Ari and the shadow knight

The Dirt Under My Nails

The boot slammed into my shoulder blades and drove the air from my lungs.

Mud flooded my mouth. It tasted of rust and rot.

I spat the gray slush onto the cobbles as my cheek scraped across the edge of a stone drain. My fingers clawed at the cracks between the wet paving stones, searching for anything I could use to push myself up. I almost found my footing before a heavy heel came down on my right hand.

Pain tore through my fingers as the bones ground together beneath the guard's boot. I bit down hard enough to stop myself from screaming, but a sharp hiss escaped anyway.

"Keep her down," one of the guards growled. "The little rat nearly took my eye out with that knife."

My knife lay a few feet away in a muddy puddle. It wasn't much to look at, just a dull piece of salvaged iron I had spent hours sharpening on a river stone, but it was mine. I had almost reached the docks. Another minute and I would have slipped between the coal barges and disappeared into the river mist.

Instead, three royal guards had trapped me behind the salt-fish stalls after kicking over crates of rotten herring to block the alley.

No one moved.

Old Man Corin quietly lowered the canvas awning over his stall without looking at me. Around him, the other merchants found something else to watch. Nobody in the Lower Ward was foolish enough to interfere with royal guards unless they wanted a place on the next prison cart.

"Is it her?" another guard asked.

Someone grabbed a fistful of my wet hair and jerked my head back.

Rain stung my eyes as I looked up.

The man standing over me wasn't dressed like the others. Polished silver armor gleamed beneath a dark cloak that somehow stayed dry despite the downpour. A crumpled parchment rested in one hand. He studied the charcoal sketch before lifting his eyes to my face.

I refused to look away.

Blood dripped from my nose and mixed with the rain running down my chin.

"Dark hair," he read quietly. "Gray eyes."

He pulled my collar aside.

Cold air touched the old scar near my throat before his fingers did. His gaze settled on the jagged, star-shaped mark.

"The mark is there," he said. "It's her."

"I didn't steal the salt-fish," I said through clenched teeth. "They were already rotten. Corin was throwing them away."

The captain didn't even acknowledge the words.

He rolled up the parchment, slipped it inside his cloak, and looked at the guards.

"Tie her. If she slips the rope, I'll collect the cost of her transport from your wages."

"Yes, Captain."

They hauled me onto my feet.

Instead of iron cuffs, they wrapped thick hemp rope around my wrists until the rough fibers bit into my skin. Every pull tightened the knots and sent another stab of pain through my shoulders.

I searched the market for a way out.

There wasn't one.

My knife was gone.

The streets were blocked.

Everyone who might have helped had already decided not to see me.

The captain turned and walked away.

"Move."

The shove came before I could react.

I stumbled after them through the rain.

The Lower Ward stretched around us exactly as it always had. Crumbling tenements leaned over narrow streets. Hungry children watched from broken windows. Coal smoke hung so thick in the air that every breath tasted bitter.

Ahead, the iron gates separating the Lower Ward from the Middle Tier stood open.

Most people never crossed those gates. The guards posted along the walls didn't ask a single question. One nod from the captain was enough.

The city changed the moment I stepped through.

The mud disappeared beneath polished granite. The stink of coal gave way to the smell of fresh bread and woodsmoke. Shop windows gleamed behind spotless glass, and well-dressed people hurried beneath fine umbrellas.

They looked at me.

Their eyes lingered on my torn clothes, the mud caked to my boots, and the ropes around my wrists before they looked away.

We passed the magistrates' courthouse without slowing.

A knot tightened in my stomach.

If they weren't taking me to court, where were they taking me?

The streets climbed toward the white cliffs of the Upper Ward, where a black carriage stood beside the Great Lift.

Even in the rain it gleamed.

A golden crest decorated the door. A three-headed raptor clutched a broken sword in its talons.

I knew that crest.

The Royal House of Lowen.

My feet stopped before I could think better of it.

"I'm not getting in there."

The guard behind me laughed.

"You don't get a choice."

His shove nearly sent me face-first into the carriage.

The captain opened the door without a word and stepped aside.

Blue velvet covered the seats. A thick carpet lined the floor without a speck of dirt.

"I'll ruin it," I muttered. "Mud doesn't wash out of velvet."

"Then sit on the floor."

Before I could answer, rough hands grabbed my shoulder and threw me inside. I hit the wooden floor hard.

The carriage door slammed shut behind me with a heavy metallic click.

The only window was covered by a thick iron grate.

I pushed myself upright and looked through the narrow bars as the Great Lift shuddered beneath us. Massive gears groaned below the platform before the carriage began to rise.

