Shifters never mingle with humans. They reside high in the mountains venturing below only once a year for the night of the Red Moon. They invade the human villages below, take and kill who they want, but they never leave any witnesses. Not before Fr...
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WARNING: This story contains depictions of violence and/or death that may be upsetting to some readers. Reader discretion is advised.
My father raised a respectable young woman—the kind who always stood with her shoulders back, chin tilted, head high. When I was just a girl, he'd parade me around the kitchen of our cabin, poking at my back whenever I slouched. He raised me to be somebody who'd get somewhere in Veymaw.
He didn't raise a thief; I became that all on my own.
Night is darker in the forge; the street lanterns can't pierce through the thick fog that lingers at the base of the mountain, only an iridescent glow to light the streets. As I linger in the shadows of a narrow passage, concealed by his old, black cape, I can't help but wonder what my father would think if he were to see me now.
Unlike in Veymaw, where the streets are deserted at this time of night, the forge is bustling with life. Foreign traders, crooks, and thieves shove their way through the crowd. You don't go to the forge unless you're looking for a brawl, a drink, or a shifty deal, especially not at night. Casimir would kill me if he knew where I was. And yet I wait in the shadow of a low-hanging bar sign.
On any other night, I'd slip amongst the crowd and slide my hands into unsuspecting pockets. Though rare, drunk traders from Ayrith are the easiest targets, bumbling around the entrance of the Grebis pub, rambling in a language I can't understand. On a good night, I might pocket a few gold coins. Rings or jewellery are good too, though harder to trade with back in Veymaw. But tonight, it's not the loot that I'm after.
People churn through the narrow street. I stare at the faces as people pass, trying to sort them to their categories—traders, criminals, and somewhere amongst them, deserters. Two hours pass before I eye a figure moving differently than the rest. Clothed in all black, hands in pockets, face concealed. They glide through the crowd like it's a predetermined dance. But there's an urgency in their step.
Slipping into the main street, I keep my head down and concealed by the black cape. My breath clouds around me as the crowd shoves me from all angles. I reach for the dagger in my pocket, keeping my hand wrapped around the hilt, my father's engraved initials rough against my palm.
The crowd carries me past the Grebis pub, a cacophony of drunken laughter filling the air. I risk a glance up, in search of the figure. They've reached the other side of the crowd, veering off into a side street. I pick up the pace, heart racing as I resist the direction of the crowd, leaving disgruntled protests in my wake.
The figure disappears into the darkness, the two buildings bordering the street climbing high into the fog. The crowd spits me out. My feet pat against the ground, cobblestones uneven and jagged, but I push on into the darkness until I can't see anything anymore.
The fog wraps around me, thicker away from the glow of the streetlamps. Beneath me, the earth shifts, cobblestones transitioning into dirt. I've reached the end of the forge. My fingers brush a tree branch when I reach out. My heart sinks as I step back, breath ragged.
