When Lyra was hardly six winters, too young to understand the world beyond the horse paddock, men in black robes tore her family apart. They came in the dead of night — ghastly apparitions stood on the doorstep. She heard them knock at the door, and through the tiny window above her bed, she watched them haul her father off into the darkness. The next morning, she woke to her mother in the kitchen, an uncomfortably wide smile plastered on her face as she prepared breakfast.

"Your grandfather's ill and the mendicant suspect he won't last the week," her mother claimed. "Your father left to see him off. He'll be home soon."

The days melted into weeks, and from there, into months. The months compounded still, and soon one year became two. Two became five. A decade passed and the second quickly approached with no word. He never came home. No letter arrived to assure them of his health. The Guard never delivered with news of his passing.

He simply vanished into thin air.

The quiet of morning smothered the town, the streets still and barren. It was a recent occurrence, one quickly becoming commonplace in the wake of Mayor Ashburn's death. On the surface, life continued as normal; the town woke at sunrise and wound down shortly after dusk gripped the sky. Peace became an illusion, upheld with false smiles and forced pleasantries. Behind the guise of normalcy, anxiety bubbled. People kept to themselves and within the safety of their homes. Children no longer wandered the streets. The older folk became reticent, whispering amongst themselves as they cast their doubtful gazes about, as if they feared someone might hear their mutterings.

Snow gathered on the hem of Lyra’s dress as she picked her way through the streets. Her basket, a pitiful thing woven of splintering wicker and lined with threadbare fabric, sat heavy on her arm. Beneath the crisp green apples tucked inside lay the source of the weight.

Lyra did not like weapons; they were tools of violence, forged only for a single, horrible purpose. Unlike knives and axes, which had less offensive uses, swords and daggers existed only to cause harm — to maim and cleave at flesh. She never thought she'd carry one, and its mere presence filled her with disgust.

She passed a younger guard, who was much too short to douse the lanterns that lined the streets. The sun would rise within the next half hour, the first light of morning already turning the sky from deep blue to muted purple. Pendel would fall into the façade of liveliness once more.

Her path took her down the lesser traveled streets, through the back allies where townsfolk left their refuse for the sweepers. She stepped past crates overflowing with old clothes and food scraps and over thick sacks filled with the contents of emptied chamber pots. The streets stank of human waste — which never quite bothered her; her mother threw their chamber pots into the compost — but it would not last for more than a few hours.

Mayor Ashburn had kept Pendel spotless as could be. They did not throw waste carelessly into the streets, as it was in most places; thick bags, coated with wax to prevent leakage, were used to line their chamber pots. The sweepers then collected the bags and transferred them by cart to a dumping ground several miles outside of town. The ingenuity behind the system proved its worth a few years prior. When disease broke out in their corner of the kingdom, Pendel pulled through without a single case.

The townspeople prayed his successor would be as attentive to their well-being as Mayor Ashburn was.

She swallowed thickly. That night remained firmly lodged in her memory. It plagued her sleep — the blood, the violence, all of it as real and vivid as the day it happened. She still felt the blood on her dress, the skirt soaked and warm and slick against her legs. Guilt clung to her like shackles, weighing down her every step — the chains wrapped so tightly around her ankles she feared she might trip and never find her feet again. She hoped this all ended soon; she couldn't keep up the charade for much longer.

The barracks, a low stone building with bark shingles, stood directly behind the Guard post, dominating a full black of Knapp street, which ran parallel to the charred remains of the town hall less than a quarter mile away. The sky had shone orange the night of the fire, the plumes of black smoke so large she'd seen them from her mother's farm on the southern fringes of the kingdom. Pala and Evelina were the only survivors. Fifteen maids and servants perished before the Guard contained the inferno. All that remained of the town hall were a few smoldering beams and scorched stone.

The barracks' entrance was unguarded. After the brawl that ended with Windmore's arrest, Corden recalled the town's Guard for an immediate and thorough reevaluation. Seven died in the tavern and he executed another twenty since. There would be more to come.

The ones that remained on the streets were the only ones cleared of suspicion, and few they were.

A narrow entry hall sat immediately beyond the doors. To her right, a wide archway opened into a spacious training hall filled with straw dummies and archery targets. It was empty, as expected. Corden had sent the bulk of the Guard home as they awaited their turn to be questioned and vetted by a cleric of the Golden Lady. It was the only way to ensure none of them had access to the documents pertaining to Everna's case.

Stairs leading to the lower levels — first the storerooms, then the prisons — sat at the far end of the corridor. Lyra took them two at a time, leaping over the landing. The shift change would occur in half an hour; she needed to be done and out before the night guard arrived and their replacements shuffled from their bunks.

A weight settled in her chest as she arrived at the door that led to the prisons. The basket on her arm grew heavier still. Swallowing back a bitter mouthful of bile, she reached between the apples and pulled the dagger free.

The leather of the hilt was soft beneath her fingers, loosened from use and years of improper care. It belonged to her father before Shroud came to steal him away; it was one of the few things of his her mother kept. After nearly two decades of hiding in the darkness of a lockbox, it would finally see use.

Steeling her nerves, Lyra pushed the door open. A lone guard sat perched on a small wooden chair at the mouth of the cell block. A water skin dangled from his fingers, and the stench of alcohol clung to the air. He slumped in his seat, head thrown back and mouth opened, snores echoing off the walls. A set of keys hung from the hook embedded into the wall beside him. She pulled them into her hands, careful not to let them jingle, and hurried off to search the cells.

