❝ Pain was my fuel, until the fire began bleeding from my veins. ❞
The girl without a name.
The black-haired fiend devoid of fear.
The sharp-tongued scoundrel always ready with a trick up her sleeve.
Thief and street rat Azura knows how to hustle a...
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My breath trembles past my lips as I lean against the brick wall back amongst the mud and dim lights of Warroll. My left arm tingles all the way down to the f ingertips while my shoulder throbs with constant heat.
Pain is a guarantee; it's the suffering that's a choice. I know this well enough by now.
I grab my wrist and raise my injured arm, gritting my teeth. Pain spikes up my neck, tugging at every muscle and nerve. The joint thunks as it's eased back into place, the dislocation only minor. I've had worse and have had to pick myself up from worse. The joint still tender as I curl my arm to chest, but I have more important things to worry about.
Turning, I place my hands on the wall. The brick scratches my bare palms, each ridge and uneven crack heightened against the sensitive skin that rarely feels the touch of air.
Hide it. Don't let them see.
They've already seen. It's why the Sharlik soldiers took me in the first place, too long ago to remember with clarity anymore. I don't even know where they took me from.
I find a familiar bump in the wall and slide the brick from its place, revealing the hollowed space behind it. I hesitate, fingers trembling. Glancing around me, making certain I'm not being watched, I delve my hand into the darkness. Within I find the worn paper that's been with me through too much. I smooth my thumbs over the discoloured paper, an old pamphlet that shouldn't matter.
It doesn't matter.
There aren't any memories attached to the print of the cottage, the writing beneath means nothing to me. Jadira's flowers and herbs. Read to me by Dax. I didn't trust anyone else to tell me what the words meant, and no understanding bloomed upon learning them.
The only thing that matters is that it's all I had when my brother found me. It's all I have to tell me where I came from. But that shouldn't matter either.
My brother told me where I came from isn't my concern, nor should it ever be. He told me that my only thoughts should be on survival. I asked him how I was supposed to know where I was going if I didn't know where I had come from.
You don't have a destination, little flame. Just this moment. Just this fight. And then the next.
I close my eyes, his voice sounding so real, like I can turn around and he'll be here with his light auburn hair and disapproving eyes. I don't turn because he's not here to help me anymore and he hasn't been for two years. I'm here—alone—with nothing but an old pamphlet to a place I don't remember.
I fold the paper and place it back within the hole. Then I take the chain from my pocket, attached to it is a circle of metal, blood crusted within the inscription. The Sharlik soldier's identity tag, his rank and the name the Empire gave him. All it is right now is a scrap of metal until I can find someone to read the wording on it. I clench the tag in my fist, the metal digging into my palm, the pain sharp and sweet.
