Chapter 1; The Tailoress

ORDER OF THE BLESSED AS GIFTED BY THE HEAVENS

Etheral

Scorchers; Blaze Bringers

Siroccians; Air weavers

Terramancer; Earth

Healers; Water manipulator

Anatom

Diremages; control the heartbeats and the blood

Veilwalkers; clone people bodies and powers

Healers; heal the body

Elemental

Cinders; they fix things

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ARWYN

Beneath my nails, traces of dirt linger from my daring descent down the chimney of the brick-layered fabric store two nights ago. The worth of that venture now weighs on me as I sit in the dimly lit room of the same establishment, anticipation th reading through the air.

Gloves hastily conceal my hands, shielding them from the prying glances of the passing servant-evidence of the undeniable dirt beneath. Leigh's disapproval echoes in my mind, her scolding for tarnishing the hands she meticulously softened with rose water and lavender. Yet, this sacrifice is a necessity.

Having confirmed the lady of the fabric store's shady dealings, I make a silent vow to secure an abundance of fabric for Leigh's creations. I can already envision the vibrant blue of her eyes gleaming as she sways across the worn-out rug in our modest apartment, fabrics draped over her frame. The vision unfolds as she imagines the countless dresses and corsets she could craft.

Unlike Leigh, I never indulged in the whimsy of dresses, skirts, and all that societal frill. Hand me leather pants and a well-honed knife, and I'll raise a toast to the Cidron in your honor.

On the table, two cups bear the remnants of tea, wisps of steam occasionally escaping into the air. Despite being assured of the Tailoress's absence, the lingering evidence of shared tea moments before my arrival tells a different tale.

The servant deceived me. He asserted the Tailoress wasn't present. Seated in contemplation, I mull over inventive ways to carve intricate patterns into his skin with my dagger, his blatant dishonesty leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

I gracefully wave my hand in the air, beckoning his attention once more. The lad before me is a ruddy-blond vision, adorned in a crisp white tunic and a green jacket. With his appearance, he could have been a perfect elf, if only he sported long, pointy ears. However, his face mirrors the hue of a ripe tomato, his nose upturned, and lips pressed into a thin line. A curious blend of elfin charm and boredom.

He approaches the table, a wooden tray clutched beneath his arms. "How can I help you?" he monotones.

"I secured an invitation from the Tailoress. We're slated for a rendezvous," I declare, a cautious smile playing on my lips. He better not attempt any tricks again, or he might find himself short a finger.

Earlier this morning, an invitation had been dispatched, with hopes that The Tailoress caught sight of the letter and instructed the boy to be vigilant for my arrival.

His eyes flutter rapidly, and he awkwardly presses his wrist to his head, as if seeking information within. "Raven Falency?" he inquires, and I nod with a wry smile.

No, I'm not Raven. I'm Arwen, but these knuckleheads don't need to know that. Raven is my moniker, my business alias.

"I'll inform her of your presence," he says finally before disappearing around a corner. And they claimed she wasn't available, huh? I cross my arms, the loose flap of my tunic cascading over my leather pants, fingers drumming on my thighs. The six knives snug in my girdle purse press assertively against me as I settle in, anticipating.

This marks my first job in a while, and a hint of nerves surfaces. Arwyn never shies away from a task, especially when there's much to gain. Money is involved because I'm working for Pete Delitroy, one of the notorious brigands in Ilyndor. Although Pete claims to be a saint, he'd torn a whole building-belonging to a psalter- and built a club. Takes from rich merchants that rob the poor and build orphanage houses. But Pete is called a brigand because he doesn't work with the law, and he's a wanted man by the king for stealing from his coffers countless times.

I encountered Pete-or rather, he found me-when I was eleven, pilfering from fruit carts in the market. His hands gripped my shirt collar, and he shook me until tears flowed. "What are you? A little thief?" His booming voice resonated. The scar on his left cheek enhanced his rugged appearance, and his two-colored eyes, like a wolf's-golden brown and black-gave him an enigmatic air. "Orphan?" he thundered.

But I wasn't an orphan. I had Kale, Leigh, and Lilith. I had a family, yet I chose the streets. I had a temple to attend, to hone my healing powers, but I willingly chose the streets over the warmth of their embrace, opting for the thrill of mischief-flinging rotten cabbages at the faces of stout, irate women who scolded me for pillaging their stores-rather than the solace of sanctity.

I take a deep breath, glancing out the window at the dark outlines of buildings, flickering lampposts, oblivious passersby, and carriages.

The Tailoress incurred Pete's wrath when she seized an opportunity to undercut his trade with a merchant from Eldora. Initially furious, Pete directed his rage towards me after weeks of simmering silence. I willingly ran to him, craving adventure and a sense of purpose. Like a puppy, too eager for elusive bread crumbs. His little lamb. He likes to call me like I'm some converted disciple of his.

Leigh and Lilith cautioned against involving myself with Pete, unaware of my internal struggles. To stave off boredom and nightmares of witnessing my mother's death, I needed distractions. I keep seeing his harsh golden-brown eyes glaring at me. The soldier. The man who killed my mother. Sweat breaks out on my forehead as my eyes roam the room.

Farther from the door in which the servant had entered, there was another door. A slim one. My escape out of here if everything ended in blistering hell. Pete always said to look for blind spots before settling in a room, but I had been too occupied with my thoughts to plan my way out of here.

The first door opens, and the servant returns, a drape adorning his arm as if welcoming royalty. Following him is the Tailoress-milky skirts, a tight brown corset, petite and pouty, with dark hair cascading over her shoulder.

