Chapter 1

The tavern was a place of decay, not cheer. “The Bitter Wench” smelled of stale beer, wet wool, and the copper tang of blood. A lone figure sat in the corner, nursing a drink that tasted like rusty nails, nursing a wound on the side that the tavern healers couldn’t fully stitch up. “Fucking bandits,” she snarled, slamming the mug on the table.

Aoba, a rogue of the city, was drowning in a sea of regret and anger. She had spent the last few years hunting the shadow of the man who took everything from her—her honor, family, and essentially, her life. She tracked a lead to this godforsaken town, but she was too late. The fucker died in his sleep, poisoned. Someone had gotten to him before her.

She looked up, her eyes scanning the room for either a traveling healer or an information peddler; either would do. Anything to keep her going.

The door creaked open, and the light from the street spilled in, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the gloom. She saw him first, a broad-shouldered man with a cloak that had seen better days. He wasn’t a pretty boy; with a rough beard and a look in his eyes that told her he had seen death more times than he could count. He walked to the bar, his movements fluid and predatory, like a wolf picking its way through the snow. He ordered a drink, and the barkeep, a grizzled woman with a missing ear, slid a mug toward him.

The man caught Aoba’s eye, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of them. He took a long pull of his drink, his eyes lingering on her. Aoba felt a spark of something—a mixture of recognition and desire—but she pushed it down. She was here for one purpose only, and it was not for a pleasant night, especially not when she’s bleeding out.