I watched the rooftops of the Lower Ward disappear beneath the rain. The streets where I had spent my whole life grew smaller until they became a patchwork of gray stone and drifting smoke.

I had never been this high.

The wood smelled of cedar and beeswax, but another smell lingered beneath both.

Old blood.

It wasn't fresh. The smell had soaked into the wood years ago and never left.

I replayed the morning, searching for something I had missed.

I hadn't stolen anything worth dying for. I hadn't attacked a noble.

Then the royal guards had appeared.

Not the city watch.

Royal guards.

They hadn't accused me of any crime.

They had come for one thing.

The scar.

My hand drifted toward the jagged mark near my throat before the ropes stopped me.

I'd had it for as long as I could remember. Now strangers were hunting me because of it.

This had nothing to do with stolen fish.

They had come for me.

Outside, the Great Lift groaned one last time before stopping with a heavy jolt.

A moment later the carriage lurched forward again.

The wheels no longer rattled over timber. They rolled smoothly across stone.

We had reached the Upper Ward.

The carriage turned through a pair of towering iron gates.

Beyond them stood the palace.

White towers disappeared into the mist. Every wall looked untouched by smoke, soot, or dirt, as if the city below had never existed.

The carriage slowed.

Then it stopped.

Footsteps echoed outside.

The latch clicked.

Light spilled into the carriage as the door swung open.

The captain stood there, watching me.

"Out."

I stayed where I was.

Something was wrong.

I knew how this kingdom worked. If someone from the Lower Ward stole a loaf of bread, they were beaten, fined, or hanged in the marketplace for everyone to see.

Royal guards didn't waste their time on thieves.

They didn't send a black carriage bearing the crest of House Lowen.

They didn't bring people like me to the palace.

They only brought you here when they wanted you to disappear somewhere no one would hear you scream.

---

The Quiet Killer

The carriage stopped with a heavy hiss of brass brakes.

I sat in the darkness for a long minute before the lock clicked. When the door swung open, the wet, fish-heavy air of the Lower Ward was gone. In its place lingered the scent of crushed pine needles, cold stone, and expensive wax.

"Out," the Captain said.

I climbed out of the carriage, my legs stiff from the ride. My wrists were still bound behind my back, the hemp rope stiff with dried blood.

I stood in a massive courtyard paved with white marble scrubbed so clean it reflected the gray sky like ice. High stone walls shut out the rest of the world, and above them rose the palace, a jagged mountain of dark granite and pointed spires that watched me like a bird of prey.

There were no guards shouting, no merchants hawking goods, and no dogs barking. The silence was heavy enough to make my chest tighten.

"Keep your eyes down," the guard behind me muttered, shoving me toward a set of double iron doors.

They took me through narrow, spiraling corridors that wound deep into the heart of the palace. Tapestries lined the walls, muffling our footsteps until they sounded like ghosts moving through stone.

Finally, the Captain stopped before a heavy oak door reinforced with black iron bands. He unlocked it and pushed it open.

"Get inside."

I stepped over the threshold. The room was large, dominated by a massive canopy bed draped in dark green velvet. A fire crackled in a black brick hearth. In the center of the room stood a low wooden table covered with silver platters.

The scent hit me like a blow to the chest. Roasted chicken, freshly baked bread, and sweet winter apples.

My stomach growled loudly. I hadn't eaten anything except watery turnip broth in two days.

The Captain stepped behind me and sliced through the hemp rope with a small, sharp knife.

I gasped as blood rushed back into my hands. I rubbed my raw wrists, then looked from the table to the Captain.

"Is this my last meal?" I asked.

"Eat," the Captain replied. His face remained blank. "Someone will collect you when the time comes."

The heavy oak door closed with a deep thud, and the brass key turned firmly in the lock, sealing me inside.

I slowly looked around the room. Tall, narrow windows were covered with thick iron grates. There was no escape.

Then a shadow moved near the cold fireplace.

I spun, my hand reaching automatically for the waistband where my gutting knife should have been. My fingers closed on empty air.

A man stepped out of the darkness.

He was tall, wearing a high-collared black tunic beneath a dark leather brigandine. A long, straight sword rested at his hip.

His eyes were a pale amber, like dead grass beneath frost. His face was angular and expressionless. He looked more like a statue than a living man.

"Who are you?" I demanded, backing up until my calves struck the edge of the table.

The man didn't answer. He walked toward me without a sound and stopped a few feet away.

"Sit," he said. His voice was low and completely without warmth.

"I asked who you are."

