Sibylla wrenched away from the gauntleted grip holding her, twisting and pushing through the hold at her captor’s fingertips. As she scrambled back and sured her footing, she scanned for other weak points. There were gaps in the knight’s armour at the joints, especially the shoulders—his pauldrons were sloppily donned, likely with no helping hand, and left a breach in his plates at the edge of his gorget. 

“One last chance,” she warned, bunching her skirts in one hand to avoid tripping on them. She kept her feet apart and glanced off into the dark to either side of the path. The lantern-light of the inn was too far gone in the distance for her to see anymore. There was nothing but empty packed road forward and back and shady trees to each side. “Leave me be.”

The moonlight glittered across the knight’s helm as he stalked towards her, his chuckle muffled by the visor. 

“Come now, honeysuckle,” the knight slurred. Sibylla could smell the saccharine edge of sailor’s spiced rum trimming the stench of sweat-hot metal as he stepped closer. “These woods are rife with fairies and mountain-men and all other manner of beast—allow me to escort you home.”

The knight projected another grab by curling his fingers at his side. Sibylla scurried quickly back, stooped to grab a large stone from the edge of the path, and hurled it at the knight’s head. It connected with a resounding clang and he recoiled with an aggravated rumble. She spun and took off between the trees. 

The knight pursued surprisingly quickly for being kitted in plates and helm. However swift, though, he was loud and easy to keep track of. 

When Sibylla began to lose him by threading through the trees and wild berry bushes, she slowed down a touch. She glanced around, finding a thick trunk with a notch in the bark and tucking herself behind it, taking a moment to catch her breath. 

The knight burst through a thorn thicket with a drunken stumble, grumbling in frustration as he spun in the small grassy clearing and saw no sign of his prey. 

“Miss maiden!” he called. “It’s not safe out here for a fresh bud like yourself—I only wish to protect you!” 

Sibylla wrinkled her nose and scowled. She stayed quiet, keen for any movement between the trees. The knight turned a slow spin, sweeping the surrounding greenery. He passed over her and she huffed a silent laugh.

Sibylla reached around the trunk and ran her fingers over the gouge in the bark. When the knight’s back was turned, she leaned out of her mantle of shadow, eyes darting all about. The wood surrounding remained still and unchanged, save for a pair of small glassy eyes blinking down at her from a cloister of branches across the clearing.

The knight wrenched off his helmet. He was a hirson, his tan skin shining with sweat and his mouse-brown hair spun dark and plastered to his forehead. He took in a deep huff through his nose, paused, gave a few short sniffs, and then turned in a snap to face Sibylla. 

“Ah—there you are.”

Sibylla jolted as the knight cracked a wolfish grin and flattened the grass beneath the heels of his long strides as he marched towards her. She glanced around again, poising herself to run, but took no more than a single step. 

“There’s an old hunter’s adage, you know,” crowed the knight, “about ladies and their aromas. Hunting is men’s work on account of that smell, that sweet smell your folk get when you’re afraid—and you’re always afraid, aren’t you?” 

The knight was steps away, fingers rolling at his sides, sobered some by the chase. Sibylla set her face hard and held her hands at the ready, but unarmed, those weak points would do her little good. A warbling caw sounded from the higher branches, but the knight paid it no mind. 

When he reached for her, Sibylla swatted his hand away and spit on the chestplate of his armour. Her reflection in it was warped like rippled water when the knight was nearly upon her. He was still smiling, bouncing a little back and forth like a combattant anticipating a melee. His sword and dagger hung untouched from his belt, but Sibylla kept uneasy watch on each. 

When the knight shucked off his gauntlets, her face fell and she broke her facade.

“Nell!” she shouted, stretching the sound out to let her voice carry. The only answer was the flutter of disturbed birds in the branches overhead. 

The knight caught her upper arm in his bare hand, his grip hot and fingers digging into her flesh through the ruffle of her sleeve. “It was only a matter of time before you—” 

His words caught on a hack as an arrow buried itself in his shoulder in the gap between his gorget and pauldron. He yelped in pain and tossed away his hold on Sibylla, sending her stumbling backwards. He had barely turned, cursing and fumbling for his sword, when a second arrow whistled over and lodged itself in his windpipe, cutting off his voice. 

