This Woven Kingdom(This Woven Kingdom #1)(58)

Alizeh briefly closed her eyes, disappointment flooding her body. “Then you are formally declining my offer?”

“Yes, Yer Highness.” Another mocked her, feigning a bow with flourish. “We ’ave no need of yer mercy this night.”

“Very well, then,” she said softly.

Alizeh took a sharp breath, split the scissors open in her right hand, and lunged. She sent the blades flying, listening for contact—there, a cry—as a second assailant barreled toward her. She jumped, lifting her skirts as she spun and kicked him straight across the jaw, the force of her blow sending his head so far back she heard his neck snap just in time to face down her third opponent, at whom she threw an embroidery needle, aiming for his jugular.

She missed.

He roared, tearing the needle from his flesh as he unsheathed a dagger, charging toward her with an unrestrained fury. Alizeh wasted no time launching herself forward, landing an elbow in his spleen before punching him repeatedly in the throat, the carefully placed pins and needles in her fist puncturing his skin over and over in the process. When she was done with the man, she’d buried all her needles in his neck.

He collapsed to the ground with a thud.

The fourth and fifth came running at her together, each carrying a glinting scimitar. Alizeh didn’t flee; instead she bolted toward them and—within inches of contact—promptly disappeared, grabbing their sword arms, breaking their wrists, and flipping them onto their backs. She rematerialized then, confiscated their curved swords, and dropped to one knee, burying a blade in each of their chests simultaneously.

The sixth man was right behind her. She spun around in the time it took him to blink, catching him, without warning, by the throat.

She lifted the man in the air with a single hand, slowly squeezing the life from his body.

“Now,” she whispered, “you might consider telling me who sent you.”

The man choked, his face purpling. With great effort, he shook his head.

“You were the last of the six to approach me,” she said quietly. “Which means you are either the smartest—or the weakest. Either way, you will serve a purpose. If the former, you will know better than to cross me. If the latter, your cowardice will render you pliable.”

“I don’”—he choked, with sputtering difficulty—“I don’ understand ye.”

“Return to your master,” she said. “Tell them I wish to be left alone. Tell them to consider this a warning.”

She then dropped the man to the ground, where he fell badly and twisted an ankle. He cried out, wheezing as he struggled upright.

“Get out of my sight,” said Alizeh softly. “Before I change my mind.”

“Yes, miss, r-right away, miss.” The brute hobbled away then, as quickly as his bad leg would allow.

Only when he’d disappeared from view did Alizeh finally exhale. She looked around her, at the bodies littering the street. She sighed.

Alizeh did not enjoy killing people.

She did not take lightly the death of any living being, for not only was it a difficult and exhausting business, but it left her tremendously sad. Alizeh had tried, over the years, only to injure, never to kill. She’d tried over and over to negotiate. She tried always to be merciful.

They laughed in her face every time.

Alizeh had learned the hard way that an unprotected woman of small stature and low station would never be treated with respect by her enemies. They thought her stupid and incapable; they saw only weakness in her for being kind.

It never occurred to most people that Alizeh’s compassionate spirit was wrought not from a frail na?veté, but from a ferocious pain. She did not seek to steep in her nightmares. She sought instead, every day, to outgrow them. And yet never once had her offers of mercy been accepted. Never once had others set aside their darkness long enough to allow Alizeh a reprieve from her own.

What choice was she left, then?

With a heavy heart, she pulled free her sewing scissors from the ruin of a man’s chest, wiping the blades clean on his coat before tucking them into her bag. She searched the cobblestone for her embroidery needle, then pulled each of her pins free from yet another dead man’s throat, taking care to clean each needle before putting it away.

Would she have to move again? she wondered. Would she have to rebuild again?

So soon?

She sighed once more, taking a moment to adjust her skirts before picking up her carpet bag, snapping it closed.

Alizeh was so tired she couldn’t imagine walking the short rest of the way home, and yet—

There lay the road, and below her, two feet.

She did not possess wings, nor did she own a carriage or a horse. She’d not enough money for a hackney, and no one would be along to carry her.

As always, the girl would have to carry herself.

One foot in front of the other, one step at a time. She would remain focused until she got back to Baz House. She still had to bank the kitchen fire, but she would manage it. She would manage it all, somehow. Perhaps only then would she finally be able t—

She gasped.

A single prick of light flashed before her eyes, there and gone again.

Alizeh blinked, slowly. Her eyes were dry, in desperate need of rest. Heavens, but she was too tired for this.

“I demand you show yourself,” she said, frustrated. “I’ve had quite enough of this game. Show yourself or let me get on. I beg you.”