Serpent's Teeth

2

Ironcrest

[Signe]

The week after Azriel’s visit was a busy one, spent mostly on branches of tall pine trees at the Illyrian mountains, doing the slow and often tedious part of being a spy: waiting.

The Ironcrest war-camp stretched out a few meters ahead of the tree Signe was currently perched on, a large splatter of simple wooden cabins and barren ground sitting at the edge of a mountain—a mountain that, in any other circumstances, would be deemed as ordinary, but actually held one of the Night Court’s biggest iron deposits to date. It was said that the first Illyrians to set up camp there had little knowledge of the treasure that hid inside that mountain, but that its discovery, generations later, was the reason the camp grew in size, as well as power, becoming one of the biggest and most important war-bands in all of Illyria. And, in fact, just a glance at the foothill of the mountain, where a centuries-old tunnel was carved in the stone, revealed dozens of Illyrians pushing handcarts filled to the brim with ore. They followed the short barren trail in a straight line to a small, sturdy stone hut just a few metres away, where the smoke from the forge escaped the chimney in a never-ending flow.

After hours in the confines of the stone hut and at the hands of the camp’s blacksmith, that ore was finally put to good use. On the other side of the camp, countless weapons hung from the wooden racks at the edge of the training rings—from hunting knifes to swords, in all shapes and sizes. Weapons nearly as ruthless as the males who wielded them, or as the chill mountain weather they’d been forged under.

While the freezing winds made Signe’s teeth chatter, they seemed to have little effect on the Illyrians, and she secretly envied the females who wandered around the camp dressed in way less layers than she was, or even the male warriors who sparred in the training rings, who never seemed to be cold. In fact, some of them were even shirtless, and though she enjoyed the view—their well-sculpted bodies moving in the disciplined, brutal way that was the Illyrian technique—she honestly still found it to be a bit too much. But then again, what were Illyrian males if not some of the most egotistical, exhibitionist creatures to roam the land?

Kallon was one of them, of course, his dark hair damp with sweat, nearly the same colour as the ink that covered both his chest and shoulders in intricate patterns. Tokens of luck and glory on the battlefield, as Azriel had told her once. Every Illyrian male had them—they received the right to carry such tattoos once they were initiated as warriors, though the ink itself did not make its bearer a true warrior. They were merely symbolic, the closest the Illyrians could get to sentimentalism.

But while Kallon’s hair and tattoos were dark, his siphon glowed like an emerald atop the gauntlet on his right hand, practically a beacon among the other warriors he sparred with, whose siphons were either red or blue. Not that the colour of the stone meant anything—they were merely tools to help channel the wild magic that coursed through their veins, a way the people of Illyria had found to put it to good use, millennia ago. Some of the warriors, the most powerful ones, had to resort to wearing two siphons, one atop each hand, in order to properly contain their magic. But, in this camp and in any other, that was as powerful as they would be. Two siphons. Not three, not four.

Not seven, like Azriel and Cassian. They were the exception.

After working with Azriel for so long, Signe had become used to the sight of the seven cobalt siphons that adorned his armour, a persistent reminder of his power. So used that the usual amount of siphons the Illyrians had unsettled her, as if something was missing. Their armour felt… incomplete, somehow. Compared to Azriel and Cassian, they almost looked vulnerable, though she knew they were anything but.

Signe looked away from Kallon for an instant, only to check the position of the sun in the sky, and missed the moment he was knocked on the dirt by his opponent with a well-aimed swing of his leg. She cursed internally. She’d been watching the fight unravel for the last few minutes, secretly rooting against Kallon, and that move seemed interesting, one she would be glad to learn. Though she wasn’t particularly fond of the Illyrian technique, she had to admit some moves were interesting, perhaps even worth adapting into her own technique—which basically consisted in a well-distorted copy of everything Azriel had ever taught her, plus some other moves she learned in her missions around Prythian. At some point throughout her training she’d started to freestyle all of the shadowsinger’s teachings, and soon enough her technique became a patchwork of numerous others, blended together in a way that left her feeling much more fulfilled than the traditional Illyrian way. Chaotically perfected over time, as Azriel would often describe it as, after he’d finally given up in trying to get her to do things properly.

But he couldn’t deny that it was effective, and that it had never failed her. Not even once.

