The curved iron claw twitched against Kenan's neck. Kenan’s cry ripped through the small shack. Sariyah didn’t think. Her body moved, honed in gilded cages. The *keris* was in her hand before the infiltrator could register her movement. She didn’t lunge directly. Instead, a low, sweeping kick aimed for his lead leg. It wasn't the clumsy sweep of a barracks initiate, but a dancer's pivot, deceptively soft, designed to trip rather than shatter bone. The man twisted, his blade slicing the air where her ear had hovered an instant before.
“Sariq!” Jaran barked, his own keris drawn, its metal reflecting the lamplight. He covered the distance toward the captor pinning Kenan. “Release him!”
The shorter intruder snarled, yanking Kenan back as steel bit into flesh. A crimson line opened on Kenan’s throat. “The concubine first, Commander. Or the boy bleeds out.”
Blood drummed behind Sariyah's temples against the storm's noise. She couldn't let Kenan die. Her kick had been a feint. As the target recovered, she spun, her blade rising not to kill, but to turn aside the hook slashing toward Kenan. Steel clattered against steel in the cramped space. The impact rattled her wrist, but she held her stance. The intruder grunted, thrown off balance by the odd, fluid parry.
Jaran took the opening. While Sariyah kept the first fighter engaged with evasive spins, the Commander struck the second. He swept his weapon in a wide arc directly across the man's forearm, forcing him to drop his grip. The rogue shouted in fury, his fingers parting. Kenan twisted free and scrambled across the floor.
“Get out!” Jaran barked at Kenan, his voice like thunder. “Sound the alarm!”
Kenan, gasping, stumbled backward, wide-eyed, before bolting out the shattered doorway into the deluge. The second intruder lunged at Jaran, but the Commander countered, shoving the man hard against the wet bamboo wall.
Sariyah danced. Her footwork mirrored the forbidden steps taught in the pleasure pavilions—shifting, unpredictable, meant to divert attention before a fatal strike. She slipped past the heavy swings, redirecting each blow. Under the thatch, scales rustled. Kratip leaped from beneath the cot, wings tight against his back, snapping needle teeth into the intruder's tendon.
The fighter cursed, flinching down at the beast. Sariyah plunged forward with an upward slash, driving iron beneath his ribs into the armpit. He screamed as the edge cut deep, his hook slipping from numb fingers.
“Now!” Sariyah yelled. Jaran moved without a word. As the wounded man stumbled backward, clutching his torn arm, Jaran drove a boot into the center of his chest, hurling him straight toward the rent rafters.
Sariyah slammed both hands into the man's flank, adding her mass to the impact. With a shout, the intruder pitched backward through the gap, swallowed by the deluge and the surf below.
The shack held only rain noise and heavy panting. Seeing his partner vanish, the surviving marauder darted out the doorway into the squall. Kratip scrambled up Sariyah's linen wraps, nipping her ear in triumph.
Sariyah stood with drawn steel, ribs working. Kenan was safe. For once, she hadn't hidden behind a lewd quip or feigned idiocy. She had fought for him—and for Jaran.
Rain pelted Kenan as he hurried back through the entrance, three fellow initiates behind him. He stared at Sariyah. “Sariq… those moves… they weren’t barracks forms. And that scented ribbon… that's what they wanted.” His voice dropped low. “You saved my neck. On the Deepmother’s Scales, I stay quiet.” He looked between them, giving a quick, firm nod.
Sariyah held his gaze. Surien’s hunters were willing to slaughter these recruits just to drag her back to the altar. Her goal narrowed to iron: she had to kill the Rajah before he drained her to ash.
Jaran remained motionless, staring down at her. The control he wore like armor cracked. He took two long strides, seized her collarbones in rigid fingers, and shoved her back against the intact timber partition. The wood rattled behind her spine. Sariyah parted her lips, caught between raw surprise and sudden heat.
“Damnation,” he rasped, voice cracked and low. His head dipped. His mouth smashed down against hers, hard and feverish. It was clumsy with need, the motion of a man surrendering to madness. Sariyah’s keris fell, clattering against the floorboards. Her fingers bunched in his wet tunic, hauling him closer, answering the fierce pressure until salt and rain mingled on their tongues.
He wrenched back, chest heaving, his pupils blown wide. “I am damned,” he whispered, staring at her mouth. “I don't care.”
His knees buckled. His fingers slipped from her tunic, eyelids fluttering shut as his weight dropped against her chest. Sariyah caught him by the ribs, staggering under his bulk. Her hand brushed his neck and found it: a barbed splinter of blackened bone buried beneath his collarbone. Jaran let out a thick, rattling cough before slumping limp across the wet timber.