𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐊𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐌

PROLOGUE. Atone.

ATONE. 

CHAOS HAS DESCENDED UPON KETTERDAM in the darkness, slipping between tall, thin street lamps and bobbing, docked gondels. Shadows grow long in the reflections of the canals, wavering with uncertain fear in the murky water. Victims of the brothels and bars no longer linger in the streets, but hurry home right away, stumbling with fear and alcohol. Even the toughest of the Barrel have stopped walking alone, all in the span of weeks. The Barrel's streets are empty, and it is an eerie sight to see.

There. A crimson flash, just through that alleyway.

The figure moves in bursts and starts, sprinting along the canals, then crouching in the shadows. She could strut down the open street, if she wanted. The streets are deserted; not even a curtain is peeled back, for fear of witnessing something they shouldn't and suffering the consequences. But she can barely be seen through the rolling clouds of fog that smoke through Ketterdam's canals like a plague. Lamplight glints off the small dagger the figure carries in her palm.

There is a massacre in the making.

The figure slips out of the shadows, smoke hissing around her feet. She takes a deep breath, then wraps a gloved hand around the iron spikes of the gate before her. She vaults over them, landing in the yard.

The unchained dogs don't attack. She has spent nights feeding them slabs of marbled meat, stroking their ears, learning their names. The figure passes them as they snuffle in their comfortable sleep, her steps ginger and quiet. She glances through the window, where dim light fills a velvety room of splendor and dark oil paintings.

Through the window's tint, she can see a maid in a crisp purple uniform. The shadowy figure stills, concentrating, fingers flexing.

Suddenly, in movements that are jerky and unnatural, the maid looks up. She crosses the room with her duster in hand and slides open the window. The figure slips through the opening, passing the maid, creeping deeper into the riches of the brownstone. As she climbs the stairs, the maid crumples to the floor behind her, the feather duster clattering with muted silence on the lush rug.

The figure passes like an angel of death. The slumberers beneath their covers, tucked away behind solidly closed doors, fall into a deeper sleep. Occasionally, the figure pauses, leaning against the richly papered wall, taking in a few shaky breaths. She's dressed in red from head to toe, a deep crimson that looks like drying blood. She has brown breeches, a red quilted vest, and a muted white shirt beneath. Leather armor is buckled over her arms and legs, and deep red gloves sit snugly on her hands. A crimson scarf is wrapped around her head, shielding her face from view, sliding around the bridge of her nose. Strands of black hair slip from beneath her hood. Her skin is pale as the moonlight.

The figure pushes herself up, thighs shaking with effort. She takes more wavering steps down the dimly lit hallway, passing DeKappels and Van Gottens hanging on the swirly blue walls.

She pushes the door open, to where the councilman sleeps. His husband is curled into his side. They look soft, natural, and very vulnerable. 

The Crimson Lady flicks her hand, and they both jolt awake, their hearts hammering painfully in their chests. The councilman grips above his heart, wheezing, as his husband cries out.

"You—" the councilman chokes over the convulsing of his heart. "You!"

His husband tumbles out of the bed, rushing at her, yelling with ferocity. She admires the spirit.

The Crimson Lady waves her hand, and he crashes to the floor. The councilman shouts, diving for his husband.

She holds out her hand, and he freezes mid-lunge.

Her voice is thick with the heavy accent of Ravkan natives, but her Kerch is passable enough to understand. "Atone for your crimes, Odon Beekof."

The councilman wets himself, a dark stain seeping down the leg of his soft luxury wool pajama pants. Below him, just out of reach, his husband convulses in silent agony, blood seeping from his eyes, nose, lips, ears.

The councilman's lips move, barely, struggling against the Crimson Lady's hold. "Please—"

The Lady's eyebrows raise in surprise, and her eyes glimmer with pity. She caresses the councilman's cheek, and he whimpers, trying to wiggle away from her. He is helpless in her clutches.

"Nobody has taught you mercy, Councilman? Your god not teach you forgiveness?"

The councilman can only feel fear, the unresponsiveness of his body, the warm wet soaking of his urine in his shoe. "Please."

"You had your chance, Councilman," the Crimson Lady says coldly. She backhands him across the face with a crack, and lets his body fall. He crashes into his husband on the floor, sliding in his blood. "But where was this mercy when Anna Oj begged at your door for a loan? Or when the Bali family were put out of their home? Or when you raise taxes, and evicted all the poor women? Where was mercy then?" 

Beekof merely sobs, shaking, as his husband dies before him. 

The Lady watches them with patient inevitability. "My mercy is not so patient after one hundred sin."

"Orjet," he moans, weeping. He grabs his husband's face in his hands, wailing. "No, no, Orjet—"

"Only in death can you atone for your sins," the Lady looms over them, her pale hand extended as if to press a blessing on his head. Her language is choppy, but when she speaks holy condemnation, the words flow like silk. "Do not worry, Councilman. I give you short pain. Much pain, but short."

Her hands stab out, like an accusation, and Beekof feels his flesh begin to writhe.

The councilman screams, but his house sleeps silently. The shrill sounds of his terror fills the empty streets of Ketterdam, but no one dares leave their homes, the stadwatch stick to their posts. They shiver at the sounds of death, but are thankful it's not them. Not tonight, at least.

And thus the Crimson Lady takes another life, in the name of her Saints.