Kallon pulled himself together surprisingly fast and accepted the hand his opponent extended to him—only to knock him to the ground in return, using the same move his opponent had. This time, Signe saw the blow clearly, and memorised it for further practice, a smile forming in her lips.

But, as the sun finally set and the forest grew darker, she knew it was time to go. Not home, though she would’ve liked that, but deeper into the woods, to a place where she learned most of Kallon’s secret meetings happened, after the camp was asleep and the forest was silent. She’d followed him last night when he went to scout the area for tonight’s meeting, to a clearing two kilometres east from there. She’d done some scouting of her own, too—marking a couple of trees where she would have a perfect view of the meeting while staying out of the Illyrians’ senses. But the choice between the two spots depended on how the wind would behave tonight, which was why she needed to arrive before they did, otherwise it would all be for nothing.

So, she glanced around the camp once more while her gloved fingers tugged at the folds of her headscarf, pulling the fabric over the bottom half of her face. She then began her climb down, and left the camp behind without looking back.

*   *   *

By the time the meeting started, Signe was ready.

The moon had emerged from behind the clouds a few minutes ago, casting a pale light over the forest, the kind that made everything look ethereal, peaceful, as if there weren’t any beasts roaming these parts, the kind that parents told their misbehaving kids about. The kind that was crafted out of nightmares, with sharp claws and even sharper teeth.

Going this deep into the woods at night was always a risk, even for the most skilled of warriors, and she had to commend Kallon for his determination in hosting a meeting this far from camp. But the Illyrians had their way of protecting themselves—after all, they’d lived in these woods their entire lives. Though the mere thought of those beasts lurking in the darkness was enough to bring a shiver down her spine, if there was anything Signe learned in three centuries of existence was that things could be worse.

Things could always be worse.

The first sign of their arrival was a noise, the soft crack of a branch being stepped on. Then, three figures emerged from the shadows on one end of the clearing below, their bat-like wings and scaled armour making them a nightly beast as any other. Kallon was ahead of them, his emerald siphon glinting faintly in the moonlight, certainly to avoid detection. The other two she recognized from the sparring ring earlier: Klaus, with his red siphon, and Evan, with his blue one.

Contrary to what she expected, the meeting didn’t start right away. Instead, the three males grouped together at one end of the clearing, throwing each other silent glances, speaking without words. But she knew those looks, the way Evan seemed unable to stay still, the way Klaus’ right hand seemed to itch to grab the hilt of the dagger at his side. Only Kallon remained unmoving, eyes fixed on the darkness across the clearing, expectant. As if waiting for someone else to arrive. And the way they stood, with their backs facing the direction of the camp as if they were a unit representing Ironcrest in its whole, made Signe realise that whoever else was coming to this meeting most likely belonged to another war-band. Which meant that whatever plans they had, whatever arguments they held, had gained them possible allies around Illyria.

A knot formed at the pit of her stomach. This is bad, she thought, but kept her eyes peeled, focused on the other end of the clearing, as expectant as Kallon and his companions were, if not more.

Thankfully, they didn’t take long to arrive.

Two more males stepped out into the clearing, the sound of their footsteps dampened by the gush of wind that swept through the forest, as if announcing their arrival. They stood at the opposite side of the clearing, avoiding the silver stripes of moonlight filtered by the canopy of trees above. From where she sat, they were little more than shapes in the dark. Signe couldn’t quite make out their faces, and neither their weapons nor armour revealed anything that could help her identify the camp they came from.

Or represented.

The thought came uninvited, dissipating as quickly as it came, but the uneasy feeling it left in its wake lingered. She didn’t know for sure how many more in Ironcrest believed the rumours spread by widows and sisters of the warriors lost in the war, but she was sure everyone in the camp had heard about it at least once. For all she knew, Kallon could be looking for support from other camps in order to convince his own. Even though it was the largest in size, Ironcrest wasn’t the only war-band of great importance in Illyria, but it was large enough to make a difference. To tilt the scale in their favour.

And if all of Ironcrest jumped in on this… Mother above.

Kallon took a step forward, taking the lead, while Evan and Klaus remained in place. “We’re glad to have you here tonight, sir.”