He choked and gurgled, fingers groping at the wooden body of the arrow, and as he stumbled back into the clearing Sibylla watched him desperately grasp at it and yank it from his neck. The sound of tearing flesh was horrible, and the instant the arrow’s head was visible in the moonlight a splurt of red blood burst from the opened wound and the knight collapsed into the grass. It took a several long moments for him to go still. 

Sibylla stood over his corpse, forcing slow and steady breaths, as a figure tall and sturdy as a tree broke from the wood shadow. 

“You were late,” she hissed, rubbing absently at her arm. “Where were you?” 

Nell stepped into the clearing and looked Sibylla and then the knight over, moving with far less noise than her stature would anticipate. 

“I was in first position by the inn, making sure no one followed,” she answered calmly, her amber eyes bright in the dark. “You were early.”

Sibylla let out a scoff. 

“His impatience is hardly my fault,” she countered. “I knew his type from the first word he said to me, he wanted a chase. I didn’t account for how quickly he’d move in a full kit.” 

She stepped over and toed at his head, which lolled to the side without resistance. The movement squeezed air and blood from the rough-hewn hole in his throat with a nauseating squelch. The coppery smell of blood stung her nose. 

“You didn’t have to kill him. I could have knocked him out after the first shot landed.”

Nell hummed as she plucked the knight’s discarded helmet from the ground and inspected it. “He deserved it.” She paused and shifted her inspection to Sibylla and her casual tone took on a shade of seriousness. “You alright?” 

“I’m fine,” she replied sourly, scratching lightly at her arm. “It’s a shame he won’t get the opportunity to wake up bound and stripped for someone to discover. Pride is the best thing to steal from a man.” 

Nell chuckled to herself as she tucked the helm into her roomy leather bag and moved to Sibylla’s side. “Well, why don’t we get on with finding the second best?”

Sibylla sighed and bunched her skirt as she crouched down next to the body.

“I hate looting corpses,” she grumbled. She got to work unstrapping the knight’s plates while Nell snaked off his sword belt and rifled through the purse sachet hung from it. “There’s no sportsmanship in it. Plus, it’s unsettling, feeling a lifeless body under your hands. And gross.”

“Better work quick, then,” said Nell, counting out the knight’s coins in her wide hand. 

Sibylla snapped the end of the still-lodged arrow off and shimmied the knight out of his pauldrons and gorget, messy work that stained her fingers. She did her best to avoid meeting the knight’s empty gaze as she went, focusing instead on trying to keep his blood off of her dress. Went she had his chestplate undone, she peeled it off of him and gagged at the wafting of sweat and musk trapped beneath. 

“Could you lift him so I can get the back plate?” asked Sibylla.

Nell looked displeased by the prospect, but dropped the knight’s gauntlets into her bag and came over nonetheless. 

“Nice armour,” she commented. “Our man had good taste and the heavy pockets for it. We could get a decent price for all this.”

“We better.” 

Nell squatted across from her, her moon-cast shadow easily swallowing the half-dressed knight whole. “I’ll lift on a three-count. Ready?” 

Sibylla paused, staring at the knight’s chest. Poking out from the lacing of his tunic, barely visible in his scrub of chest hair, was a ruby-red pendant on a thin silver chain the size of Sibylla’s middle fingernail. It was flat and shone in the low light like the buffed plates of armour, a thin diamond shaped piece of metal carved with a fragment of a swirling design. 

Nell hovered awkwardly on the balls of her feet. “Sil?”

The pendant was cool to the touch against the still-warm flesh of the knight’s core when Sibylla grasped it and gave the chain a sharp tug. It gave easily, dangling and sparkling as she held the thing up to her face. 

“What’s wrong?” pressed Nell.

“Nothing,” insisted Sibylla, but spared her companion only a glance. The design on the pendant looked like it had script on it, but she couldn’t make it out. 

