Cool autumn air veered through my open window, carrying the late-blooming cherry scent as I hunched over my desk. My quill scratched parchment, propaganda leaflets piling up beside me, each embellished with carefully chosen words intended to ignite righteous anger or drive home the notion of simple self-interest, depending on the target audience.

  A merchant kid from Sonem asked for one of our dolls to lend to a bard back in his kingdom’s capital. With our campaign able to continue there as well, things were looking up. Better yet, he planned to pay full price to Master Marken, benefiting everyone involved. The next big escapade, however, would have to wait until the spring graduation and admission ceremony, when more influential nobles would gather at the Academy. Meanwhile, I should find someone to take another doll to the Veridian capital.

  The house felt emptier than usual. The two lovebirds, Aunt Estrah and Uncle Flo, were enjoying their weekly dinner date somewhere in town. Downstairs, I could hear the occasional clatter as Margo prepared tomorrow’s bread dough. My eyes drifted to my staff in the corner, its polished ashwood and intricate runes reflecting lamplight, casting small constellations on the ceiling.

  Wyn had definitely outdone himself. The balance was perfect, whether a second sword was sheathed inside or not. The staff’s weight was substantial yet comfortable. It almost defied physics. I resisted the urge to carry it everywhere like some peacock showing off its plumage. That would have to wait until I secured a position in a holy order. Still, its presence transformed my humble room into something almost hallowed.

  The shattering sound pierced the evening quiet, first a heavy thud, then the unmistakable tinkling crash of crystal fracturing against the kitchen tiled floor downstairs. I froze, quill suspended mid-stroke.

  “Margo?” I called down the stairwell. “Do you need any help?” My voice echoed back at me, met only by an unnatural stillness that prickled the fur along my arms.

  I abandoned my writing and stepped into the hallway. The floorboards, worn from years of use, creaked beneath my clawed feet. As I descended past the second-floor landing, a metallic scent wafted upward. Blood, fresh, but not a copious amount. As I grew older, my senses began to distinguish such subtleties.

  I took the remaining stairs three at a time. Margo lay sprawled across the kitchen floor, her dark golden brown hair fanned out around her head. Shards of broken crystal glittered like deadly stars around her still form. I dropped to my knees, fingers finding the pulse at her throat, steady, thank the divine. A crimson rivulet snaked from her temple, disappearing into her hairline. The skin around the wound was already darkening, swelling into a vicious bruise. Someone had struck her, and struck her hard.

  The whispered “crap” barely left my lips before instinct took over. I rolled sideways across the kitchen tiles, feeling the rush of displaced air as a curved blade sliced where my neck had just been. The attacker moved with uncanny silence, his body emitting no scent my nose could detect, a skill I’d only ever observed in Uncle Flo.

  I used the momentum of my roll to spring to my feet, claws scraping as I pivoted. My opponent, draped in midnight fabric, male and hooded, moved with deadly precision. The distinctive cut of his garment and its fit reminded me of assassins from the Cathedral incident, all angles and deadly purpose. I wondered briefly if this was mere practicality or evidence of some formalized guild of killers operating in the shadows of this world.

  “Who sent you?” I asked. My voice, steadier than my racing heart, betrayed little. I knew no answer would come. Still, every second of dialogue bought precious time to calculate my next move. My weapon is upstairs. Those kitchen knives will not work against a trained assassin. I can’t escape and leave Margo here, alone with him. I must provoke him, force him to chase after me.

  I had no time to think, though, as the assassin’s twin blades flashed at me. My paw shot for his wrist but missed as he yanked back at lightning speed. The second blade sliced toward my exposed flank. I dodged, arched backward, and grabbed a cold cast-iron pan from the counter, blocking the next blow with a clang. The impact vibrated up my arm. My back fur bristled when it brushed against the corner walls. Not good.

  "[Wind Gust!]" I used the mana ring Aunt Estrah gave me. The assassin rolled away just in time, dodging the pressurized air blast. Cutlery and groceries flew everywhere, clattering around the kitchen. As chaos unfolded, I vaulted the kitchen island and bolted upstairs. I checked behind me to make sure the assassin followed, ignoring Margo, who still lay on the floor.

  The blade swished behind me, almost catching my ankles. I coiled, pushed off the wooden railing with one paw, the other finding purchase against floral-patterned wallpaper, launching me into a desperate aerial twist. The assassin’s blade struck wood, splinters flying. I planted my right foot squarely into his chest. The impact knocked the wind from him with a satisfying "oof" before I scrambled up the remaining stairs.