One of the other warriors took a step forward, the crimson siphons atop both his hands barely visible in the dark. Moving with the confidence of an experienced warrior, he, at least, seemed older than the trio from Ironcrest, though his face remained in the dark. His companion, however, stayed in the shadows, nearly a mirror image of Evan and Klaus, and it was hard to tell anything about him, except for the fact that he was armed, as it would be expected.

“It wasn’t easy, boy,” the crimson warrior rasped, “the High Lord has eyes everywhere.”

Indeed he does, Signe thought, the irony of the whole situation threatening to bring a smile to her lips.

On the other end of the clearing, Kallon just smiled, looking around as if to make a point. “When have the High Lord’s shadows ever stopped us from doing anything?”

“Since last night,” the warrior said, as his next step forward placed him right under one of the silver beams. His face was finally visible, the golden-brown of his skin seemingly pale under the moonlight, all sharp edges and straight lines. In all honesty, he was handsome, in a way that most Illyrians were—a rough, unpolished beauty that sure earned its appeal for some people. Unlike Lord Rhysand, of course, that despite being half-Illyrian, had the polished beauty of a prince. But it wasn’t the sharp features of the warrior that caught Signe’s attention, it was the gash that crossed his forehead and his right eyebrow, nearly missing his eye. The wound was only partially healed, it seemed, but the warrior hadn’t bothered to wear any bandages over it. It wouldn’t have had the same effect over the younger warriors in the clearing, who tried their best to not let their surprise show.

“What happened?” Klaus asked, unable to contain himself.

“We were attacked last night,” the warrior still had his eyes on Kallon, a glint of anger in them, though not exactly directed at the younger Illyrian, “during one of our meetings.”

“Any casualties?” Kallon asked, straight to the point, while he did his best to hide the sudden tension that had spread over his body. At his side, Evan’s hands balled into fists.

“Four.” Something flashed across the warrior’s wounded features, and Signe knew that look enough to know it was probably the faces of the warriors he lost. “There was no sign, no warning. We didn’t see it coming until it was too late.”

Signe swallowed as the new information sunk in. Things can always get worse, she thought to herself.

And, indeed, they did.

Kallon eyed the crimson warrior’s wound with a soldier’s eye, and seemed to consider his next words carefully: “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

“I’m not here for your condolences,” the warrior said, his voice like rough stone, “I simply came to tell you that we’re out.”

“You’re… out?” Kallon repeated his words, as if trying to make sense of them. “After one attack?”

“You weren’t there, boy—”

“This was bound to happen, eventually,” Kallon cut him off, gesturing to the clearing, the darkness beyond, “he would learn of this eventually, or at least suspect it.” He threw the older warriors a glare. “We can’t back out now. We don’t even know if this attack was ordered by the High-Lord himself.”

“He was the one who ordered it,” the crimson warrior bit back, “we know that because they told us so.”

“Who did?”

“The attacker.”

The attacker.

One person to attack and kill not one, but four Illyrian warriors. One person, apparently acting alone, did all of that and got away with it.

One person, and under the High Lord’s orders.

Mother above.

There was a moment where no one spoke, the wind the only noise to fill the empty space. The Illyrians were known for their discipline, for the battle-oriented culture that shaped them into the experienced warriors they were, even at a young age. Their strength and skill were unmatched in all of Prythian, and defeating one was no easy feat—Signe would know, since she was trained by one. But the wound on the warrior’s forehead was enough testament of what the attack had been, that whoever attacked them not only took advantage in the element of surprise but was also skilled enough to get a jump on a group of Illyrian warriors and get away with it. Alive.

Signe felt a knot form at the pit of her stomach. Something wasn’t right.

Of course, something wasn’t right—she had no knowledge of any other missions concerning the Illyrians other than Cassian’s. If there was another agent in the field, another mission in progress, Azriel would have been the first to let her know. She was certain he would’ve stressed how important it was—

Not to interfere.

She blinked. It didn’t make sense. They couldn’t act on the deviant groups without Signe’s intelligence, that was the reason they sent her in the first place. Still, the attack last night was apparently ordered by Lord Rhysand himself. Or so it was claimed.

That only left two options: either the High-Lord was acting behind Azriel’s back, which was unlikely and honestly quite reckless of him, or the attack was ordered by someone else, under the guise of the High-Lord. There was, of course, a third option, but Signe refused to acknowledge it, because it implied that the shadowsinger hadn’t told her the full story, and that was also unlikely.