“We don’t have a lot of time here. Mind lending a—?” 

“We should go,” Sibylla said, rising to her feet and rucking up her skirt to stash the pendant away in her garter-purse. 

Nell furrowed, blinking fast. “What about the armour—?” 

“Let’s take what we have and go, Nell. Please.” Sibylla combed through the trees, finding only breeze-stirred leaves and the distant humming of wood frogs. “Something feels off.” 

“Did you see something?”

“No.”

“But did you see something?”

Sibylla’s hand rested on her garter purse as she fixed her skirts. “No. Just…a feeling.”

With a grunt of effort, Nell tugged the back plate unceremoniously from beneath the knight on her own, flipping his limp corpse over into the grass in a half-roll that Sibylla had to hop backwards to avoid. Sibylla winced at the clatter his still-armoured legs made as they ragdolled together. 

“If you say so,” replied Nell, tone as easy as ever, but her eyes lingered on the knight’s boots and spurs as she packed the rest of their haul into her bag, then bulging, and slung it over her shoulder. “We’ll need some distance to sell this off.”

Sibylla didn’t answer. She flinched when she saw the knight’s glassy eyes flick towards her, but Nell had no such reaction. Hovering over to her companion, she nabbed the dagger pocketed in the side of Nell’s quiver and held it at her side, hastening their departure with quick steps. 

Nell followed without protest. “Northward—Cyro’s, then?” 

Cyro’s Imports and Curiosities was a thin and tall cluttered hallway of a shop decorated with cheery chipping paint in the dense narrow-veined heart of the city Thivane. The wooden sign above the door branded with the bridgemark symbol for trade, two hands extending to each other, creaked on it’s metal fixing and cast its swaying shadow over Sibylla and Nell as they entered. 

Inside was a mess of smells, most dry and earthy with notes of floral perfumes, and a labyrinth of organised chaos, chests and barrels and tomes of all sizes stacked higher than Sibylla’s head. The reaching ceilings were a welcome change of pace for Nell, but her wide frame meant she had to weave her way sideways through the stacks with her bag manoeuvred just so to avoid knocking them over. 

Cyro himself was a finely-dressed satyr with a small well-groomed beard and an ever-present grin, always smoothing out his silk vests and chewing on the end of a pipe Sibylla had never seen lit.

“You won’t find a fairer price for the incomplete kit,” he said to Sibylla after they’d unloaded their pickings on the counter for him to inspect. He tapped his thick hoof-nails on the countertop and shrugged, only glancing up to Nell for a flicker. 

Nell cast a sidelong glance at Sibylla and she crossed her arms. 

“Engraving like that is worth more than three gold, complete or not,” she argued. “And you know, mismatched armour is coming well into fashion over in the valley. Just yesterday I overheard a party of knights from the Allied Kingdoms talking about it—they were trading bracers right there in the tavern. You’d have no problem selling these piecemeal.” 

Cyro kept on his smile as he chewed on his pipe and leaned back against a stack of salt-stained barrels that still held traces of port-smell in their wood. 

“You’re a very good sourcer, Miss Sibylla, which is why I can’t trust a word you say. Three gold, unless you have anything else to offer.”

Sibylla paused, her hand brushing her garter purse over her skirts, but after a moment returned Cyro’s smile with one feigned. 

“Well, I’m sure you two can take it from here,” she said, discreetly shoving Nell forward a step as she backed away from the counter. “Good seeing you, Cyro. I’ll be outside when you’ve finished.” 

Cyro, who stood smaller and softer than Sibylla, chortled a little too harshly as he glanced up at Nell. “Yes—always a pleasure, Miss Sibylla.” 

Sibylla weaved through the stacks with nimble hands and pushed open the front door as Nell’s low voice drifted through the thin lofty space, a placid mumble. When she stepped out into the warm summer air and the clutter of the shop was replaced by the chatter of the city, she took out the pipe she had snatched from the piles on her way out and a borrowed pomander of Nell’s pipe-flower. 

