The tavern floor, slick with spilled rice wine and something vaguely unidentifiable, shimmered under the swinging oil lamps as a particularly meaty fist connected with a merc’s jaw. A broken ceramic mug spun through the air, narrowly missing the head of a shrieking woman (me) before embedding itself with a wet thwack into the wall. This was the Drunken Eel, a gem of the Silk Quarter, and business was, as usual, booming. “Oh, dear heavens above!” I wailed, my voice pitched two octaves higher than necessary, a perfect imitation of a terrified songbird. My hands flew to my face, fingers splayed, leaving just enough gap to peer through. My silken shawl, a vibrant tangerine weave I’d spent all morning ‘distressing’ to look like cheap market fare, fluttered around me as I ducked behind a overturned table. A sturdy, if slightly sticky, barrier. From my vantage point, huddled amongst the legs of a particularly burly brawler, I watched the target. A mercenary, identifiable by the garish red sash tied over his stained tunic, was flailing wildly. His small, leather-bound notebook, rumored to contain coded routes for the Obsidian Hand syndicate, was tucked precariously into his belt. He was too busy trying not to get his nose broken to notice anything else. Perfect. As a stray stool launched itself across the room, catching the burly brawler squarely in the shin, he bellowed. The mercenary, startled by the noise, stumbled backwards, directly into the trajectory of a flailing arm. It was my cue. I scrambled out, a picture of clumsy panic, bumping hard against the mercenary. A swift, practiced flick of my wrist, obscured by my voluminous sleeves and the chaos, and the booklet was mine. “P-pardon me, sir!” I squeaked, clutching my shawl to my chest, my eyes wide and brimming with what looked like imminent tears. He merely grunted, pushing me aside with a meaty hand, already distracted by another punch hurtling towards him. I melted back into the shadows near the winding staircase, the stolen booklet tucked flat against my ribs. The thrill, sharp and clean, sang through my veins, but it quickly soured as the tavern doors burst open with a resounding crack. Silence descended like a physical blow. The brawlers froze, their fists mid-swing, their snarls dying on their lips. Even the oil lamps seemed to dim. He entered. Natthawut. The Monsoon General. His presence dominated the drafty hall, stilling every mug and pair of dice. He was taller than I remembered from the whispered reports, broader, his military tunic a dark, unforgiving charcoal against the sudden pallor of the room. His dark irises, deep as stagnant canal water, swept over the chaos, cold and assessing. He was the bringer of my bloodline's doom. “General… Natthawut,” a merchant stuttered, bowing so low his forehead nearly scraped the grimy floor. My heart, which usually remained a placid pond even in the face of imminent danger, became a drum. *Stay away from him, Chailai. His shadow is death to our line.* The words from my grandmother’s last fevered dream echoed in my head. I had to go. Now. Without a second thought, I sprinted. Not for the door, which was now blocked by the commander's broad frame, but for the open second-story window that overlooked the drainage passage. The shouts resumed as I scrambled over the sill, my tangerine shawl catching on a splintered edge. I ripped it free, a small tear in the cheap fabric, and dropped. The fall was a jarring five feet, landing me in a heap amongst a pile of refuse and rotting fruit. A stray cat hissed, then darted away. I didn’t waste a moment. My fingers fumbled at the bottom of my basket, pulling out a crude, heavy brass mask. It was a funeral mask, depicting a distorted, weeping face, culturally taboo to wear outside of specific rites, and hideously ugly besides. Perfect for obscuring my features. I slapped it over my face, the cold metal pressing against my skin. The stone passage was dark, reeking of river mud and rotting carp, twisting unpredictably between stilts. My goal: vanish. Just disappear into the city’s underbelly like a forgotten raindrop. I ran, the heavy mask making my breathing sound like a strangled wheeze. My feet, clad in flimsy sandals, slipped on the slick cobblestones. My gaze, squinting through the bronze slits, stayed fixed on the next turn, and then the next. I didn't see the rain-barrel until my shin connected with it. A sharp, searing pain shot up my leg, and I pitched forward, a cry choked off by the mask. The heavy brass mask, dislodged by the impact, flew from my face. It spun through the air, a glint of dull metal against the gathering gloom, a ridiculously slow, almost comical arc. At the same exact moment, a sliver of darkness, a poisoned dart no longer than my finger, materialized from a hidden alcove across the alley. It whistled through the air, aimed directly at the throat of Natthawut, who had just stepped out of the tavern’s back door to investigate the disturbance. The mask, with a dull *thwack*, intercepted the dart mid-flight. The tiny projectile embedded itself harmlessly into the mask’s brass forehead, its poisoned tip stopped cold. Natthawut froze, his gaze following the trajectory of the dart, then the mask as it clattered to the ground. Then, those dark canal-water irises found me. I was sprawled on the ground, hair disheveled, my face uncovered, staring at him like a startled river crab. My ribs locked, every instinct screaming *run*. I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in my leg, and bolted down the alley. My heart was a frantic bird, trying to escape my chest. I didn’t dare look back. I just ran, weaving through the crowded docks, past startled vendors and gawking children, until a strong hand clamped around my arm, yanking me into the sudden darkness of a brick archway. “What in the name of the Ancestors were you *doing*?” Maliwan’s voice, usually a melodic whisper, was a furious hiss. Her eyes, usually so warm, sparked with genuine anger. She slammed a heavy wooden door shut behind us, plunging the small room into near-total darkness, save for a sliver of moonlight from a single high window. “I… I didn’t mean to…” I gasped, leaning against the rough plaster wall, trying to catch my breath. The stolen notebook felt like a lump of lead now, not a prize. “He just… appeared. I had to get away! The prophecy, Maliwan, it’s real! His shadow is death!” Maliwan ran a hand through her short, practical hair. “Your dramatics are going to get us both killed one day, Chailai. You know that warlord has an uncanny knack for finding trouble.” She paused, then added, softer, “And for being found.” A sharp rap echoed through the small safehouse. Three quick, precise knocks. Maliwan’s eyes flickered to the door, then back to me, a flash of something unreadable in their depths. She moved with practiced ease, sliding a small, ornate dagger from her sleeve, tucking it subtly behind her back. “Stay quiet,” she mouthed, her voice a low rumble. She opened the door just a crack. Enough for a sliver of light to illuminate a stern, imposing figure standing on the threshold. He was a mountain of a man, clad in the dark tunic of the commander's personal guard, his expression flat as river shale. In his massive hand, he held a familiar, ugly brass mask. “My apologies for the intrusion,” the lieutenant’s voice boomed, cutting through the night air. “But General Natthawut sends his regards. He wishes to court the woman who so bravely saved his life.”

The Trajectory of Flying Stools