Young Writers Society

Azrael’s hair stuck to her face, and it wasn’t all the rain’s fault. She spun, sword in hand, and pierced it through a man’s neck. He dropped his club, gargling, legs folding under him.

Azrael couldn’t remember where she got the sword.

Wind pulled at her clothes; she felt the cold gusts through a hole someone’s weapon cut in her shirt, stinging against a cut underneath. Shallow, she guessed — seeing as she hadn’t fainted yet. The deck was wet with rain and blood, in places covered by bodies. They looked like random piles of clothing — she couldn’t tell which belonged to which side.

It doesn’t matter.

She wiped her sword against the side of her trousers. There was some dried blood on it already, despite the rain. She idly wondered if it had been there before.

Focus.

Her head snapped up. What was she doing, standing there? She tensed and spun around again, trying to locate another target, but found nothing. They’d been efficient, so far: quick and clean, using the element of surprise. She couldn’t see any of the others — they must’ve taken the fight back below deck, or to one of the quarters.

Something flickered in her mind, sparks on the edges of her consciousness. She lowered the sword, and that was when she spotted it: Ranye’s heel disappearing in the bos’n’s quarters. Azrael made to follow her, and stopped short mid-step. Vane. She hadn’t seen him fight yet, but there was no doubt in her mind that he was aware of the commotion. And he wouldn’t be in the bos’n’s room, where the heretic was — he’d be in the captain’s quarters. Awake. Armed. Waiting.

She gripped the sword tighter and frowned. If anyone had the chance against him, it was her. If no one had gone there yet… she straightened and strode over. The door to the captain’s quarters was shut tight, but it gave in after the second kick.

She took a step and rolled, swiftly standing again with her sword up. Her eyes searched the room. Bed, desk, floor, walls, ceiling; empty. He wasn’t there. Her stomach sank. She took a step towards the door again: if he wasn’t here, then he must’ve been in the bos’n’s quarters after all. With the heretic. With Ranye.

Another step, and the room spun around her, forcing her into the desk. Something, maybe an ink bottle, spilled over her fingers. She took a sharp breath; and another one. Her hands shook almost too much to keep hold of the sword.

Rosie the cabin girl, she thought, but the thought was a distant echo. She tugged at her shirt and drew a hand over her face, half-expecting to find a mask there.

“I like Mother’s emerald-and-gold one. What do you think, Rein?”

She sunk into a crouch, both hands gripping the edge of the desk. Not now.

Eyes wide open, staring at the drawer right in front of her, she fought to keep in the present. Vane. She had to find him — before he killed Ranye, before he untied the heretic and forced her to use magic and kill everyone.

Azrael’s hand slowly found the sword again, fingers curling around the hilt. She pushed herself to her feet and brushed away the wet hair from her face. She’d have time to fall apart later — the job wasn’t done yet. She ran out of the captain’s room and slid across to the bos’n’s door. It already hung on the hinges. Opened, but not enough so to see inside. She imagined the Captor behind, waiting for her to jump in, and smiled. He had no idea what was coming.

A sharp touch to her back. “Drop it, cabin girl.”

The smile froze on her face. She spun, sword rising, and rolled left as his blade swished towards her. The grey-green mask shaded his eyes. They were nothing but dark holes.

“Not a cabin girl,” he remarked softly.

She growled at him in reply. He raised his blade again, and she tugged one of the throwing knives from her thigh. She targeted the opening in the mask — the wind made it miss, but it left a cut across his cheek.

His sword came down again. She blocked, but he was already moving again, stepping easily across the slippery silentwood, blade faster than the wind. He forced her to back away. Perhaps—

She spun again and slipped, falling into the rail. A sharp pain cut through her shoulder. She barely rolled out of the way before he swung his blade again.

“You’re going to lose.”

She blocked his blow. The mask was at arm’s length — but it was grey and silver, matching the eyes underneath. Their father’s eyes, which only Reiner inherited. Azrael pressed at her the swords, pushing her brother away. Rain pounded harder against the mask on her face. She was going to have a headache later.

“Focus, little sister.”

Reiner — Vane — pulled his blade back, and the world slowed down. She watched it slowly pierce the air, making its way towards her. They were at the ship, but they weren’t: the Captor before her was the Captain who stole The Dancer, but it was also just another student, just her barely-two-years-older brother, practicing with her in the courtyard. He wouldn’t hurt her — or at least, he wouldn’t kill her.

