The hallway was too narrow for the rage in my chest.

  My feet slapped against the polished floor. Behind me, Selwyn called my name. I didn't stop. My heart hammered against my ribs like it wanted to break free, to find another body that might contain it better.

  "Joy!" The urgency in his voice echoed off the walls. "Stop!"

  I spun on him just as we reached the main stairwell. The movement sent pain lancing through my still-healing wounds, bright sparks of sensation across my ribs and back. I welcomed it. Pain was familiar. Pain was clarifying.

  "Don't tell me to breathe. Don't tell me to rest. I'm done resting." My voice came out sharper than he deserved, but it was all I had.

  Selwyn held his hands up in surrender, his injured arm still in a sling. A constant reminder of what I'd done to him. What Marcelo had made me do.

  "I'm not trying to stop you. I just want to know where you're going." His eyes tracked my face, searching for something.

  "To show them what they refuse to see." The words tasted like iron on my tongue.

  His eyes darkened, the green of them turning almost black. The muscles in his jaw tightened, a pulse visible beneath the skin. "You can't go after Marcelo alone."

  "Who said anything about alone?" I turned sharply and strode toward my room.

  Nalah's blood was drying on my hands. The girl who'd never felt what it was to be safe. Who'd chosen death over living with Marcelo's voice in her head.

  I understood. Gods help me, I understood.

  Inside my room, the air was still and stale. The curtains hung motionless, dust motes floating in the few rays of morning sunlight that cut across the floor. My reflection flashed in the tall mirror as I stripped off the bloodied nightgown. The fabric clung to my skin, peeling away with a soft, wet sound. I tossed it aside. It landed in a crumpled, crimson heap.

  Skin that had once been unblemished now carried its own map of pain, fading bruises in purple and yellow, healing cuts in angry red lines, and the brand I couldn't see but always felt. I looked thinner than before, ribs more pronounced, collarbones sharp beneath my skin. But there was a hardness to my body that hadn't been there when I'd first arrived at Jacobi's estate.

  The wardrobe door creaked as I pulled it open. I dug to the bottom of the neatly folded clothes until my fingers closed around leather. I'd had it commissioned in secret months ago, using Leonard as an intermediary with the seamstress. I’d told them it was to wear for one of Jacobi’s “more adventurous clients”, a vague enough excuse and believable enough that no one asked twice. Combat gear in the style of a Blade. The leather was new, lacking the wear of my original armor, but the design was faithful to what I'd once worn in Naerith. A reminder of what I had been.

  The leather creaked softly as I dressed in silence. First the underlayer, thin and tight, then the pants that moved with me rather than against me. The texture was rough against my fingertips but smooth against my skin. The sleeveless tunic came next, reinforced with stitched paneling across the chest and back to deflect a blade. I buckled the wide belt at my waist, feeling the weight of it settle on my hips. Jacobi's market knife slid into the sheath with a satisfying hiss. Not as good as my blades from home, but it would do.

  When I looked in the mirror again, someone else stared back at me. Not the broken girl from the cellar. Not the quiet pet who'd curled at Jacobi's feet. Not the performer who'd pretended weakness in the arena.

  She was what had been underneath all along.

  I flexed my fingers, feeling the strength returning to them. The claws at the tips lengthened slightly, responding to my intent. Not fully extended, never in this realm, but enough.

  At the dresser, I found the collar.

  The purple Garrthor stones caught the light, shimmering with internal fire. I lifted it to my throat and buckled it into place. A choice this time. My choice. The gems felt cool against my flushed skin, the weight of them grounding. I traced the ornate Velez crest with my fingertip, feeling every ridge and curve.

  Footsteps approached, quiet but not attempting to hide. Selwyn entered and stood in the doorway, watching me. His eyes scanned me from head to toe. No judgment. Just understanding. He held something in his good hand.

  "I thought you might want this." The silver caught the light as he extended his hand.

  The silver comb.

