Fortune Favors the Shrewd

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. This truth was the paste that held Vesna’s cracked being together.

One day each year, the Borderfolk, too, could dance. When dawn conquered the slumbering horizon each Summer Solstice, the Borderwomen would rise and take to the forest. In the waking Tumblewood, their verdant chatter would lilt in harmony with surrounding birdsongs—a better blend than any Altaryn orchestra. They would gather herbs and wildflowers. They would gossip as they wove wreaths, as they donned them atop braided hair—queens of the forest, for a day. In the evening, they would dance to the thrumming pull of the Veiled River.

This time, Vesna knew, she would not be among them.

Elder Mira’s hushed, firelit words would once again embroider the lost world—a world where the Borderfolk had lived freely, happily even. Vesna longed for that world, longed to tug at its few remaining threads—but they were fragile, full of tension:

The old gods’ altars, tucked into the darkest corners of homes—shrouded by curtains or forbidden glamour spells. The quiet shepherds of the town outskirts—sentinels of the land, greeting each orange dawn with splintered staffs at the ready. The creak in the Tumblewood as the mournful trees lamented—the only living witnesses to those first wartime atrocities.

In her greener years, Vesna thought someday she'd follow those fragile fibers back to freedom, hand over hand. Now, at 23 years of age, she knew the thinly threaded remnants would only snap under her weight. Even if not, there were those who would work actively against her— from the Altaryn regime, yes, but worse, by far, were those shadows who destroyed the lives of their fellow men from within:

“Dragons,” the initial wave of invading Altaryns had called the sturdy Borderfolk warriors in those first battles long ago, for the Borderfolk outmatched them in spirit and brute strength alike; however, with strategy, numbers, and a plethora of weaponry on their side, the cutthroat Altaryn Empire was ultimately victorious in their conquest.

“Dragons,” they had been called, and Vesna knew that the Altaryns took pride in the slaughter, like aristocrats collecting exotic predators as hunting trophies. The moniker, after many decades of serving as an injurious nickname for the Borderfolk, eventually became much more particular in meaning. These days, it was used as a nickname for those the Altaryns dubbed the “Valleystriders”—Borderfolk mercenaries who served the Altaryn regime, beating, bullying, and policing their own people on behalf of the empire. A select few bearing exceptional skills of some kind or another—marksmen, artisans, even picklocks—served members of the aristocracy in specialized tasks.

Traitors, in Vesna’s eyes—scaly, cunning, and cruel—akin to their namesakes, through and through.

There was no way back. No, there weren’t always dragons in the Valley—devouring their own, tearing limb from limb. And there weren’t always Altaryns, either. But both were here now. Vesna felt the tension of this fact pulsate in the air between her fingers and the crossbow trigger. She carefully evaluated her footing on the branch before moving into a crouch.

“Bring forward Kyros Mindcleaver,” the nasal High Priest called out from the platform in the center of the town square, north of the lofty willow where Vesna crouched, concealed by leafy curtains of green. The High Priest, clad in black rather than his standard royal blue garb, was disinterested, uninvolved—as if an execution were a cumbersome daily task, comparable to weeding, mending, or gathering water (though Vesna knew, by his talon-like, purple-lacquered nails, he’d never worked a day of manual labor). Before him, bearing bloodstains that were visible even from Vesna’s post, stood a sizeable wooden block. To its left loomed the hooded executioner, wielding a white battle axe that, by Vesna’s guess, was crafted of Orc bone. She gritted her teeth in an effort not to shudder—the fate of the Orcs at the hands of the Altaryns was worse than that of her own people. Towards the back of the platform stood two wooden thrones atop a dais, where the middle-aged Lord Ulrik and his son Petrik, no more than 25 years of age, sat together.

Ulrik’s face was full of angular features: an aquiline nose, a distinct brow, deep set eyes of gray, and prominent cheekbones. His dark beard, which stretched across the entirety of his square jaw, was trimmed into a neat rectangle. The overall effect was jarring—and yet, he was not entirely unpleasant to look at; his visage bore with it a strange, inexplicable magnetism. Petrik shared his father’s gray eyes and prominent cheekbones, but that was the extent of the pair’s facial similarities. Petrik’s nose was broad and sloped where his father’s was thin and arched. His clean-shaved jaw was mildly squared, and his chin came to a point. His collarbone-length hair had been dyed a rich royal blue—a true mark of wealth, even among the Altaryns. The duo’s perch was situated from a distance, so as to spare their aristocratic attire from blood or vomit stains. Both men were stone-faced with regal self-import; Vesna had seen statues with more life. She wondered, for a moment, if they were indeed made of stone: Petrik, like his father, was almost unnaturally muscled—it seemed to Vesna that for the Altaryns, the appearance of strength was more important than any truly useful physical ability. She gritted her teeth together as she channeled her rage into focus.

Because now, before the block, flanked by guards, stood her older brother.

Kyros was tall, lean in musculature even during bountiful harvests.

Kyros, who reached the highest apples for her.

Kyros, who hid her shoes atop the highest cabinets when she pissed him off.

Now, as he stepped forward to meet his death, he was exceptionally lanky and gaunt. In spite of his glaringly evident physical weakness, no indications of cowardice cracked through his haughty, upright exterior. Kyros’s back was to her, and it occurred to Vesna that she may never see her brother’s face again. Vesna watched her brother’s squared shoulders as he approached the block and was forced to a kneeling position by the guards. He wore a tunic of burlap, and his legs were bare—the standard-issue uniform for prisoners walking towards their last moments, no doubt. The noonday sun wrapped around his disheveled dark curls, casting barely tangible hints of blue outward. Spring was turning to summer in the Valley, but to Vesna’s surprise, her brother was not sweating. His skin, usually golden like hers, looked pallid from months without sunlight. From her shady perch, she wiped a bead of sweat off her own forehead, then peered through the crossbow’s scope, steeling herself for what had to be done. What she was going to do.