I stand up from my seat, masking a smile and pulling my sleeves down, my fingers wiggling at my sides as I await her complete exposure to the room.

Vanilla permeates the room with her arrival, a scent that makes me nauseous. She takes the seat opposite me, moving with such flawless grace and caution, motioning for the servant to clear away the tea cups that were on the table upon my arrival, and I let out a crooked smile as she eyes me cautiously. A mistake on her part for leaving a clue to her previous lie of absence.

"Your stooge told me you weren't accessible," I begin, but she raises her hand, nails painted a bright ruby.

"What is your name, girl?"

"Raven Falency," I mutter, fingers twisting my necklace. Her blue eyes scrutinize me, unmoving.

Two bulky men stealthily enter the room, hands entwined in front of them, and swords attached to their girdle. This is not going to end well, is it? I let out a puff of air and stare at the Tailoress.

"Why does your name sound familiar?" she muses, tapping ruby nails on the table. "Who are you, girl? And what do you want?" Her voice is buttery and flat as she mumbles my name over and over as if trying to recall an event.

She was scrutinizing me from head to toe. From my rugged boot to tight leather pant, purple tacky vest and milky white shirt with flappy hands. My hair, short to my shoulder and pinned behind my ears made me look less shabby. Nonetheless, her gaze was demanding.

"Does it now?" I smile. "I was sent by Douglas. You likely know him, given that you've loaded an entire carriage with ale, ready for delivery to Eldora as per his request, of course."

Her gaze wavered, and her posture stiffened. "Who are you, girl? And what do you want?"

The awaited question finally arrived. "My boss mentioned that you should reconsider."

A smirk played on the Tailoress's lips. "And who's your boss?"

"Douglas. I'm his messenger, and he's no longer interested in doing business with you. I'll need your signature on these papers." I produce a stack of documents cradled between my vest and shirt.

"And why are you so confident I'll put my signature on those?" The Tailoress's nails ceased their rhythmic tapping as she leaned in, scrutinizing me. "How long have you been in Ilyndor, girl?"

"The name is Raven," I say through gritted teeth. "And I've been here since last night, eager for an audience with you."

"Raven." Her eyes gleam mysteriously. "So, you journeyed all the way from Eldora just to inform me that I should endorse a couple of worn-out papers, all in the name of your boss, Douglas, who suddenly has a change of heart about working with me."

I nod, uncertain where this conversation is headed.

"Well, Raven. If Dougy truly wanted to convey a message, he could have sent a note through the Looters-" Looters, those swift messengers who traverse towns and cities like errant spirits. "- or Dougy could have graced Ilyndor with his presence and spent the night in my...inn."

Brothel, she means. It's not an inn but a den of debauchery, where all manners of illicit deeds unfold. Men stumble in and stagger out, their garments askew, while alluring sirens with impossibly captivating figures linger at the door. And why does she persist in calling him Dougy? Are they acquaintances or perhaps something more?

No. Pete wouldn't have thrown me into the lion's den without a thorough background check or pertinent information. My hands inch ever so close to the sides of my thighs, yearning to grasp the knife securely lodged there.

"Maybe he wasn't anticipating the long trip," I mumble.

"I know girls like you. Desperate for a keep, probably an orphan, plucked from the streets, working for men like Pete Delitroy."

My heart races against my chest as I search for a new escape route, maintaining a poker face. I've been in situations like this before-caught red-handed, cornered by my victim, only now, I am the victim.

But she's correct about two things: I work for Pete, and I am an orphan. However, I don't sleep in the streets; I'm not homeless.

Slowly, I rise from my chair, the footsteps gradually approaching me from behind before coming to a sudden halt. This is the moment where I unleash a powder puff, creating a distraction, and make my daring exit through the window.

"Two nights ago, some documents vanished from my drawer," the Tailoress declares, rising from her chair. She paces behind an old brown desk, her fingernails tracing imaginary lines in its wake. The air is charged with tension, her vanilla scent mingling with the room, creating a blend that could be cut with the rugged knife belted to my girdle. Oh yes, knives are strategically tucked into almost every part of me.

No room for chances.

A mischievous smile spreads across my face as I observe her. "Shame."

"Apparently, the suspect crawled down the chimney of my store like a dirty little rat," a scrappy, displeasing noise grates against my ears as she drags her bailed against the body of the table edge. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you, Raven Falency?"

"And how should I know?" I shrug, the deal now dangling precariously. She's well aware I'm nothing but a masterful liar, yet I refuse to lower my guard. The longer I can keep her guessing with feigned ignorance, the better my chances of orchestrating a daring escape.

The windows are closed but not hermetically sealed. If I release the powder puff in the nick of time, I can swiftly dash for the window, thrust it open, and disappear into the night. Her lackeys might give chase, but the bustling street promises a maze of carriages and pedestrians to lose myself within.

"When my servant burst in to announce your presence, he didn't miss commenting on your appearance, girl, or the grubby soot clinging to those fingers of yours." Her eyes lock onto mine with a wicked glimmer. Ugh, that wretched tattletale. My gaze shifts to the back of the room where he's discreetly handed a small pouch, likely filled with coins.

Think, Arwen, think now! "I toil in the serf during the day." A decent excuse, but doubt lingers in her eyes. A quick glance at her henchmen reveals their ominous anticipation of what comes next.

"Kill her!" came the cold command before she turned around, placing her hand on the rough table. Now's my cue.