"It doesn't matter who I am. Sit and eat."

Hunger finally overcame fear.

I sat on the floor beside the table and grabbed a roasted chicken leg with trembling hands.

He stood perfectly still, following every bite I took.

His eyes tracked every movement of my bruised fingers.

"You look at me like you're measuring me for a coffin," I said around a mouthful of bread.

The corner of his mouth twitched before the expression disappeared.

"I am," he said quietly.

I froze. The bread turned to ash in my mouth.

"The three who sat in that chair before you," he said, leaning forward until his shadow swallowed mine, "all ate the same bread. They all drank the same wine."

He pointed to the silver goblet beside my plate.

"And they are all in the ground."

The silence in the room stretched so thin I could hear the soft crackle of the fire. I slowly lowered the piece of bread onto the silver plate, leaving dirty gray smudges on the crust.

"If they are all in the ground," I said, my voice tighter than I wanted, "why did you let me eat?"

The man didn't move. He stood like a monument carved from the palace's black stone.

"Because you were starving," he said. "And if I wanted to poison you, I wouldn't waste the kitchen's good chicken."

He stepped back, resting one hand lightly on the pommel of his sword. The movement looked natural, yet it carried the quiet promise of a strike too fast for me to see.

"My name is Cassian," he said. "Captain of the Bloodguard. Your personal shadow from this moment until the day you die, or the day I do."

I slowly rose to my feet, wiping my greasy palms on my trousers. I hated how much taller he was and how easily he blocked the firelight.

"I don't need a shadow. I need my knife back, and I need to return to the Lower Ward."

"The Lower Ward is gone for you," Cassian said. "The girl who lived in the salt-fish alley died the moment they put her in that carriage. You are Arianna of House Lowen now, whether you want to be or not."

The name hit me like a blow.

Arianna.

It was the name my mother had whispered on her deathbed, a secret buried beneath ten years of grime, theft, and survival. I had gone by Ari since I was eight. Nobody in the slums knew my full name.

"My mother was a laundry maid," I said through gritted teeth. "She died of lung-rot."

"Your mother was the daughter of the King's second brother," Cassian corrected, his amber eyes never leaving mine. "She fled the palace twenty years ago during the Great Purge. She changed her name, but she couldn't change your blood. Right now, blood is the only currency this palace cares about."

He walked past me, his boots making a faint rhythm against the thick rug. Stopping beside the canopy bed, he pulled back the dark green velvet curtains with one gloved hand.

"The King is dead," Cassian continued, his back still turned. "He died three months ago without a direct heir. The crown passes through the bloodline. First went Prince Julien. A sudden illness. Then Lord Thomas. A carriage accident. Then Lady Clara. She fell from the North Tower."

"Three," I whispered as the horror settled into my bones. "They were all murdered."

"They were removed," Cassian replied. "Which leaves you, the fourth and the last of the bloodline."

He turned to face me. The firelight caught the hard lines of his jaw.

"Duke Varn now controls the Regency Council. He wanted to leave you in the Lower Ward until he found a quiet way to dispose of you. I found you first."

"To protect me?" I let out a cold, humorless laugh. "Or to keep me in a prettier cage until it's my turn?"

"Both," Cassian said. "A living heir is useful. A dead one is not. Get some sleep. Tomorrow you will be presented to the Court, and they will look for any reason to execute you before the coronation. Do not give them one."

He didn't wait for an answer. He strode to the door, his dark cloak trailing behind him. A moment later, the lock clicked from the outside, leaving me alone in the shifting firelight.

I stood motionless, listening to the crackle of the dying embers as my heart pounded against my ribs.

I walked slowly to the bed. The velvet was softer than anything I had ever touched, yet it looked more like a shroud than a place to rest. I climbed onto the mattress, leaving dark streaks of mud across the silk sheets. I didn't care. I wasn't going to sleep beneath the covers like an honored guest.

I reached for the heavy feather pillow, intending to drag it onto the floor so I could sleep with my back against the wall.

As I lifted it, something white caught my eye.

A small piece of folded parchment was tucked beneath the silk casing.

I snatched it up, my fingers trembling as I unfolded it.

Written in dark, rusty ink that smelled faintly of iron was a single elegant sentence.

The fourth chair is already waiting for you in the crypt.

The silence unsettled me more than the cold ever could.

In the Lower Ward, nights were filled with shouting, barking dogs, coughing neighbors, and barges moving along the river. Here, the palace was almost silent. Every creak in the old timber made me tense. Every whisper of wind beneath the door sounded like someone waiting outside.