5

  The Serpent Bracelet

  AS USUAL, CENTRAL NéRO’S main marketplace bustled with life and music. A sea of people bumping shoulders to buy local delicacies at the various food stalls; buskers singing, dancing, and performing magic; and thieves taking their pick of the unsuspecting tourists.

  Except the latter wasn’t present.

  Beside a baker’s stand in the shade of a palm tree, Astraea frowned from her spot on a stretch of stone steps. She had a perfect view of the square, and enjoyed observing the rich Veneficians purchase overpriced trinkets while Hailassan kids sneakily robbed them blind. However, that day was different. Not a single pickpocket nor street rat was in sight. That could mean only one thing—the city guards were snooping nearby.

  It was odd though. The city guards were always distinguishable by their silver-blue uniforms, yet she couldn’t spot one in the crowd. Then, seeing a familiar face, the answer to her curiosity became clear.

  Her frown deepened. “What in Moreira are you doing here?” Astraea muttered, setting down her paper bag of pastries.

  Her eye followed the distressed imperial knight as he stopped by each stall, asked the vendors a question, and was met with a shake of their heads each time. His expression grew more and more troubled.

  Astraea blindly reached into her bag for a fried dough ball made of shortcrust pastry. She aimed at her target, closing an eye, and launched the projectile.

  The pastry ball bounced off the back of his head.

  Bullseye.

  Darius spun around wildly in search of the culprit, rubbing his head with an annoyed frown. But when his gaze landed on Astraea, his eyes widened in surprise. Resting her elbows on the steps behind her, Astraea inclined her head with a muted question. Darius jogged across the square to reach her.

  “Astra,” he said. “It’s…it’s really you.”

  That should be my line, she thought, pursing her lips.

  Darius was exactly as she’d remembered—although she wasn’t sure what she expected to have changed. His sandy blond hair was still cut short, alluding to his job; and his pale blue eyes still shone with a kind sincerity, alluding to a compassionate disposition that made Astraea’s stomach twist.

  “How…how have you been?” Darius asked. Her silence had brought a soft blush upon his sun-kissed cheeks. “Is your brother doing well?”

  A faint smile lifted Astraea’s lips. “As well as he can be. Though he’s been complaining an awful lot about the new port regulations.”

  “Business is slow, then?”

  “Excruciatingly. Besides, he’s been gone a long time.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “And what brings you to Néro? Surely a busy imperial knight can’t simply be visiting for our lovely seascape?”

  Chuckling, he settled beside her. “Correct. I’m here on imperial business.”

  Her eyes sparkled with growing curiosity. “Did you lose something important?”

  Darius snapped to her, unmasked surprise strewn on his face. “How did you—”

  “You were asking around the market pretty desperately,” she said. “I’d have to be an idiot not to notice. So”—leaning closer, a mischievous smile lit up her soft features—“what treasures must you recover? I can help.”

  His surprise melted into amusement. “For a fee, I’m sure?”

  Astraea shrugged. “A girl’s gotta make a living,” she said, then leant back again. “Do you want my help or not?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Darius sighed in defeat. He retrieved a silver coin from within his white cloak and set it on the stone between them. “Be sure to keep it between us,” he said lowly.

  “Wait, if it’s such a big secret…” Astraea began, pocketing the coin without a glance. “Why were you asking everyone in the damn square about it?”

  Darius adjusted the scabbard at his side anxiously. “Obviously I wasn’t being specific,” he mumbled, scratching his chin. “Maybe that’s why they were of no help…or do I look like a bounty hunter? Do I look untrustworthy to you?”

  Astraea stared blankly. “Darius, trust me on this, even a child could tell you’re an imperial guard from a mile away.”

  He looked at her, surprised. “Really?” He must’ve genuinely thought the civilian disguise was enough to hide his knight’s aura.

  Astraea pitied him. “Really.” She motioned him to continue. “Now tell me what it is you’ve lost. I’ll do my utmost to keep an eye out if I haven’t seen it already.”

  Darius did a quick scan of their noisy surroundings before leaning closer. “It’s the crown prince,” he whispered. “He managed to run off. My unit and I’ve been searching for at least thirty minutes now.”

  Astraea hadn’t meant to laugh—she really hadn’t—but she couldn’t help herself. That notoriously scatterbrained crown prince of theirs didn’t manage to escape just one of his appointed guards, but an entire unit. She believed it to be an applicable cause for laughter.

  Darius, on the other hand, didn’t share her sentiment. He glared. “Are you done?”

  Astraea pursed her lips to hold back her remaining giggles. “Ye–yes, sorry.” She cleared her throat. “How did you, uh, how did you lose him exactly?”