  On the second-floor landing, moonlight from the tall windows illuminated his silhouette as he flicked his wrist, sending a silver dagger spinning end over end toward me. I channeled mana through my ring, sensing the familiar tingle as I shouted "[Wind Gust!]" The blade wobbled mid-flight, its trajectory altered just enough to embed itself into the doorframe beside my ear with a solid thunk, a droplet of greenish liquid oozing from its tip.

  Finally, I reached the third floor, my sanctuary. I lunged for my staff, where it rested against the wall. I spun around in one fluid motion and raised the ashwood shaft vertically just in time. The full force of his powerful double swing met my block. Despite my recent growth spurt, the difference between us was obvious. His muscled adult frame dwarfed my adolescent body. The force of his attack lifted me off my feet entirely. I sailed backward until my back slammed against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs in a painful whoosh.

  Despite that pain, I chuckled, a dry, ragged sound that rattled through my aching ribs, while my fingers tightened around the smooth ashwood of my staff.

  The assassin’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly, shoulders tensing beneath his cloak as he cautiously took one step back, his boot making the faintest whisper against the wooden floorboards.

  “[Stun bolt. Wide spread.]” I released a custom spell stored in the mana gem inside the God’s shield ferrule. The spell originally produced an electric-shock attack intended to incapacitate anyone on impact, but I experimented with it for a couple of months and tweaked it to also produce long-distance electrical bolts and a widespread, scatter-shot attack that could take out a small group in one go. Downside: It would also drain the crystal of mana almost completely in just one attack.

  The room flashed with bright light, making my fur bristle from static electricity. The next thing I saw was the assassin lying unconscious on the floor. I quickly frisked him for weapons, then retrieved a rope from my traveler’s pack and tied him down. Just as I was about to rush downstairs to help Margo, another unexpected flash of light startled me, coming from the window.

  A crossbow bolt, clearly aimed at my head, was stuck in the invisible force field for half a second, then dropped to the windowsill and slid back to the floor. I remember Aunt Estra told me the house had extra security measures in place, thank goodness for that. It just saved my life. I cautiously looked outside to find another hooded person in our garden, holding a crossbow.

  I quickly removed the ferrule from my staff, aimed, and threw my now-spear at the attacker. With a longer, sword-sized tip, it was much harder to throw, but at this short distance and from the third floor of our house, I could manage. My spear aimed true and nicked my attacker before he could dodge. Judging from his movements, I don’t think he was a trained assassin, maybe the client himself.

  I jumped from my window before he could reload. Carefully but quickly, I scaled down from one windowsill to the next. He threw his crossbow and ran through our iron back gates. I grabbed my spear, sprinted after him toward the side street behind our house, but he had already disappeared around a corner, leaving a narrow trail of blood behind. I sniffed the air, trying to memorize his scent.

  “Huh,” I murmured, stopping in my tracks. The smell was familiar. If I chased after him, it could just lead to another ambush. I now knew who I was dealing with, and there was blood evidence. Besides, Margo was still lying in the kitchen. Deciding I had had enough for one evening, I turned back to help our poor maid. Gears in my head were already moving, formulating a plan of action.

  I stepped inside the classroom, moving towards Prince Thomin. His face said it all: a smirk and a touch of disappointment in his eyes. He knew I had no evidence against him and probably thought I had come to argue with him now, to make a scene. Something he can no doubt turn upside down to look better from the perspective of our classmates, a victim of some angry beast. I ignored him and moved past him, which seemed to shock him more than anything else I could’ve done. Boy, that kid wasn’t used to being ignored.

  “Hey, you.” Rogier turned his head with a surprised look on his face before I slapped him in the ear, then added more force to shove him against his own desk with full force. The sudden pain and surprise of my attack caused him to slump over to the floor in an instant. The whole classroom stood frozen in shock.

  “You are a moron if you think covering your face was enough. I could smell you, dummy. Moreover, I nicked you.” I produced a small ampule of blood. The second one was in possession of Aunt Estrah, who already petitioned for his dismissal from the Academy. This world had no forensic science or genetics, but there were spells that could trace blood back to its source. That was enough to convince the Chancellor.

  “This is evidence you were one of the assassins who tried to kill me yesterday.”

  The room erupted into a chorus of whispers and gasps. Chairs scraped against the floor as students leaned toward one another, cupping hands around mouths, eyes darting between Rogier and me. “Pack your things,” I continued, savoring each syllable like a sweet dessert, “you are done with the Academy. Can’t arrest you, sadly, since you’re a visiting noble, but good luck inheriting that title from your father without finishing the lordship course first.” Rogier’s face drained of color so completely that his skin took on the chalky, porous quality of limestone. His lower lip quivered, and a single bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, catching the morning light from the tall classroom windows.

