Far behind the girl's eyes, something watches, and is silent.

They don’t answer but she nods anyway, satisfied by whatever she imagines they said. 

She moves to the still-closed bedroom door. There is sobbing behind the thick, carven oak. The blood on the polished marble floor is hot on her bare feet. Slick, and sticky between her toes. It reminds her… her free hand rubs absently at her opposite wrist. At the surgically precise scars there. 

“Knock knock,” she tries cheerfully. The door doesn’t open. Worth a try. She shrugs and kicks the door- her foot leaves a red print on the pale wood. It shudders in its housing, but doesn’t budge. She pouts. Sister is counting on her… sister would be so disappointed. A door won’t stop her. 

She considers the blade in her hand, not-bronze glinting dully in the dim candlelight. It is preternaturally keen, but even so… too long. Help will be coming. Sister doesn’t want a bloodbath. She regards the corpses all about. Well… more of a bloodbath than strictly necessary. Hmm. 

She sticks the keen point into the gap between door and frame, feels the nigh-indestructible point snick against the latch, and puts her entire slight weight behind it. Nothing happens. 

Stupid girl. Use your spells.

She steps away from the door, holds her head.

“Stupid girl,” she repeats. Sister will be so disappointed…

A scroll, girl.

“Useless child,” she says, rubs her scarred wrist absently.

She fumbles at her belt, opens one of the scroll cases, withdraws one of the crisp fresh sheets of vellum.

She holds it flat. Incomprehensible runes, arcane diagrams.

"Adzhalar agnus versthai...", it reads, and on through the spell.

“Boom,” she says. The scroll crumbles to ash in her hand as the door detonates, splinters of carven oak scything through the air like razors. One clips her pale cheek, but she doesn’t feel it. It’s nothing, next to the scars… 

The bedroom is dark. The marble floor glints in the light spilling from the sitting room. The mahogany paneled walls are dark like blood. A chandelier hangs unlit, cut crystals glinting as they turn. The bed is dark and massive, crimson linens and a crimson canopy. The man sits there, red blankets pulled up to his corpulent chest. The man she is here to kill. She almost doesn’t notice the boy cowering behind him. She hadn’t expected a boy here… another guard? He isn’t armed? Isn’t clothed either. Too young to be a guard. Too young for stubble or chest hair. 

“Princess Nerissa?” The man frowns. “I thought…”

She frowns, tilts her head like a too-pale crow that just caught a glimpse of something shiny. 

“No,” the girl replies neutrally. She rubs her wrist again. “Her sister.”

Idiot child, making more work for yourself. Now he has to die.

“He was already going to die,” the girl says aloud.

The man lets out a quiet sob. 

Not the Pontiff. The boy.

“Oh,” the girl says. She hesitates. “Well, he saw my face.” She steps towards the bed, bare feet leaving bloody prints in her wake. 

“Wait,” the man holds up his hands… “Wait! Don’t you know who I am?” 

“Did I get the wrong address?” The girl looks around uncertainly. “The Lord Pontifex of Ardholm City? Lord Ansel?”

“Well…” the man splutters. He glances at the keen point of her sword. He swallows. “Yes… I’m rich.”

“Obviously,” she shrugs and gestures with her sword at the arrayed finery. A thin dribble of crimson follows the motion.

Get it done with, child.

“I could pay you!” The man cries. 

“Yup!” She raises the not-bronze blade. 

“You’re unhinged!” The man covers his head with his flabby arms. 

“Yup!” She strikes. The  Pontifex’s arms fall beside his head. Crimson splatters across crimson sheets. “Now,” she frowns, and turns to the boy- silent this whole time. “What ought I to do with you?”

Just kill him.

“Don’t care,” the boy shrugs. “Got to see him die first. Doesn’t matter what happens now.” 

“Ok,” she agrees, and strikes his head from his shoulders. “What else?” 

You've left evidence. Clean up after yourself.

She nods, wipes her sword clean on the sheets, and sheaths it.

“Right,” she agrees, and withdraws another scroll from the cases at her belt.

The being channels words and power, and a plume of flame springs up. It resolves itself into a vague humanoid shape. Fire and rage and smoke.

She gathers up her cloak, throws it about her shoulders, and slips from the Pontifex’s rooms as the creature begins its incandescent work. Guards bustle past her towards the blaze, but their attention slides off her narrow cloaked shoulders. Sister will be pleased… 

And something watches the girl as she goes about her work.

She returns to the dank little cave beneath the royal palace. Sister doesn't like her to be outside unless absolutely necessary. Doesn't like to risk people seeing her face. 

She flies through her forms, gauntleted hands on the still-bloody eel skin grip. Underhau from the lower left quadrant. The blade flips about nimbly as she steps into her strike, up and to the right. It turns into an oberhau. She steps in again, flips the blade back up. Oberhau from the left. She steps forward. Underhau up from the lower right. One. Oberhau left. Underhau right. Underhau left. Oberhau right. Two. Underhau right. Oberhau left. Oberhau right. Underhau left. Three. Oberhau right. Underhau left. Underhau right. Oberhau left. Four. 

She’s at the far wall of the cave now, bare feet slapping against the cold damp rough hewn floor. She turns around and starts over. One. Two. Three. Four. At the opposite wall now. She turns. One. Two. Three. Four. 

Too slow.