To call them cells was far too generous. They were little more than pockets carelessly carved into the stone and secured with half-rusted doors. Most were empty, the chains and shackles hung limp from the wall. An older man sat hunched over in one, his pallid skin marred with bruises; he assaulted a young woman in her home last week. Further down the way, a much younger man — arrested for beating his child within an inch of his life — sat curled into himself, asleep. Dried blood caked his face. The Guards had their way with him, as well.

They were more of Shroud's goons; two of the several they'd planted in the town to sow more chaos — sacrifices meant to boost Windmore's reputation. They'd hoped that Windmore's perceived competence might sway the town in his favor, but to no avail. The moment Corden arrived, their plans spiraled further beyond their control.

Or so she'd heard.

Before the last cell at the far end of the hall, she stopped. Calden Windmore sat inside, his arms twisted above his head and held in place with shackles serrated at the edges. Dried blood coated the shining metal, his wrists raw and weeping.

Without his armor and the vibrant gold tunic bearing the crest of the royal family, he was unrecognizable. Swollen cuts and darkened splotches covered every inch of his body. A long, thick scab spanned the length of his throat; Ronan tried to take his head off before Corden convinced him to stay his axe.

When the news broke that evening, when Pala Ashburn formally named the unseen threat terrorizing the town, and confirmed the suspicions that Windmore was involved in her husband's demise, the townspeople called for a swift execution. Corden refused. The Courts had other plans for him and if not for the snow blocking the roads, he'd already be gone.

Not that it mattered now.

"So you're an assassin now, are you?" he asked, lifting his head to glare at her through his swollen eyes.

Lyra bit back a retort and shuffled through the keys until she found one that fit the lock. It disengaged with a soft click. Blessedly quiet on its hinges, it swung open with but a whisper.

Windmore laughed, the sound strained. "If you think killing me will help your circumstances, you're sorely mistaken. They've already decided you're no longer useful."

"I could say the same to you," Lyra said. She adjusted her grip on the dagger, the weapon heavy and unfamiliar in her hand.

"I can get you out of this," Windmore said after a moment. "The Courts are offering an ultimatum. I could be persuaded not to throw you to the wolves, for the right price."

She almost laughed. "You expect me to believe you have any power over this? I'm not a fool."

His lips twitched as if to smile, but the swelling of his face kept them firmly in place. "And yet, here you are, playing right into their hands. The plan’s changed. They want her alive now."

Lyra pursed her lips. She heard the whispers among the other agents when she arrived at the rendezvous points just beyond the town's borders. They never spoke of the details, nor did they speak of their source, but they spoke with great agitation. Everna had to be dealt with soon, whatever the means.

When she learned Everna survived the first time, she was stunned. Then she survived again and again. Shroud was two steps ahead of her at every junction, and yet, as if by the grace of the gods, she slipped through their fingers. Her survival sent their plans up in flames, but beyond that, it posed an even greater threat.

If they didn't kill her or get her under control soon, Shroud would fall.

"And who does Shroud intend to take the fall in her stead?" Windmore jeered. "The poor tavern wench who was unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You won't convince me to spare you."

Windmore shook his head, a raspy chuckle tearing at his throat. "If you think you can save your family, you're more of a fool than I thought. It's pointless. Shroud will slaughter them all regardless of what you do. Even that betrothed of yours."

Lyra gritted her teeth and stepped into the cell. Windmore could beg and plead and barter all he liked, but she would not yield. Her family — her two younger step-brothers, her mother, even her horribly annoying betrothed — was on the line. She'd be damned before she bet their lives against the word of a habitual liar.

As she stepped further into the cell, panic flashed through Windmore's eyes. "Lyra, be reasonable about this. You won't get out of this without my help!"

Scowling, she drew in a sharp breath and forced her stomach to settle. Everna always said she needed to grow a bit of a backbone. Better late than never, she supposed.

"You gain nothing from helping them!" Windmore cried. He thrashed against his restraints, the serrated edges of his shackles digging deeper into his skin.

Shroud stole her father from her and set her mother spiraling into the furthest reaches of disparity. For years, Lyra suffered the repercussions, powerless to do anything but watch her mother slowly descend into insanity. She spent the better part of her childhood fighting tooth and nail to keep her mother from taking her own life and to raise her younger brothers in her stead.

And when things finally took a turn for the better — when her mother put the bottle aside and began to make amends for her negligence, Shroud once again set her family in their sights. She had no choice but to cooperate.

She had no one to turn to. The Guard would hang her for her involvement — Corden already suspected her. Even if, by some miracle, they believed her, it would only put her family at further risk. Shroud would kill her family if she betrayed them, just as they swore they would when she stumbled blindly into this mess.

Her brothers were so young — barely seven winters old — and her mother was on the path to recovery. She couldn't bear it if anything were to happen to them. As unpleasant as it was, if dirtying her hands was what it took to ensure their safety, then so be it.

"I'm not doing this for Shroud."

She seized him by the hair, shoved his head back, and pulled the blade across his throat. Blood spilled from the fresh wound, the previous scab tearing apart as the blade buried into his skin. His eyes bulged, mouth agape with horror. With a strangled gurgling, his body slacked, his eyes glossy and lifeless.

Hands trembling, she wiped the blade on the front of his prison garbs and returned it to the basket. A wave of nausea slammed into her. The horrible realization of what she'd done turned her blood to ice. She forced the feeling aside and wobbled to the cell door.

She hurried past the sleeping guard, up the stairs, and out the door. The light of morning greeted her as she stumbled into the streets of Pendel. The town began to wake, bleary-eyed townsfolk slowly trickling into the streets.

Smoothing her skirt and wiping the cold sweat from her hands, she turned on her heels and made for the tavern, unaware of the guard watching her from the shadows of a nearby alley.

Determination

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