The bounty sketch felt like a brand, searing the blood from Sariyah’s face. Her own painted eyes stared back, marked by an innate pulse that made her a target. Rajah Surien was coming. He sought *her*. She ripped the scroll from the herald’s hand, crushing it in her fist before he could utter another word. Jaran, his face a mask of iron, watched her. His own reaction was unsettlingly calm, as if the world was not about to shatter. “A bounty, you say?” Jaran’s voice was a low rumble, devoid of inflection. “And the Rajah himself is on his way?” “Within a day, Commander!” the herald stammered, scrambling to retrieve the mangled scroll. “He demands full cooperation from the Brotherhood in securing this… asset.” Sariyah shoved past them both, the urge to flee a cold fist around her heart. Escape was a desperate, primal scream, but where could she go? The Coral-Bone Barracks, a fortress of all-male recruits, was now a cage. She had to think. She had to survive. Her only hope was to disappear among the ranks, to become a shadow in the monsoon-drenched chaos that would surely follow. The next morning, the sky cracked open. Monsoon rains lashed the Barracks, turning the parade ground into a churning swamp of mud and grey water. Every trainee, every Commander, every cook and stable hand, was summoned to the main courtyard. Rajah Surien’s arrival was heralded not by trumpets, but by the relentless downpour and a silence so profound it seemed to swallow the roaring wind. Sariyah stood in the third rank of recruits, head bowed, face deliberately streaked with mud and rainwater. Her tattered tunic clung to her, soaked and heavy. She’d spent the predawn hours rolling in the muck behind the leviathan pens, desperate to obscure her features, to become indistinguishable from the other boys. Kratip, her winged pangolin, was a warm, heavy lump tucked inside her shirt, surprisingly still. A retinue of grim-faced guards, their black scale armor gleaming wetly, parted for Rajah Surien. He was not the aging, paunchy despot Sariyah remembered from court gossip. This Surien was lean, almost gaunt, with eyes like chips of obsidian that missed nothing. A cruel twist played on his lips, a predatory smile that promised pain. He wore robes of deep emerald silk, already stained with rain, and carried a keris blade whose hilt was carved into a grotesque, leering serpent’s head. He stopped before the first rank, his gaze sweeping over the assembled men. “I am Rajah Surien,” he announced, his voice surprisingly soft, yet carrying over the din of the storm. “And I expect discipline. Absolute. Unquestioning.” His eyes landed on a senior recruit, a burly man named Kian, whose arm rested against the shoulder of the lad beside him in weary camaraderie. Surien’s smile vanished. “You. Recruit.” His finger, long and bony, pointed at Kian. “Is that how you hold formation in the presence of your Rajah? Like a common stable boy leaning on his mount?” Kian’s face paled. “My apologies, Rajah. I meant no disrespect.” “Disrespect?” Surien chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Disrespect is a luxury I do not afford. Slackness, slovenliness, fraternization… these are the diseases that rot an army from the inside out. And I, unlike some others, believe in amputation.” Before anyone could react, Surien’s keris flashed. A wet gasp, a spray of crimson, and Kian’s head separated from his body, thudding into the muddy parade ground. His torso sagged, then toppled, splashing into a puddle, his dead eyes staring up at the rain-lashed sky. A stunned silence gripped the courtyard, broken only by the incessant drumming of the rain. Sariyah felt her stomach churn, bile rising. This wasn’t just tyranny; it was cold, calculated horror. Surien wiped the blade on Kian’s now headless uniform, his expression utterly detached. “Let this be a lesson,” he declared, his voice ringing with chilling authority. “The Coral-Bone Barracks will be cleansed, of all its filth, all its weakness.” Jaran, standing ramrod straight at the head of the Commander’s line, had not flinched. His face was granite, his eyes fixed forward. Sariyah felt a tremor run through her. Such control. Such rigid discipline. She glanced at him, then did a double take. Perched squarely on Jaran’s head, nestled into his neatly braided queue, was Kratip. The pangolin was fast asleep, a soft, purring snore rattling faintly in the downpour. Jaran’s mouth set hard, his ear twitching almost imperceptibly, but he remained utterly unmoving, a statue of discipline with a snoring beast for a hat. Surien’s gaze finally found Jaran. “Commander Jaran. You lead this esteemed Brotherhood contingent, do you not?” “I do, Rajah,” Jaran replied, his voice a low, steady bass, remarkably unfazed by the small, furry addition to his uniform. “Good. Then you will aid me in a matter of utmost importance.” Surien gestured to one of his guards, who stepped forward, holding a small, dark vial. Inside the glass, a thick, black fluid swirled, viscous and oily. “My daughter is… unwell. A rare, ancient blight upon her bloodline. It consumes her, day by day.” His voice softened, a flicker of raw desperation in his dark gaze. “Only an ancient blood-transfer ritual can save her. And for that, I require a specific donor. One with a vibrant innate resonance. A concubine, recently fled from my court. Perhaps you’ve seen her face on a bounty sketch?” A numbing chill seized Sariyah, sharper than the monsoon rain. A ritual transfer. She’d heard the whispers in the concubine quarters. It wasn’t a transfer; it was a draining. A complete siphoning of the donor’s life force, until nothing remained but an empty husk. This wasn’t a lecherous hunt for a runaway girl. This was a desperate, monstrous father seeking to sacrifice another life for his own. His lecherous reputation was a carefully constructed lie. This man was far more terrifying than she had ever imagined. Surien’s gaze, sharp as a honed blade, swept over the ranks again, lingering. His eyes, already unsettling, narrowed further as they settled on a figure in the third row, mud-caked and slouching. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, then another, until he stood directly in front of Sariyah. His voice dropped to a chilling whisper, for Jaran’s ears alone. “Commander Jaran,” he commanded, his eyes still fixed on Sariyah’s face. “Wash the filth off that boy; he has the eyes of a rat I used to own.”

Monsoon Monsters