  I took it from him, the metal cool against my palm. I pulled my hair back tightly, twisting and securing it in a practical knot at the base of my skull. The comb anchored it firmly in place, functional rather than decorative. A fighter's style, keeping hair away from eyes and out of an opponent's grasp. My scalp tingled as I pulled the strands tight.

  I turned. "Where's Jacobi?"

  "Study." Selwyn leaned against the doorframe. "He's waiting."

  "Good."

  I moved past him, back toward the study. The hall felt longer somehow, each step bringing me closer to a line I couldn't uncross.

  I faltered at the doorway. Nalah's body lay where she had fallen, small and broken on the expensive carpet. Someone had closed her eyes and covered her with a thin blanket, but her bare feet still poked out from beneath it, small and pale, the nails painted red. One of Delia’s little rituals. The sight punched through my anger, leaving a hollow ache behind.

  My hands clenched at my sides, remembering the feel of her wound beneath my fingers as I'd tried and failed to save her.

  Jacobi was there, sitting at his desk while Delia wrapped a bandage around his forearm. His blood-soaked shirt was still wet in places, the fabric clinging to his skin. Strain showed at the corners of his eyes, tiny lines that weren't usually there.

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  He looked up as I entered, dismissing Delia with a nod. She gathered her supplies and slipped past me, her eyes downcast. She smelled of herbs and tears.

  Jacobi took in my changed appearance with a slow, careful gaze. His eyes lingered on the leather armor, the knife at my hip, the collar at my throat. "You're going," he said. Not a question.

  "I am." The words came out calmer than I felt.

  He pushed back from his desk, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor. "You plan to hunt him in the shadows of Mainport?"

  "No," I said. The cool resolve in my voice surprised even me. "I'm going to the Council."

  That got his attention. His posture straightened, mouth tightening. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Joy—"

  "They backed him." I cut him off, the words sharp as knives. "They turn a blind eye. They let him build his little empire of pain. If they won't hand him to me, I'll carve the truth out in front of them."

  "He is on the Council." Jacobi's voice dropped lower, almost a growl. "Joy, I am on the Council."

  I met his gaze without flinching. The air between us crackled with tension. "Then let's make it awkward, shall we?"

  Behind me, Selwyn made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh.

  "You think they'll side with you?"

  "I don't need their side." I stepped deeper into the room, closer to him. "I need them to see what they’re doing to us."

  "And if they close ranks?"

  I smiled. Not the carefully crafted smile I'd worn in the arena or at parties. This was the smile of a predator remembering the hunt, all teeth and promise. "Then they'll learn what happens when you back a Blade of Tesharen into a corner."

  Jacobi's expression shifted, something like pride flickering behind his careful reserve. "Their security—"

  "Won't stop me." I took another step closer. I could smell him now, sweat and blood and that distinct scent that was uniquely his.

  We stared at each other, the air between us electric with possibilities. For a moment, I thought he might argue further, try to reason with me the way he always had before. Instead, he walked to a cabinet against the far wall and unlocked it with a small key from his pocket. The lock clicked open, loud in the tense silence.

  When he turned back, he held a sheathed blade. The leather scabbard was worn but well-oiled, clearly cared for despite its age. "This should serve you better than the market knife."

  I took it from him, testing its weight. The balance was perfect. The handle fit my palm as if it had been made for me. I drew it partway, admiring the blue-black sheen of the metal. The edge glinted, impossibly sharp.

  Jacobi watched me handle it, his eyes dark. "Velez steel. My father's dagger."

  "I'll try not to get too much blood on it," I replied, securing it beside the market knife. The weight of both weapons against my hip felt right.

  Jacobi's lips twitched. "What's a little blood between… friends?" His eyes traveled from the blade to my face. "That blade is like you, it responds well to a firm hand."

  Heat flushed across my skin that had nothing to do with anger. Before I got a chance to respond, the door behind me opened again.

  "She's going after the Council," Selwyn announced to whoever had entered.

  "Of course she is." Ross's voice was dry as desert sand. "Why solve a problem with subtlety when you can cause a diplomatic incident?"

