The air in the bathhouse hung thick with steam, clinging to Blazar's skin like a second, suffocating layer that made every breath feel stolen. The ancient stone walls wept condensation, creating rivulets that traced lazy paths toward the cracked tiles below.
Two men—one broad as a mountain bear with shoulders that could crush bone, the other lean and sharp-eyed like a hunting falcon—blocked her path with deliberate malice.
Their gazes crawled over her half-exposed body with the slow, deliberate hunger of wolves circling wounded prey, savoring the moment before the kill.
Steam billowed around them like ghostly fingers, but nothing could hide the predatory gleam in their eyes or the way they positioned themselves between her and freedom, which is the door.
This, she thought bitterly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird desperate for escape, is exactly why I became a man.
Memories crashed over her in waves—the Seer's gnarled fingers gripping her chin with bruising force, those ancient knuckles white with arthritis and cruelty.
The old woman's breath had reeked of bitter herbs as she hissed her words like a curse: "Girls like you don't survive alone in this world. Not as women. Not with that face, that fire in your eyes. They'll break you, child. Break you and use the pieces."
Blazar had been eleven then, all knobby knees and defiant glares, but she'd understood with the terrible clarity that only children possess.
She'd seen the brothels with their barred windows, the auction blocks stained with tears and blood, the hollow-eyed women who'd once been warriors before their bodies were sold to the highest bidder like cattle at market.
The muscular man licked his lips with deliberate slowness, his tongue darting out like a serpent tasting the air. "Give us a quickie, sweetheart, and we'll keep our mouths shut about your little... secret." His voice was gravel and oil, coating every word with implied threat.
"I'm afraid I'm not in the mood, sir." The words tasted like ash and submission—too polite, too weak, everything she'd trained herself never to be. But sometimes survival meant swallowing pride like bitter medicine.
The lean one chuckled, a sound like breaking glass, stepping closer until she could smell the stale alcohol on his breath and see the yellow stains on his teeth.
"You don't have to be in the mood, little bird." His fingers brushed her bare shoulder, leaving a trail of revulsion that made her skin crawl as if touched by something dead and rotting.
"I'm pretty sure if you let me touch you," the muscular one added, his breath hot and rancid against her cheek, reeking of garlic and something fouler, "you'll be in the mood in no time. We know how to make girls like you sing."
His lips were a hair's breadth from hers, close enough that she could see every pore, every broken capillary.
Think. Think. Think.
Her pulse hammered against her ribs, each heartbeat a deafening drum in her ears. The words tumbled out before she could choke them back:
"I have a boyfriend."
No, she didn't!
The muscular one barked a laugh, his towel slipping dangerously low as he stepped closer.
The steam clinging to his skin did nothing to soften the predatory gleam in his eyes.
"Who cares if you have one boyfriend?" He smirked, fingers twitching like he already imagined peeling her towel away. "You can have more than one."
The lean one chuckled darkly, circling behind her. His breath hit the nape of her neck—hot, damp, and reeking of cheap academy soap. "We'll even share."
She struck—a knee driven upward with all the force of years of training and desperate fury. Sharp and merciless, it found its target with surgical precision.
He crumpled with a guttural groan that echoed off the stone walls, but the lean one lunged forward like a striking snake, his fingers tangling in her damp hair with cruel intent—
CRASH.
The door burst open with the violence of thunder, steam billowing outward in great clouds.
Vyne.
"There you are!" His usual lazy drawl cut through the steam like a blade through silk, but there was an edge beneath the casual tone.
"Principal's livid about the—" Then he froze mid-sentence, his entire body going statue-still.
His eyes flicked from the half-naked Blazar to the two men with predatory gazes, and for a heartbeat that stretched like eternity, his expression wavered between shock and something darker.
Blazar saw the exact moment recognition dawned—the way his gaze snagged on the curve of her hip, the too-delicate collarbones her towel barely concealed, the familiar stubborn set of her jaw that he'd seen a before in different circumstances.
That girl looks just like Orion. The thought flickered across his brain like lightning.
His voice turned glacial, each word precisely enunciated with the careful control of someone holding back a hurricane. "—mold infestation you two were supposed to report." A razor-edged smile spread across his face, beautiful and terrifying.
"Unless you'd rather explain why you're harassing a lost newbie instead of doing your jobs?"
The men stiffened like guilty children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Fear flickered across their faces, chased by confusion, then grudging respect for someone they clearly recognized as dangerous.
"We were just asking if she's lost," the muscular one muttered, rubbing his still-throbbing groin with wincing movements that brought Blazar a flash of savage satisfaction.
Vyne's laugh was too loud, too forced, filling the steamy air with false joviality. "Oh wonderful—you've met my idiot cousins!"
He rubbed the back of his neck with perfectly practiced awkward charm, the gesture so natural it might have been genuine. "They were just leaving to report to the principal about the, uh... mold problem in the tower. Right, boys?"
The lean one grunted like a displeased animal. The muscular one opened his mouth, confusion creasing his brutish features—"But there's no—"
"Finish that sentence," Vyne murmured with silky menace, "and you'll discover just how creative I can be with consequences."
Silence fell like a shroud.
Blazar didn't wait for further developments. She lunged for her bag with desperate grace, fingers closing around the familiar hilt of a knife that had never failed her before.
"You have no right to protect her," the lean one snarled, but his voice carried the tremor of someone who knew he was outmatched.
Vyne's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried more threat than any shout. "She's mine. My woman. My protection. Touch her again, and they'll never find enough pieces to bury. Now get out."
"What?!" the muscular one choked, his face cycling through disbelief and dawning terror.
Blazar's grip on the knife faltered, her mind reeling. Yeah, what the fuck did you just spill, Vyne?
But it worked like a charm. The men slunk out like beaten dogs, shooting venomous glances over their shoulders that promised future trouble.
The door clicked shut with finality.
"Care to explain?" Vyne leaned against the wall with deceptive casualness, arms crossed, but his eyes burned with intensity.
Blazar's mind raced through possibilities like a chess master calculating moves. "I'm... Orion's twin sister."
Vyne scoffed, the sound sharp with disbelief. "Yeah. Nice try, Orion." His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something sharp enough to cut glass. "Fool someone else with simple shit like that."
Blazar's lips pressed into a thin line of determination. Her fingers tightened around the knife until her knuckles went white.
Then—she moved.
One second she was across the room; the next, her blade kissed Vyne's throat with the whispered promise of death. But he didn't flinch. Didn't fight. Just stood there like carved marble, pulse steady beneath cold steel.
"You'll need poison," he mused conversationally, "and probably an explosive that can disintegrate me completely, Spade. I'm immune to throat cuts. Half-machine."
"Still," Blazar hissed through gritted teeth, "I need to eliminate you. And those two."
Vyne moved faster than she expected, faster than seemed humanly possible. He twisted like liquid mercury, slamming her against the wall—but her grip on his wrist was iron forged in desperation.
They grappled in deadly ballet, a tangle of limbs and fury, muscle against muscle, will against will, until—
SLIP.
Her towel unraveled like her carefully constructed lies, pooling at her feet in damp defeat.
And then she was sprawled atop Vyne, chest to chest on the damp floor, his breath warm against her bare skin, her heart hammering against his ribs.
Silence stretched between them like a held breath.
"Well," Vyne said hoarsely. "This is... new."