  I turned to Prince Thomin. “Now, your royal highness, I am ‘sure’ you had ‘nothing’ to do with your friend’s actions over there.” I smiled sardonically, stressing certain words to imply I didn’t actually mean what I was saying. “Nevertheless, I hope you will do an honorable thing and not interfere with justice being served for the sake of friendship.”

  Rogier’s gaze darted desperately toward Prince Thomin, his eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears, like a drowning man searching for a rope that would never be thrown.

  “Of course not, that is shocking to hear indeed,” Thomin declared, his voice silken with practiced concern that never reached his glacier-blue eyes. “Rogier, how could you? Was it out of misguided loyalty to me, perhaps? We are civilized people, we fight with words, not swords, in the lordship class.”

  His face trembled, tears starting to run down his face. He probably was near admitting who put him up to it, but Prince Thomin’s cold stare stopped him mid-sentence. Rogier swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully. Instead, he grasped for the last straw of preserving his loyalty, hoping his silence might someday be rewarded.

  He stumbled from the classroom, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of his shame. His sobs echoed through the stone hallway, punctuated by the uneven shuffle of his feet, growing fainter and fainter until they were nothing but ghosts haunting the corridors of the Academy.

  “Prince Thomin, a hypothetical question, if I may,” I whispered, my voice hardly disturbing the air between us.

  His cold blue eyes flickered with annoyance, but he inclined his head slightly, the sunlight from the classroom windows catching on the golden threads woven into his otherwise black hair. Hair tinsels, how surprising, I doubt they were natural.

  “Say, whoever did send those assassins after me, do you think it was because of politics, or for a personal reason?”

  “I would wager this would be personal,” he replied, his voice velvet-smooth but brittle around the edges. “Who cares about some nobody playing a noble?”

  “Curious thing about beastkin blood oaths, they outlive the oath-takers. In fact, my godfather has been taking care of me precisely because of his blood oath to my parents, who are long gone now.” I flashed my teeth in what wasn’t quite a smile. “So if someone imagines my death would conveniently revert back their engagement plans, they’ve badly miscalculated.”

  Thomin’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly before his gaze turned inward, his mind visibly recalibrating whatever schemes he’d been nurturing.

  “Oh, and speaking of parents, this is from my godmother.” I tossed a coin at his chest, just like he did once with his glove. There were no coins in circulation of this particular dark shade. Even tarnished silver wouldn’t get that bad. And that was for a reason set in local culture and traditions.

  “Huh, a black mark. Why would I care if some nobody’s godmother is threatening retaliation?”

  A black mark had a symbolic meaning. A forewarning of mutually assured destruction, it was given to someone who crossed a line, not a legal one, but an emotional one. Essentially, what Aunt Estrah was telling him is that if I die, he dies, and to hell with the consequences. And she had enough power behind her to make that threat quite tangible. There was a reason even people like Bastien were afraid of her.

  “Hey, I am just a messenger. How you should feel is not for me to tell. Out of curiosity,” I added, my voice honeyed with false innocence, “do you even know who my godmother is?”

  Thomin’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath the smooth skin of his cheek. His eyes, usually so calculating, darted briefly to the doorway where Rogier had disappeared.

  “No,” he said finally, the word clipped and brittle. “I do not.”

  I leaned in closer, my whisper even fainter than before. “Thought so. Well, maybe you should have checked before sending assassins into ‘her’ house. ‘Her’ personal maid, one who comes from generations of people serving ‘her’, was hurt in the fighting, and she took it personally, you see. ‘Her’ crest is on the other side of the mark.” I straightened, smoothed my uniform, and walked away to take my seat.

  Despite all his intelligence, Thomin lacked experience and foresight. If he had dug just a little more into my background, he would have known, but he took my commoner status at face value. Instead, he acted like a spoiled and entitled brat that he was, one who also has trained assassins in his employ due to his social status. I mean, Luciana has two assassin maids in her employ, too. Yet, she doesn’t go around killing people she dislikes, and she certainly doesn’t invade other dynasty matriarchs’ homes.

  I couldn’t see his face from my seat, but I watched his shoulders stiffen and then slump forward by a fraction of an inch, his spine curving slightly as if the weight of Aunt Estrah’s black mark had physically settled onto him. His right hand, still clutching the coin, trembled almost imperceptibly before disappearing into his pocket. Though I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t rely on her forever, precisely why I’d been courting the clergy’s protection instead, the warm rush of vindication flooding my chest reminded me why having a terrifying godmother at my side was sometimes worth all the complicated feelings that came with it.