who stood amidst the chaos, a faint bruise blooming high on her cheekbone. A slow, possessive smile stretched across his lips. “Always the wildcat, my dearest. Come, the Lady Matron expects us. Your hands, they will be needed elsewhere tonight.” He held out a gloved hand, expecting her usual fiery, devoted submission—a quick, sharp retort perhaps, followed by a grudging acceptance as she fell into step beside him. Vierra did not move. The vision of her dying self, abandoned and alone, burned behind her eyes. The pain, the betrayal, the suffocating loneliness—it was all fresh again, sharp as a newly honed blade. But this time, she had her breath. She had her strength. And she had five years. Five years to change everything. “My hands, Garrick?” Her voice, usually a low growl in a fight, was unnervingly soft, almost a whisper, yet it cut through the sudden silence. “They’re quite busy, as you can see.” She gestured vaguely to the prone dockhand, then clenched her fists, the knuckles aching with a satisfying throb. Garrick’s smile faltered, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Do not play games, Vierra. The Matron grows impatient.” “Impatient?” She took a slow step towards him, her eyes, usually alight with a fierce loyalty for him, now held only a glacial contempt. “Is she impatient for me to clean up your messes? To smooth over your crude ambitions? To bear you a broken legacy?” Each word was a tiny shard of glass, deliberately placed. Garrick lost his florid flush, skin going chalky as the chill in her tone registered. His men shifted, uneasy. Then, with the speed of a striking viper, Vierra closed the distance. Her knee came up, sharp and precise, slamming into Garrick’s gut. The breath exploded from him in a choked gasp. He doubled over, clutching his midsection, his face contorting in shock and pain. The expensive crimson wool crumpled around him. His enforcers hesitated, hands stalling at their hilts, uncertain of how to touch their lord's wife. Vierra leaned in, her voice now a low, dangerous growl meant only for him. “The Vossen bloodline is not a toy, Garrick. And I am no longer your loyal fool. You want to scheme? Scheme alone.” She straightened, her gaze sweeping over his bewildered men, her posture radiating a cold, absolute resolve. “Leave him,” she commanded, her voice ringing with an authority she hadn’t possessed five years ago. “Let him wallow in his own filth.” She turned on her heel, striding past his sputtering, gasping form, ignoring the gaping stares of the tavern patrons and the bewildered enforcers. She pushed through the back door, into the narrow alleyway behind the establishment. The damp air hit her face, a welcome chill after the humid fury of the brawl. Rain slicked the cobblestones, reflecting the faint glow of distant street lamps. “Well, well. Someone finally decided to turn that fire on the right target.” Vierra stopped, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. Leaning against a grimy brick wall, a dark cloak pulled tight around him, was Bex. Her oldest, most infuriating friend. His usual cynical smirk was in place, though his eyes held a rare spark of impressed mischief. “He deserved worse,” Vierra stated, wiping a streak of grime from her chin with the back of her hand. “Oh, I have no doubt.” Bex pushed off the wall, producing an intricately carved bodkin from beneath his cloak. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, but the blade itself shimmered with an unnatural, pearlescent sheen, reflecting the dim light like trapped moonlight. It wasn’t metal. It was bone. Leviathan bone. “Speaking of deserving… look what I ‘borrowed’ from one of Garrick’s prize collectors. Just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time, as these things often are.” Vierra’s gaze fell to the dagger. Its craftsmanship was exquisite, the bone hardened and shaped with ancient techniques known only to a few select smiths. A Leviathan-bone weapon was more than just a blade; it was a symbol of Ostran power, a conduit for control over the maritime trade. This wasn’t just a theft; it was a declaration. A message Garrick would understand, once he realized what he’d lost. “Leviathan bone,” Vierra murmured, a sequence of strikes taking form in her thoughts. The first strike. Not just against Garrick’s pride, but against his very foundations. “Bex, you are a menace.” “Only in the service of greater chaos, my dear.” He grinned, flipping the carved rib to her. Vierra caught it with practiced ease, her fingers wrapping around the cool, smooth hilt. The solid mass settled cleanly against her palm, promising ruin. Her goal, once a muddled mess of surviving Garrick's political machinations, had crystallized. It wasn't enough to simply escape him. It wasn't enough to banish Liora. She would dismantle him. Every carefully constructed lie, every stolen advantage, every cruel betrayal. She would shatter it all, piece by meticulous piece, until Garrick Daltry had nothing left but the bitter ashes of his own ambition. The true heir, Zarek Vossen, would sit on the High Seat, and Garrick would grovel in the dust. “Come on,” Bex urged, gesturing deeper into the alley. “Before Garrick recovers enough to send his entire guard after us. You really put a dent in his ego, you know.” Vierra nodded, the dense ivory in her grip grounding her. They moved silently, their footsteps barely disturbing the puddles. Just as they neared the alley's end, a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom, stepping into the faint spill of light from a distant streetlamp. He was taller than she remembered, his frame lean and deceptively strong beneath a dark, unadorned coat. His eyes, the colour of deep sea ice, fixed on her. Recognition, stark and unsettling, flared in their depths. Zarek Vossen. The usurped heir, his face etched with a quiet, dangerous intensity. He had been a ghost in her past, a whisper of what should have been. Now, he was a tangible presence, watching her with an unnerving scrutiny. “You are playing a very dangerous game, little blade.”

The First Strike