She crossed the street to a textile vendor’s stall set up opposite the shop. It was a weathered wooden stand helmed by an old hir woman hunched around a steaming cup of tea. Next to her a kettle sat on a lifted rack atop a small flame flickering in a stone bowl.

“Goodday, madam,” Sibylla greeted pleasantly. “Mind lighting my pipe for me?” 

The woman eyed her up and down, her plain expression unchanging. “Twine’s a copper a hand.”

Sibylla got to work packing her pipe. “Oh, I won’t be needing any twine, thank you. Just the light.”

The woman scoffed. “Rather burn a bit of that hair? I have shears, I’ll cut out that white chunk in the front there for free.”

Sibylla continued, unphased. “I don’t think any twine or hair’ll be necessary.”

“What are you on about, girl?” 

Sibylla nodded to the kettle. “Your bowl there is full of nothing but ash, same as when I arrived ’cross the way, but your flame seems well-enough fed, same as then. Quite the feat, that. ’Course, I could be mistaken. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks.” 

With a sly grin, she held out her packed pipe. The old woman sucked at her teeth a moment, giving an annoyed narrow of her sharp green eyes and peering around, before she reached a wrinkled and sun-spotted hand out and tapped the rim of the pipe twice with her finger. In an instant, a small flame sparkled in the bowl, burning the wood a little. Sibylla quickly got it under control and sucked in a long drag of rich smoke, letting it out through her lips slowly and smiling. 

“Seems I was mistaken after all,” she said. She leaned over the counter of the stall to give a brief bow, planting a sachet of dried tea leaves—also lifted from Cyro’s—on it as she came back up. “Gramercy, madam. Blessings upon you.” 

The woman glanced from the sachet to Sibylla, peaking a brow, then twitched a smirk and bowed back. Sibylla turned, taking her pipe to an unoccupied crate a short ways down the street to sit down and smoke, watching the bustle of the folk and steed as they moved between the shops and stalls. 

She had only been sat for a single puff when a child’s leather ball rolled to a stop at the toe of her boot. When its owner—a young fae orphan by the rich navy colour of his hair and the ragged state of his robe—came to retrieve it, he hesitated to approach her. She returned his uneasy look by puffing her lungful of smoke out through her nose. The boy giggled at the sight. She kicked his ball back to him and he waved to her as he picked it up, shouting gleefully as he ran back to his friends. 

Sibylla let her eyes fall closed, allowing the melody of the city and the warm sunlight to wash over her, savouring the smoke on her palette, and relaxed a little.

“Where’d you get that?” 

Sibylla opened one eye to find herself in Nell’s long cool shadow, her suspicious squint interrupting the sun. Nell glanced from her pipe back at the swinging sign of Cyro’s and sighed. 

“He’s going to notice eventually, you know,” she warned. 

Sibylla waved her off. “This is just getting a fair price for all our toil. Speaking of, did you manage to change his mind?” 

Nell patted the flank of her jacket, producing a muffled jingle. “Three and ten.” 

Sibylla grinned. “Well done, partner. Dig out a pair of those coppers, why don’t you? I’m half-starved.” 

Nell perched her hands on her hips. “Don't think I didn't notice your withholding back there. Why'd you keep the necklace?”

Sibylla bounced her leg and shrugged. “I dunno. I like it.”

“You didn't seem to like it much yesterday.”

“There was a day when I didn't like you, either. Things change. Let's go eat.”

As Sibylla stood, the leather ball went rolling right between her and Nell’s feet. The fae boy came charging after it, still squealing and faster this time, but stopped when he bumped into Nell. He halted in his tracks, stumbling back a little, his big blue eyes wide and cast high. 

Before either of them could say anything, the kid turned and ran back the way he had come. His ball rolled down the street and out of sight into the trickle of pedestrians, many of whom were casting glances in Sibylla and Nell’s direction. Nell was staring after the kid, her brow wound tight. 

“C’mon,” encouraged Sibylla, giving Nell a friendly smack on the arm. “How’s about we go back to that place with the roasted goose that smelled so good, hm?” 