Right?

Kallon was the first to break the silence, with a scoff that pulled Signe back from her thoughts. “The attacker? So, you’re telling me one person did all that damage?”

“Yes,” the crimson warrior bristled.

“And they got away with it?”

The crimson warrior’s face was washed with a feeling that could be either anger or fear. Or both. He clenched his fists. “You weren’t there, boy. You didn’t see what that thing was capable of.”

Signe felt the far pang of a headache threatening to surface, a reflection of all the questions pounding in her head. She shoved it down, though she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in her bones. Like something bad was about to happen.

“Was it a beast of any kind?” Kallon pressed. “Was it Fae?”

“Seemed High-Fae. Talked like one, as well.”

“Tell me,” Kallon said, his siphon suddenly flaring, as he came to a conclusion of his own, “did you and your friend back there actually survive the attack, or did they let you live?”

“We survived,” the warrior bit back, visibly offended, “we came to warn you, that’s all.”

“Or perhaps to dissuade us from this?” The tension in the clearing rose, spreading around the Illyrians faster than forest fire. “Perhaps you made a deal with them. So they would spare you and your own if you started working for them, instead. Cut the evil from the root.”

“It’s not my job to dissuade you from anything, boy, and my loyalties remain with my band, as they always have.” She could feel the warrior’s temper rise, his own siphons brighter now, two crimson stars atop his hands. “But I will not waste any more warriors in this crusade of yours.”

His companion shifted his stance, but didn’t abandon his spot in the shadows. Signe had the distinct feeling he was scanning the darkness beyond.

“It affects all of us.” Kallon took a step forward, though Evan and Klaus didn’t. “The time to act is now, before the court gets a chance to regroup.”

“They’ve hunted us before, right after Amarantha fell. Like animals. Or did you forget?” The crimson warrior spoke, and Evan clenched his fists. His brother had been one of the Illyrians who sided with the fallen queen during her reign. A traitor, merely a name in the long list of casualties after the High Lord’s justice. Of course, he had been more than that to anyone who really knew him, especially to Evan, who now looked like he was about to burst into flames.

“Well, you knew that coming into this,” Kallon snapped, “this can’t have been a surprise to you.”

“Listen to me, you little—"

A sound broke off the argument in the clearing. A muffled thud from behind the crimson warrior, who turned to see what it was—

Only to find his companion fallen on the grass, his back facing the sky. And there, projected from the back of his head, the shaft of a single arrow gleamed in the pale light, polished and perfect.

No ordinary arrow, however, but an ash arrow.

The shock on the Illyrian’s faces didn’t last long, as they quickly regrouped in the centre of the clearing. No one bothered to reach for the fallen warrior. It would be of no use, anyway. The arrow had pierced its way right through his eye. It was quick, painless. He died before he even hit the ground.

Signe stilled over the branch, even as her first instinct was to draw the dagger sheathed at her side—one of the many she carried and her favourite. She knew from experience it could be an ambush, and that her movements could draw the Illyrians’ attention to herself. So, she remained still as a statue, no more than a part of the tree itself, while the warriors below her formed a circle, backs facing the centre of the clearing, so they could see any signs of the attacker before they appeared.

Or so they thought.

A shape emerged from the tall branches of a tree to her right, little more than a blur in the dark. Signe felt her heart leap in her chest, and watched, startled, as the shape dropped soundlessly onto the warriors in the clearing, moving so fluidly that she thought, for a second, she’d imagined it. But Klaus saw it too, turning at the last second to avoid a blow to the head. His movement caught the attention of the rest of the Illyrians, who immediately turned to see the shape land on the ground. But no one moved to strike, not right away, at least.

Because the shape was a person. A High-Fae.

The attacker from last night.

Beyond the surprise, Signe examined them the same way the Illyrians below did: measuring their build, their stance, checking for weapons, a face or a crest, anything that could identify them. But not much was visible under the dark layers of clothes they wore.

“Who are you?” Kallon’s siphon came to life, its emerald glow harsh against the pale light in the clearing. There was no reply from the attacker, so the warrior lifted his blade a little higher, in warning. “You will answer me. Who sent you?”

This time, there was a reply, just not with words.

