“Again!” A sharp voice rang through the courtyard, echoing off of cobbles and delicately carved arches. Samaire, pinned beneath a heavily muscled guard, groaned in protest. She slumped against the ground, trying to resist the urge to thrash about in temper. The man rose fluidly, grabbing her wrist and dragging her to the feet.

The sharp voice belonged to a lean man of nearly fifty, all harsh lines and heavy beard. He prowled towards her, a fury that seemed half a step below madness in his eye. She tried to straighten herself, but her muscles refused to obey, and spirits she was so [i]tired[/i]. She began to complain, but his armored hand cracked across her face. Her mouth filled with blood and stars swam in her vision. Samaire staggered, reaching out blindly to support herself. It was a small miracle that she didn’t fall.

“Damn you to the hells, I am [i]trying[/i]--!” She snapped, peering up, her temper bursting forth like wild stallions. “I can’t, Uncle, I’m exhausted—“
“Do you think this is a [i]game[/i]? Do you think that any assassin will care that you are [i]tired[/i] and that you don’t want to fight right now?” Her Uncle Jonas barely raised his voice above a whisper. His words stung more than the crack of his hand. He was right, of course. Samaire spat red onto the cobblestones.

“Again,” he called, and Samaire willed herself to be fluid to take the larger man down.

------

It took every ounce of her strength and judicious use of her knees to keep the man from escaping. He thrashed like an unbroken horse, all snarling teeth and barely contained rage. Everything was a mess of limbs, too quick to do anything but react.

[i]Water[/i], she reminded herself, shifting her weight. Jules had released the man, leaving her and Brenna to keep him pinned, and the space to maneuver was a small blessing. Samaire had grappled men twice her size, but she couldn’t recall having ever struggled this much before. He wasn’t all that much larger than her, but there was a deceptive amount of power in his limbs. Had he not been bound, Samaire doubted they could have restrained him. She wasn’t sure what he was—perhaps he was fueled by the missing heart. But she had known all manner of men in her three and twenty years, and this was no proper man. The flash of red eyes, the sheer [i]power[/i] in its frame—men were not forged from such iron.

Jules bound the man-thing’s eyes—she didn’t quite know what she expected, but she certainly didn’t anticipate the way the body beneath her slackened. The cart seemed unnaturally still. For a moment, all she could hear were labored breaths and the drumming of her heart. Despite the agony in her arms, she kept her position, her knee driven into the back of his, her grip tight and her weight solid. Beside her, Brenna swore.
Jules’ voice broke the silence, shakier than she had ever heard it before. In the four months she had lived and worked here, she’d never known the man to be anything but self-assured. That, more than anything, was unnerving. 

“Ain’t never seen the like. Ho, Brenna? Samarie?” 

For a moment, all she could see were glassy eyes and a funeral pyre. Her heart slammed into her ribs. She ducked her head, grateful for the excuse of the man-thing beneath her. Fingers tightened, muscles trembled. She had to stay present. It was vital she keep her wits. There was no space to drown in memories, not here, not now. Breathe. [i]Breathe.[/i]

She was spared answering—Jules was directing new questions at her. She frowned, raising green eyes to study him. Spirits, but that was a lot of blood. Jules looked frighteningly pale. Not for the first time, she wished she had learned more of healing. But her hands weren’t meant to soothe aches or set bones—her hands had been forged for battle. Since girlhood, she had been sharpened on the whetstone of death, honed into a worthy weapon. She had shattered, a broken, useless blade.

“There’s work to be done,” Samaire stated simply. Her voice sounded blessedly even, a small miracle. Inhale. Exhale. She was not a particularly talkative woman these days, more prone to silent action than words. 

“Brenna,” she addressed the flame haired woman, nodding over to Jules. The man-thing was still, and if it had not been warm, she might have suspected it to be a corpse. “Help him.”
“Daveed’s gone for the Third,” she nodded, gingerly easing up. Samaire moved to adjust her pin, despite the shuddering in her arms. She had endured worse. She could work through a little exhaustion. 

Brenna couldn’t seem to get away fast enough, scrambling through the bloody cart, shadows in her face. Samaire couldn’t fault her. Dark things were afoot. Everything tasted of ashes and smoke, of dread and dying. Spirits, she did not want to watch the world burn again. 

The Third arrived in a throng of guards, steel at the ready. Samaire wished it had been anyone other than her here; it did not help her case for innocence that she was present. She had done nothing, had wished nothing either way for the Zarnofsky’s other than to continue her employment… but she could see that the neither the Third nor the Second truly believed her. They had no reason; she was not a child born in the town, nor an extra hand from a nearby village in need of work. She was an unaccounted daughter who had traveled for months and stumbled here with a blade too finely made and dreams that left her choking for air. She was an outsider who had found a stag with its heart cut out.

Samaire wouldn’t have trusted herself either, had it been Before.

The horses had been recovered, although they would not near the cart. Samaire was pleased to see neither had been hurt. They had lost too many to the landslide. Jules was tended to proper, and the man-thing carefully clapped in irons. 

As suddenly as the madness had begun, it ended. Samaire was left to catch her breath. 

A strange thought struck her.

That kind of power, fueled by hearts or not, was exactly what she needed.