The jingle of chainmail cut through the din of the street.

“Is there a problem here, milady?” 

Sibylla paused tapping out her pipe on the nearby wall when a knight, helmetless and ornamented in the rich blue of Thivane’s royalty, rounded from behind Nell and looked between the two of them. Sibylla drifted closer to Nell. 

“Not at all,” she said. She made a show of twining hands with Nell. “Why on earth would there be?” 

The knight took a moment, his blonde moustache bristling. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword before giving a shallow bow. 

“No reason,” he replied, looking squarely at Nell. 

Sibylla felt Nell’s grip twitch as her whole body tensed and she placed a bracing palm against her forearm. When the knight stepped away, the pair rotated to watch his going. As they did Sibylla noticed she couldn’t hear any of the children playing anymore and that the textile vendor had vanished, her kettle still trickling steam but lit by no flame. 

Down the street, the front door to Cyro’s Imports and Curiosities stood wide open, the sign creaking overhead. The fair-haired knight moved towards it and the nearby folk about the stalls and shops slowed, watching. 

“Let’s go,” mumbled Nell, scouting out a route in the opposite direction. 

Before Sibylla could answer, shouting erupted from the open door—Cyro’s gentle voice clipped and shrill with spirit. Two other knights, armed and adorned in blue like the first, emerged from the shop, hauling Cyro by the vest and horn as he struggled against them. 

“I am a reputable trader and an honest businessman!” he yelled. “I’ve been here for years, and all my dealings are legitimate! The queen’s court has traded with me countless times! I have never dealt in magical items, much less practiced any magic myself—!”

“This just walked in on its own, then, did it?” One of the restraining knights shook an engraved wooden box that gave a metallic jangle. Sibylla recognised the twisting spiral designs carved into the box and touched her thigh where her garter purse rested. 

“It’s only jewellery!” cried Cyro. “Traded to me by sailors, forged of some rare ore from overseas—if it bears anything more, I swear, I know nothing of it!”

“Her Majesty will hear what you know,” assured the other knight, cool and glib. “Now march—or should I say prance?” 

“Hey—hold on!” 

It was Nell’s turn to place a warning hand on Sibylla, but she easily pushed out of it and dashed towards Cyro. His captors barely glanced at her. The fair-haired knight caught her as she tried to slip past him and held her back. 

“Keep your distance, milady. This creature is a dangerous magician,” he said. 

“His name is Cyro,” harshed Sibylla, pushing back from him with two hands to his chest. “You can’t do this! What has he done wrong?” 

“He plots treason against our queen.” 

“Treason? You must be joking. Cyro’s harmless as a moth! Treason on what grounds?” 

The knight drew his sword with a white flash of thrown sunlight and stood fast between her and Cyro as they began to drag him off down the street. The gathered folk stared and parted wordlessly for the knights to pass. 

“Miss Sibylla!” called Cyro, then to the knights holding him, added, “that woman there—talk to her and her companion, they’ve been customers of mine for years, they’ll attest to—!” 

Sibylla heard a strike land, a cry, and Cyro’s voice vanished. She tried to get a sightline on him, but the fair-haired knight stepped nimbly in the way to block her view. 

“Sibylla, was it?” he asked, looking down at her past the point of his sword. “You would do well not to associate yourself with such like. Magic is dangerous—the business of fairies and beasts.”

Sibylla could feel the weight of Nell’s presence just behind her. The knight looked steadily over her head as he sheathed his sword. 

“That is my advice to you all,” the fair-haired knight went on, raising his voice to address all the onlookers. “Steer clear, for your own safety and for that of your families and neighbours. Magic corrupts the soul, and those who wield it cannot be trusted to hold sound judgement or intention. Play no party to such vice.” 

Sibylla was puffing hard breaths through her nose when the knight turned and headed off in the direction his fellows had gone. She stepped to follow and opened her mouth to argue, but as she did her feet stopped holding her up and with a nauseating ringing in her ears she found herself pitched abruptly elsewhere.