  Darius grimaced. “Unimportant,” he muttered, waving it off. “He was last seen wearing a dark grey cloak, likely trying to hide and blend in with the crowd. Have you seen anyone who remotely matches his description?”

  Astraea shifted her gaze to the marketplace crowd, among which were many individuals wearing the dark grey cloak he vaguely described.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, Dar.” She looked at him. “But you’re looking for a tooth in a lake. Any other identifiers you can give me?”

  He hesitated, thinking it over. Then his face lit up. “The bracelet!” he said excitedly. “His Highness always wears a gold bracelet resembling a serpent curled around his left wrist.”

  “A…serpent?”

  Darius nodded eagerly.

  A Chronikian prince wearing the symbol of a nation his family helped destroy? That was a new one.

  “I’ll keep an eye out,” Astraea promised, “but he honestly might wander back on his own.”

  Darius released a tired sigh, rubbing his face. “By Moreira, I sure hope so.”

  Just then, the nearby clocktower bells tolled, and Astraea glanced over at the time. “I should get going,” she said.

  Darius’s face fell—just a little, just enough to be called disappointment. He reached into his cloak, drew out a pen and, taking her hand, scribbled a string of numbers. “Here’s the telephone to His Highness’s manor, in case you find him.”

  For a moment, Astraea examined the messily scrawled numbers on her palm. It’ll be a pain to wash off. Rising with her pastry bag, she lifted her hood.

  “Will you ever return?” Darius suddenly asked.

  “Return where?” She feigned ignorance. “That word alludes to there being a place waiting for me but there isn’t such a thing. Don’t kid yourself.”

  Darius stood. “But—”

  “It’s already noon, I need to go,” she interrupted, avoiding his earnest gaze. “My elir’s waiting to have lunch.”

  “Are you planning to run forever?”

  Ignoring him, Astraea briskly strode off into the bustling marketplace. There was that twisting feeling again. That man…

  He truly was no good for her.

  Crossing the square, she reached a narrow cobblestoned street lined with small businesses, which gradually changed into vine-covered residences the longer she navigated the winding road. Nobody walked this far down the street unless they were seeking out her brother.

  As a sea breeze blew Astraea’s hood onto her shoulders, she smiled. Though she enjoyed the marketplace’s chaos, she adored this tranquility more. So close to the city square, yet so isolated, as if she’d crossed into a dimension consisting of nothing but wind and crashing waves.

  Then she turned the last corner.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The three-storey house before her was an antique, but not one of high value as it was half-sunken into the ground. Astraea hadn’t a clue why that was, whether it naturally sunk or got buried during a battle; it’d happened long before she and her brother moved in.

  When they’d found it, her brother speculated that the house must’ve belonged to a noble family a long time ago, and that it was suitable for them because they were the same as that house. A once-valuable relic of bygone days, now stripped of its former glory; a living reminder of the past. Astraea had always hated that comparison.

  Sliding down a rusty ladder, she reached the front door and drew the dagger on her lower back. Holding the bag between her teeth, Astraea carefully carved a rune on the ancient—but unbelievably sturdy—redwood door. They were originally double doors but her brother had sealed one shut as, he’d said, it was “unnecessary and troublesome”. Astraea sheathed the blade and unlocked the door with her key, then pushed it open. The rune glowed blue. When she shut the door behind her, both marking and glow faded, as if nothing was ever there to begin with.

  The house wasn’t very dark, despite being partially underground. Beautiful stained glass windows decorated the walls; the bottom half being boarded up while the street and passing shoes were visible on the upper half.

  Astraea suddenly paused in the lounge’s archway.

  Her brother was shaking hands with a grey hooded figure. Lazarus’s roguish smile hinted at the lucrative job he’d just accepted. She silently observed them, straining—and failing—to eavesdrop.

  The hooded figure clasped Lazarus’s hand with both of his own, whispering. A gold bracelet glinted on his wrist.

  “Rest assured,” Lazarus’s lips read. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  The figure muttered something else before stepping away, head lowered, and turned to exit. Upon noticing Astraea in his path, however, he lifted his head with a start, their eyes briefly meeting.

  Astraea startled. Wait a minute—

  The man brushed past her in a hurry, scurrying down the corridor, and slipped out the front door. Astraea’s disbelieving stare followed him until the door fell shut.

  She whipped around to her brother, utterly bewildered. “Have I gone mad…” she started, striding into the lounge to set the pastry bag down on the table. “Or was that the Empire’s Prospect Crown Prince just now?”

