They were cat ears. Black. On top of her head. The fur was soft. Short. The ears were pointed. Tufted. They twitched— in the cell, in the dark, the ears rotating, scanning, the instinct of a prey animal.
A tail.
Black. Long. Thin. The tail of a cat. It was wrapped around her leg. The tip twitched.
She was catkin.
A demi-human. A beast-person. A race that the kingdom of Doria did not recognize as citizens. As people. A race that could be— owned. Sold. Used.
Edda looked at her.
Her yellow eyes— slitted— examined. The body. The build. The ears. The tail. The muscle definition— visible even through the malnutrition. The legs— the thighs, the calves. The definition of a fighter. Of an assassin.
"So," Edda said. Her voice was low. The voice of a woman who has just confirmed something. "I was on the right time."
She looked at the mark.
On the woman’s shoulder. A brand. Not a tattoo. A brand. Burned into the skin. The mark of the Assassin’s Guild. The Soul Broke— the mark that indicated a failed contract. A broken oath. A death mark.
The catkin was an assassin.
Sent to kill the Crown Prince. Caught. Imprisoned. Waiting.
Edda took a step.
Into the cell. The iron door was not an obstacle. The lock was not an obstacle. The bars were not an obstacle. She pushed. The door opened. The hinges screamed— the iron resisting, the rust giving way. She stepped inside.
The catkin moved.
Instantly. The body that had been curled— small, defeated, broken— surged. She stood. Her legs went up. Her body twisted. Her leg swung— a kick. Not a normal kick. A thunder kick. The technique of the catkin— the ability to channel mana through the legs, to generate electricity, to strike with the force of a lightning bolt.
The kick was fast.
The foot was a blur. The electricity crackled— blue-white, the arcs visible, the energy concentrated in the shin, in the foot. The kick aimed at Edda’s head. At the temple. At the kill zone.
"Let me leave, you bastards!" the catkin screamed. Her voice was high. Sharp. The voice of a woman who has been imprisoned and who is fighting to escape.
The kick landed.
On the scales.
The electricity— the thunder, the mana, the force— hit the obsidian scales. And— stopped. Not deflected. Not absorbed. Nullified. The energy dispersed. The arcs faded. The blue-white light flickered— once— and died. The kick— the force, the impact— was absorbed by the scales. By the dragon skin. By the armor that was not armor.
The catkin’s eyes went wide.
Edda smiled.
"Oh my," she said. Her voice was warm. Amused. The voice of a grandmother who has just watched a kitten try to scratch a boulder. "Aren’t you an assassin? Waiting for the prince here?"
The catkin’s eyes flared.
"Damn you!" she screamed. She moved. Her body was fast— faster than a human. The reflexes of a catkin. The agility of a beast-person. She lunged. Her claws— the fingernails, extended, sharp— went for Edda’s throat.
Edda dodged.
Her body shifted. Left. The claws passed her neck— close, the wind of the strike on her skin. The catkin’s hand went past. Her body followed.
The catkin spun. Her tail whipped— the black tail, the tip like a blade, the fur bristling. The tail went for Edda’s eyes.
Edda ducked.
The tail passed over her head. The black fur brushed her white hair. She moved. Her body shifted— right, forward, inside the catkin’s guard.
Three seconds.
The fight lasted three seconds.
Three seconds of motion. Of strikes. Of dodges. The catkin— fast, desperate, the strength of a cornered animal. Edda— calm, measured, the patience of a dragon.
Edda punched.
Her fist— scaled, clawed— went forward. Not at the head. Not at the chest. At the abdomen. At the lower abdomen. At the place where the womb was.
The punch landed.
Directly. On the lower belly. Below the navel. Above the pubic bone. The fist— the hard, scaled, dragon fist— pressed into the soft, unprotected, unsealed flesh.
The catkin’s eyes rolled.
The whites showed. The pupils— the vertical, feline pupils— vanished beneath the upper lids. Her mouth opened. Her tongue came out. Her body— the small, slim, petite body— convulsed. The muscles— the abdominal muscles, the core muscles— spasmed. The force— the impact, the pressure on the womb— sent a shockwave through her body. Her legs gave out. Her arms went limp.
She fell.
Forward. Into Edda. Her body slumped— the weight of a woman who has been struck in the womb by a dragon’s fist. Her head went down. On Edda’s shoulder. Her black ears— the cat ears— flopped. Her tail went limp.
Edda caught her.
Her arm went around the catkin’s back. She held her. The way one holds a sack of rice. The way one holds a thing that has been subdued.
She lifted the catkin’s arm.
Over her shoulder. The limp arm. The body draped. The catkin was— out. Unconscious. The punch— the impact on the womb— had knocked her out. Not killed. Not injured. Not permanently damaged. Just— out.
Edda carried her.
Out of the cell. Out of the dungeon. Over her shoulder. The catkin’s body— small, light, the weight of a woman who has not eaten— hung. Her black ears swung. Her tail dragged.
~ The King’s Palace
The blast happened.
The explosion— the sound, the force, the impact— came from the King’s wing. From the other side of the palace. From the place where the King of Doria held his court, his throne, his harem, his life.
Edda heard it. Even in the dungeon. Even underground. The sound traveled— through the stone, through the earth, through the foundations of the palace. The walls shook. The torches guttered. The drainage channels rippled.
A guard— one of the few remaining— ran past the dungeon entrance. His face was white. His armor was askew. His sword was in his hand. He was not running toward the danger. He was running from it.
"He has arrived!" the guard screamed. His voice was raw. Terror-stricken. The voice of a man who has seen something that has broken his mind. "HE HAS ARRIVED!"
~ The King’s Throne Room
The King of Athoria was using magic.
His power was at the level of a Fifth Rank Mage. Not naturally— the King was not a mage. He was a ruler. A politician. A man who had inherited a throne and who had used it to accumulate power of a different kind— the power of gold, of fear, of alliances, of dark artifacts.
The ring.
On his finger. The dark sorcery ring. A band of black metal— iron, cursed, the surface etched with symbols that glowed red. The ring was a siphon. A conduit. It drew energy— not from the user. From a demon. A bound demon. A creature of the nether, imprisoned in a crystal, chained by the ring, its power siphoned and channeled through the metal and into the wearer.
The King’s face was— contorted. The effort of channeling demonic energy through a human body. The veins in his neck were bulging. The skin was red. The eyes— his dark eyes— were bloodshot. The pupils were dilated.
"What is the meaning of this?" he screamed. His voice was high. Shrill. The voice of a man who has never been attacked in his own throne room. "What is happening here?!"