  I turned to face my brother. He stood in the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest. His full Naerithi presence filled the room, pressing against the walls like a storm about to break. Gone was his usual careful restraint. This was my brother in all his power, nearly seven feet of muscle and authority.

  Ross stepped into the room, filling the space between me and the door. "You walk into their chamber like this, you might not walk out."

  I turned, eyes blazing. "Don't try to stop me."

  "Joy—"

  "You forget what I am besides your sister." My voice cut like tempered steel. "I am a Blade of Tesharen. I was trained for war. I was broken, branded, and I came back sharper."

  Ross's gaze turned flinty. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "And you forget what I am besides your brother."

  I paused, recognizing the weight in his voice. The pieces clicked together in my mind, and my lips curled into a smile as understanding dawned.

  "Right. You're the true Senator Ross."

  He stepped closer, voice low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond the room. "And the council answers to me, Joy."

  My smile widened. "Then they're going to hate this even more."

  A glint of amusement flickered in Ross's eyes, despite his stern expression. "You realize what you're asking me to do?"

  The implications were clear - this would force Ross to reveal himself or at least exercise his considerable power in the human political structure he'd built.

  "I'm not asking anything." I held his gaze, unflinching. "But I won't stop you from helping."

  The silence stretched between us, filled with unspoken words and shared history. A shared purpose forming between us. Recognition flickered in Ross's eyes, not just of who I was, but of who I had become. What I had survived.

  "If you do this," he said, the words heavy with consequence, "there's no going back. No more shadows. No more pretending to be what humans expect."

  "Good." The word felt like freedom. Like breathing after being underwater too long. "I'm tired of shadows."

  Ross nodded firmly. "Then I'll be there with you. It's time they learned who really holds power in this city."

  "Let's not keep them waiting." I brushed past him, heading for the door.

  Back in the entry hall, Delia and Lilach were waiting. Delia's face was still streaked with tears, tracks down her cheeks where she'd tried and failed to wipe them away. Lilach's expression was thunderous, her skin darkened with emotion. Both looked up as we descended the stairs, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the high-ceilinged space.

  Leonard stepped forward from the shadow of the staircase, his expression solemn but resolute.

  Jacobi turned to him. "Leonard, have Nalah buried in the eastern garden. Under the white flowering tree."

  "Yes, sir." Leonard bowed slightly. "I'll see that everything is done properly."

  I met Jacobi’s gaze, and then Leonard’s. "Thank you."

  The eastern garden had always been my refuge at the estate. It seemed fitting that Nalah would rest there, away from the darkness that had claimed her life.

  "We're going," Lilach stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. The knife at her hip gleamed, not Marcelo's blade this time, but one of her own.

  Delia's eyes were red-rimmed but determined. "For Nalah."

  "And for Ellah," I added. "She's still out there. Still his prisoner."

  Jacobi stepped up beside me, his shoulder nearly touching mine. I could feel the heat of him. "The Council answers to those with power. It's time they learned who truly holds it."

  Selwyn joined him on my other side, flanking me. "You lead. We follow."

  I looked between them all. Jacobi with his iron control and sharp mind. Selwyn with his quiet danger and surprising loyalty. Ross with his political power. Lilach with her warrior's skill. Delia with her heart full of grief and determination.

  For weeks I'd felt shattered, pieces of myself scattered and lost. But standing there, surrounded by my family, I felt something new taking shape. The anger still burned, but for the first time in weeks, I didn’t carry it alone.

  I turned toward the door, hand resting on the hilt of the Velez blade. "Let's go make them nervous."

  End of Book One

  Forged Blade has been a story of survival, reclamation, and the slow, brutal forging of identity through pain. Joy is many things—a weapon, a sister, a symbol—but most of all, she’s still standing. Sharper than before. And no longer alone.

  Two men. Two kinds of danger. And no, she’s not choosing.

  Tempered Blade is coming. And this war? It’s going to get personal.