  Lazarus smirked. “Better get training, lirai.” He tossed her the staff in his hand, which she caught with ease. “His Highness hired us for a job. I need you at your best.” He strode past her.

  Astraea took that as a yes.

  She dropped the staff on the couch, trailing behind him. “Job?” she echoed. “What kind of job?”

  “I don’t have time to explain right now, there’s a matter I must see to,” he replied, grabbing his long coat from the stand and shrugging it on. “However”—looking over his shoulder, Lazarus smiled and petted her head fondly—“I promise to fill you in tomorrow afternoon, alright? Train well while I’m away.”

  He turned to leave, but Astraea held on to his sleeve. “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  Lazarus let out a small sigh, hand falling from the door handle. “You might ruin your reputation as a coldblooded mercenary if you cling to me like this, princess,” he teased with a chuckle.

  Having never considered herself “coldblooded” to begin with, Astraea continued to pester him, “Why tomorrow afternoon? Won’t you return home today?”

  Lazarus tousled her hair, thoroughly messing it up. Astraea scowled while he smiled. “Maybe yes, maybe no; it depends,” he said. “Don’t worry, I always keep my promises to you.”

  Astraea discreetly unsheathed the dagger behind her and watched as awareness bloomed in his eyes when the razor-sharp tip poked at his abdomen. He lifted a questioning brow.

  “You better,” she whispered, glaring. The dagger dug into his skin—not enough to draw blood but enough to classify as a threat. “I’ll kill you if you leave without a word again.”

  Lazarus laughed, as if he weren’t a breath away from being stabbed. “I don’t doubt it, princess. Now, if it pleases Your Highness, am I dismissed?”

  Astraea huffed and stepped back, sheathing the dagger. “You are.”

  Lazarus dipped into a dramatic mock-bow before flashing a final impish smile and disappearing out the door.

  With her tornado of a brother gone, Astraea returned to the lounge where her sad bag of pastries sat alone. She brought it for two, so there was no way she could finish it on her own. That was right. She couldn’t waste food.

  That was the sole reason why she headed upstairs.

  When Lazarus didn’t need him (which was a rare occurrence in and of itself), Mikalryn was either cooped up in his room, catching up on missed sleep, or training on the roof. That day it was the latter. At the top of the cramped spiral staircase, the roof door was wide open, held from slamming shut by a brick. Mikalryn was immersed in sparring with what looked to be a shadow figure. Astraea didn’t make her presence known immediately.

  Mikalryn ulro Regillus—belonging to House Regillus—was a strikingly tall young man, always in peak physical condition. His piercing emerald gaze had a tendency to look through a person rather than at them, and he was very much not a young man at all, but instead a daimon with at least a few centuries under his belt.

  Steel clanging against steel, the faceless silhouette Mikalryn fought proved to be a formidable opponent. Which was expected, considering it was an echo of himself.

  Astraea’s knock on the doorframe startled Mikalryn out of his trance, and the shadow evaporated the instant his focus broke, its sword clattering to the floor.

  Mikalryn lowered his longsword, turning. “Mistress Astraea,” he said breathlessly. “Is there…something I can do for you?”

  Astraea gave a slight shrug, sauntering over to collect the shadow’s abandoned sword. “Need a proper sparring partner?” She pointed the blade at him.

  Mikalryn chuckled. “Forgive me, Mistress,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow, “but I always win our matches.”

  Astraea tossed the sword from hand to hand, nodding. “That may be so.” She wore a faint smile. “But it must get boring, fighting yourself. There aren’t any surprises. I may not win our matches but I’ve yet to fail in surprising you each time, and who knows? Perhaps one day I’ll catch you off guard enough to win.”

  A spark of competitiveness glinted in his sharp gaze. If there was one thing Mikalryn hated, it was definitely losing.

  “Are you trying to provoke me, Mistress?”

  “No,” she said. “However, if you feel provoked, then it seems I do have a chance of beating you after all.” A cheeky smile lit up her face as she adjusted her grip on the sword hilt. “What are you waiting for, big guy? Hit me with your best shot.”

  With another light chuckle, he lifted his sword. “I hope you won’t regret this, Mistress.”

  Astraea tilted her head, still smiling. “Bold of you to assume I have a superiority complex like you do, Mikal.”

  His eyes flashed dangerously.

  A swift step forward, he swung his blade. Metal clashed as their blades collided. Mikalryn brought both their swords down, untangling them from each other.

  He attacked again without hesitation, but Astraea swiftly dodged and deflected it. Her small frame and nimble steps gave her an advantage in that regard. In the same heartbeat, she attacked him from the side, and the thought that she might win flickered through her mind.