All of them. She would kill all of them on that platform. The three guards protecting Ulrik and Petrik. The two flanking Kyros. The executioner. The High Priest. Ulrik himself. Petrik. Her timing, she knew, would have to be perfect—she needed to kill all eight of them before she herself was killed. And she would, of course, be killed—by the Altaryn forces, by Valleystriders, by a mob—she did not know. She paid no mind to the question of who would get caught in the crossfire. It was a gamble, through and through—there was no guarantee that her rescue mission would buy her brother the chance to flee, especially in his current physical state. But Kyros’s concealed abilities, she knew, were too valuable for the Borderfolk to lose as they teetered on the fragile edge of an uprising. Yes, a gamble—a gamble that could prove to be her people’s only hope.

Her earthy eyes tracked every movement in the square. The crowd of onlookers before the platform was full of chatter. Vesna, who was well-acquainted with death, failed to understand the entertainment value of an execution. Some in the crowd tore into pieces of fried dough with their teeth. Others were laughing, likely discussing Solstice preparations. A pang reverberated within Vesna’s core when she again remembered that there were no more Solstices in store for her.

Atop the platform, Ulrik sipped from a gem encrusted goblet. Even had she not been filled with rage over how small and unimportant her brother’s life was to the Altaryns, Vesna still would’ve wrinkled her nose at the sheer opulence displayed in that single, passive action by Ulrik. How expensive was the wine that lifted Lord Ulrik’s mood? How many Borderfolk hands had tended the grapes? How many had mined the inlaid emeralds that he didn’t think of even once?

“Kyros Mindcleaver,” the High Priest drawled lazily, “You have committed crimes against your Lord Ulrik, your Emperor Luciandus, and the High God of the Heavens, Itar. For the following crimes, in ascending order, you have been found guilty and are hereby sentenced to death: petty thievery, burglary, heathenry, heresy, witchcraft, and treason. Speak any final remarks now, make your peace with Itar, lay your head down, and meet His judgment.

Kyros lifted his eyes directly to Ulrik, and by some miracle, Ulrik returned the gaze. He appeared startled for a moment, perhaps due to the sincerity of the gaze; more likely because of Kyros’s eyes—for they contained no whites, and no distinction between pupil or iris— instead, they pooled in an inky blackness, darker than the night sky during a hollow moon. Some said that Kyros Mindcleaver’s eyes appeared to devour the light around them.

Kyros smiled—mischievous, feline, and yet void of malice. “Long live the Borderlands. Long live those who work its fields.” His voice was deep, steady, and even.

Ulrik’s expression hardened to its original disinterest. His mouth tightened, and he did not speak, but he also did not peel his eyes from Kyros’s. The priest nodded to the executioner, who lifted his ax.

There was a flash of color, movement—to Ulrik’s left, Petrik, who had remained seemingly apathetic during the process, was on his feet. “Wait,” he called out in the clear, well-projected voice of a diplomat, “I am allotted five yearly pardons, and I extend one now to Kyros Mindcleaver under the following conditions: Kyros shall be afforded both life and freedom if he agrees to become a member of my personal guard. Furthermore, his family—”

A woman’s shrill scream tore through the air. Soon, the entire crowd was a cacophony of fear. People pushed past one another to flee, trampling over anyone unfortunate enough to fall, darting in all directions like ants.

Petrik looked confused for a moment, then turned his gaze towards his father, perhaps looking for direction or preparing himself to defend his decision. His eyes widened and glazed over, bewildered, as he beheld what was before him.

Lord Ulrik was slumped back in his throne at an angle, motionless, a crossbow bolt pinning his chest to the seat’s wooden back. Deep crimson burst forth beneath his clean white tunic of silk.

He was dead.

“Father?” Petrik only had time to take a step toward Lord Ulrik before the platform was flooded with guards, three of whom escorted him away. He raged against them in a daze. A muscled limb occasionally escaped the grip of the guards as he called out “father” repeatedly, increasing in urgency and volume alike with each step he was ushered away.

Shit, shit, shit, Vesna clamped her teeth to the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to remain silent even as her heart rattled in her chest. She had not made this shot—or at least, she didn’t think she had. Bewildered, she lowered her crossbow and double checked, triple checked, that her bolt had not been released.

It remained in its original position, entirely unmoved. She’d been lying in wait after Petrik’s unexpected interruption. She’d anticipated that her brother would be too proud to accept Petrik’s offer; had been waiting for the reply that would provide more cover of distraction, something along the lines of “You can shove your pardon up your ass, I would rather die a true Borderman than live a traitor.” She was restructuring her plan of attack when the shot landed. She searched for the marksman but, in a panicked haze, failed to gather any useful information.

All those tumultuous weeks back, she’d selected the willow tree as her hiding spot. She’d done so relying on a key advantage: All eyes would be on the execution platform. Her hiding spot hadn’t needed to provide perfect cover; it only needed to hide her from plain sight.

But now, the square was flooded with guards searching for an assassin. In fractal moments, they would be looking everywhere, looking upward, to find the perch of the marksman.

No, she hadn’t made this shot.

But Lord Ulrik had been murdered with a crossbow.

And the High Priest locked eyes with Vesna, who held one.