“Eyes on the blade.”

Rein’s voice was a hiss in her ear, and she was back on the ship. Time sped up again: Vane’s sword was too close to avoid. She let go of her own and gripped his blade instead, pushing it to the side, and he stumbled into her. His clothes were dry despite the weather. His fingers squeezed her throat.

“May the Order cleanse your soul,” he hissed.

The gunshot was barely audible. He let go and clutched the side of his neck, blood running down his fingers.

“Now, Azrie!”

She twisted her leg around his, one hand gripping his side and the other reaching for his head.

“Fuck the Order,” she growled, and pushed.

It was quiet, for a moment. The rain, the wind, her mind, everything. She held onto the rail, bent over, staring down into darkness where he fell.

“Rosie—“

She turned, weapon in hand — but it was just Missy. He held a gun in one hand and both arms raised, eyes wide. Wet clothes clung to his body. Azrael exhaled, her muscles tensing, and readjusted her grip of the sword, only to realise it wasn’t the sword she was holding.

Her fingers held the mask, grey and green, smooth like all of them. She could do nothing but stare at it for a few seconds.

Movement in the corner of her eye, behind Missy, caught her attention. She looked up. Three of Vane’s crewmembers — two men and one woman — stood with their weapons raised, but their expressions reluctant.

Rosie the cabin girl, she thought sadly, and glanced at the mask in her hand.

“My name is Azrael Rose,” she said, loudly enough for them all to hear, straightening her back and lifting her chin. “I was the daughter of two Councilmen, and I’m the only living person who escaped the Academy of the Palace of Justice.” She held up Vane’s mask. “Your commander is dead. If you don’t want to meet the same fate, drop your weapons.”

They didn’t even exchange hesitant looks like she’d expected. As one, they dropped their knives and bats and kicked them towards her and Missy. She let the willowy cabin boy bend and pick them up, keeping her eyes on the three. None of them looked back at her.

“Tie—“ Her breath caught, the spark in her mind coming back. Ranye. She was still in the bos’n’s quarters, with the practitioner. The hand that held the mask trembled. “Tie them up,” she managed quietly, not caring if Missy was listening, and pushed next to him towards Ranye’s room, snatching the gun from his hand in the process.

The door fell as she barged through. At first, she thought the room was empty. But the air smelled of blood and rain, and the figure on the floor was a familiar one.

She dropped on her knees by the bos’n. Her hands automatically searched for Ranye’s pulse, before her mind caught up. A cut ran down the bos’n’s torso, dark blood covering her clothes and the floor under Azrael’s knees. Her fingers traced the edge of the wound to Ranye’s bellybutton. She felt the heat against her hand, and covered her mouth with her forearm as her stomach twisted again.

I can’t stay here.

She stood up, her legs shaking. She’d seen dead people before. She’d killed, herself, first for the Palace then to run away from it — but not friends. Never friends.

Azrael Rose never had friends, she thought, her mind slow. Rosie the cabin girl— but she couldn’t. Rosie the cabin girl was gone, along with Ranye and the others she’d lost. Rosie the cabin girl died the moment she took that knife under the deck — it just took her all this time to realise that.

A sound to her left startled her. She turned, muscles tensed but without real heat. The practitioner. She’d forgotten about her.

The girl sat on the bed. She appeared unharmed, apart from an old bruise on her cheek and the chaffing her restraints left on her wrists. She was untied, now, and her deep-set green eyes looked at Azrael with no fear or sense of urgency. Azrael blankly stared back. There was a thought, somewhere deep in her mind, that whispered about magic and the dangers of it, but she couldn’t make herself pay attention to it. So what if the girl destroyed the ship? The Dancer was Ranye’s home, Rosie’s home. Azrael was a stranger.

The girl’s head cocked to a side. She was young, Azrael noticed, but not a child. Maybe seventeen or so, six or seven years younger than Azrael herself. The difference felt like an eternity. She licked her lips — to tell the practitioner to run, or to go ahead and kill her, she wasn’t sure which — but the girl spoke first, her lips curling into a smile that unsettled the idle emptiness of Azrael’s mind.

“Captain Azrie Rose,” the heretic said, “I will remember you.”

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