  But he moved so quick that she couldn’t process what’d happened until the strike was parried, and she’d been shoved back.

  Mikalryn smirked. “You think you’re sneaky, don’t you?”

  On his cheekbone, blood was forming in the shape of a thin cut and slowly dripping down his cheek. He had been quick, but not quick enough.

  Astraea giggled. “Sorry about your cheek,” she said, ignoring his baiting remark. “I didn’t mean to scratch your pretty face.”

  Mikalryn, being too high on adrenaline to notice, frowned in confusion. “What—” he began, but was interrupted by Astraea jumping into the offensive.

  Despite being cut off mid-sentence and caught off guard, Mikalryn had no trouble regaining his focus, ruthlessly pushing back. This was why Astraea found their practices exhilarating. It didn’t matter that she never won—what mattered was he never went easy on her solely because she was a woman. Astraea didn’t mind losing a hundred times over if it meant being treated as an equal.

  Beyond that, however, she always learned more from her matches with Mikalryn than with her previous practice partners. After holding her own against someone like him, she felt no fear in facing most other opponents.

  Thus, the match went on. Striking and defending, pushing and pulling. Until a wrong step was made.

  Though it wasn’t an excuse, the training sword Astraea wielded was heavier than her own blade sheathed at her side. It felt unbalanced in her grip and wore her down quicker.

  When Mikalryn ceased his relentless attacks, Astraea made a mistake by relaxing, lowering her guard for a moment. She’d unknowingly allowed him to control the pace of the fight, and saw his next lunge coming a second too late.

  She tried to parry the blow but instead lost her balance from the hasty step paired with her hefty longsword. Next thing she knew, her back hit the floor, the end of his blade rested under her chin, and the match was over.

  Though she’d lost, Astraea grinned. “See?” she managed to say between breaths. “I told you I’d be a more exciting partner than your own shadow.”

  At first, Mikalryn stared down at her in mild surprise. Then he chuckled and withdrew his sword, sheathing it. “So you did.” He offered her a hand.

  It was then that Astraea saw it. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the collection of scars—magically inflicted and otherwise—covering his arms. He never spoke of where he’d gotten them from. Astraea was afraid to pry and equally afraid of his answer.

  As she gratefully accepted his help, getting up, she caught sight of a fresh burn wound. Astraea held onto his hand. “Is that a new one?” she asked, frowning. Gentle and careful, she turned his arm to better see the injury on his arm.

  Mikalryn tensed but refrained from jerking away. His amusement faded, replaced by discomfort. “I was helping Master Lazarus practice alikos.”

  Astraea met his gaze. He was calm, as if it were nothing. Her expression clouded as she returned to examining the wound. The rawness made her stomach churn. She almost felt the burn on her own skin just by looking at it.

  “He used you as target practice?” Astraea asked darkly.

  “With my consent.”

  Astraea set her jaw. His calmness worried her. Was this a common occurrence? What happened in the two years they were gone? How could Lazarus recklessly—

  She forced the rising anxiety back down, exhaling.

  “I can’t believe he didn’t bother tending your wound,” she said. “How irresponsible.”

  “He meant to, but a client interrupted.” Unable to continue ignoring his initial reaction, Mikalryn wrenched his arm out of her grip, his roughness startling her. “Master Lazarus is not to blame.”

  As Astraea’s heart fell at his sharp apathy, Mikalryn snatched the sword from her hand and returned it to the training equipment stand by the door. The lighthearted atmosphere from a moment ago had soured and filled with tension. She regretted ever bringing the topic up.

  “Oh. I see,” Astraea said quietly, lowering her eyes. “I’m sorry, that was brash of me, wasn’t it? I didn’t mean to overstep.”

  Back turned, Mikalryn sighed. “I’m far more durable than you think, Mistress; you needn’t worry.” He faced her. “Now, please, tell me why you’re really here. Something makes me doubt you’ve just come for a sparring session.”

  Astraea fiddled with her fingerless leather gloves to distract herself. “I bought more food than I can finish alone, and elir went out. Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

  Mikalryn nodded. “I accept your invitation,” he said. “But I have a few matters to handle before joining you on the first floor. Was that all, my lady?”

  He wanted her to leave. He didn’t outright say it, of course, but he was heavily implying it, and that was enough for Astraea to feel an inconvenient ache in her chest. She tried to ignore it.

  “Yes…that was all,” Astraea mumbled. Their shoulders brushed as she passed him.

  At these moments, she was sorely reminded of the fact that Mikalryn was not her friend, but a kakodaimon contractually obligated to serve her bloodline. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Or at least that was what she repeated to herself.