The attacker launched themselves against Kallon, a move so bold and quick the warrior didn’t have time to understand what they were doing until it was too late. In one swift movement, they dodged the blade pointed at them and locked their legs around Kallon’s right arm, the same one he wielded the sword with, pulling their torso downward and allowing gravity to do the rest. Kallon went down with the sudden momentum, felled by his own balance, betrayed by his own surprise. The attacker, on the other hand, landed on their feet, holding Kallon’s blade with one hand and leaving the Illyrian on the ground, with a shocked expression on his face.

And on Signe’s, who watched the whole thing unravel like a dream. And just like that, they disarmed one of Ironcrest’s finest.

The surprise quickly blew off like a breeze, and the rest of the Illyrians lunged at the stranger without mercy, striking simultaneously, always maintaining formation and keeping them contained inside the circle they’d formed. Still, despite the limited space and the relentless blows coming from every possible angle, somehow the attacker managed to dodge most of them, and block the ones they couldn’t. It was impressive, Signe had to admit. She couldn’t look away from the fight even if she wanted to. The stranger’s movements were fluid, efficient, perfect, and she noticed they always used the warriors’ own strength against themselves. Soon enough, the fight became a violent dance for power, almost hypnotizing in a way. But, through the spell, Signe could feel the Illyrians getting angrier by the second, though she knew that, if she was in their shoes, she’d probably be angry, too.

Kallon feinted left and the stranger followed his movement, but the Illyrian moved to his right in a heartbeat. There was no time for them to block the strike of his fist against their side, and a loud grunt escaped their lips, muffled by the cloth covering the bottom half of their face. Even from a distance, Signe winced, almost feeling the blow on her own ribs. The attacker took a step back, clutching their side, and was met with the scarlet warrior’s fist a second later. Their jaw took the brunt of the impact, and they fell on their side on the grass, gasping for air.

Before they even had the chance to get back up again, Kallon reached for the fabric wrapped around the stranger’s head and pulled them to their knees, meaning to aim the dagger he had on his other hand at their stomach, or their throat. Signe watched, almost breathless, as Kallon pulled the stranger’s head. Watched as the stranger struggled against the Illyrian’s grip. Watched the glow of victory bloom on other warrior’s faces as Kallon swung his arm back and—

Stopped.

Kallon stopped mid-swing. He stared at the attacker, at their eyes, the only part of their face that was uncovered. The seemingly dark eyes that gleamed with the adrenaline of the fight, a rush Signe was familiar with. The eyes that now held his gaze, alight, feral, defiant. The attacker strained against the Illyrians’ grasp, grunting with the effort, but didn’t manage to break free from it, not this time.

Still, Kallon hesitated. And Signe was starting to realize why.

It was not only the intensity of their gaze, which held a strength beyond comprehension, but also because of their build, their size compared to the Illyrians’. With all the pressure the warriors made against their arms and shoulders, the fabric that concealed their body now revealed curves unlike a male’s. The pitch of their voice, even in a grunt, was also unlike a male’s. The lashes that framed those feral eyes were also unlike a male’s.

“You’re—” Kallon breathed, half to himself, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “You’re a female?”

And the stranger laughed, a soft, velvet-like sound that glazed its way in the air towards Signe’s ears. “How observant.”

Another pause. Kallon still hesitated, still surprised, and Signe saw the Illyrians’ grasp on her shoulders falter, for an instant—

But Evan lunged for her in a heartbeat, not bothering or not caring about the sudden revelation. He pulled her from Kallon’s grasp, but she managed to break free before he could subdue her.

The female extended her blade between her and the warriors with a lifetime’s worth of practice, and just in time to dodge Evan’s next blow. He struck with his sword again, and the female blocked the hit with her own, the shock between the two blades echoing around the clearing and resonating in Signe’s bones. The warrior hooked the hilt of her sword with his own, hoping to give the others enough time to regroup. Signe could hear the female straining against Evan’s strength, but she showed no signs she was giving in.

Evan leaned forward some more, pressing more of his weight onto the swords, inching his face closer to hers. “Who are you?” He asked, through bared teeth.

The other Illyrians finally surrounded her, and she seemed to be exactly where she wanted to be.

“The High Lord sends his regards,” she said, voice tinged with a smile.