The sickly indigo of plague-touched flesh spread across Lily's skin like spilled ink, her copper curls dulled to rust against sweat-dampened pillows. No breath stirred her sister's chest. No warmth remained in those small, freckled hands that had so often reached for Mara's own. The plague had claimed her, just as it had claimed their parents, just as it claimed all things in Ravencross eventually.
Mara's fingers trembled as they sought a pulse that wasn't there. The healer's instinct, useless now. Always too late, always too weak, always too—
"Mara?"
Reality snaked back into her consciousness. Morning light filtered through the perpetual mist outside, casting wavering shadows across the bedroom. Beside Mara's bed stood Lily, gloriously alive, her face pinched with concern beneath her spray of freckles and doll in her hand.
"Another bad dream?" Lily's small hand found Mara's larger one, warm and vital. No trace of plague. No shadow of death.
Mara forced her breathing to steady, though her heart still thundered against her ribs.
"Just a dream," she lied, even as her fingers remembered the remnant sensation of death beneath them. She has never killed before. The thought scratched at the edges of her mind like a ravenous rat.
A flash of ghostly white caught her eye—a corner of parchment protruding from the Infernal Grimoire on her desk. Mara frowned. After countless hours studying that cursed book's pages, she knew every dark promise and warning it contained. This was new.
"What's that?" Lily asked, following her gaze.
"Nothing important," Mara said too quickly. "Why don't you go down and fetch me my mask?
Lily nodded and skipped out of the room.
Only when Lily's steps had faded did Mara approach the grimoire. The parchment was a wanted poster, clearly placed there by Pesterio's unseen hand. A man's face stared back at her—mid-twenties, with a savage scar slashing his left cheek. Below the image, a note in spidery script: "He's a shadow-weaver lurking in the Black Market Square."
Mara's breath caught. She had seen this man yesterday, skulking between market stalls, drinking Death's Blood from a crystal vial. A shadow-weaver—one of the rare assassins who could meld with darkness itself and utilize its powers. The target proved to be a challenge as shadow-weavers were mindless machines bred to kill.
Her master's old wardrobe stood in the corner like a sentinel guarding untouched secrets. The years scarred the dark mahogany. Behind a false panel that Grove had shown her in quieter times lay a dagger in a hidden compartment—an Artifact of the Black Rain. The serrated dagger possessed a blade as black as obsidian, and hilt of dark, grey wood.
He had never told her its true purpose, though she knew it would eliminate the innate magic dwelling in the soul. Its weight felt right in her palm today, as if it had been waiting for this moment.
The streets of Ravencross wore the aftermath of the season's first blood moon like a wound. Crimson light seemed to stain the morning mist, turning the narrow cobblestone streets into rivers of diluted gore. Plague charms tinkled in the perpetual breeze, marking safe houses and healing chambers with their hollow symphony. Steam rose from the Under-Warren's ventilation shafts, mixing with the natural fog and the sweet-acrid smoke of purification incense from the Healers' District.
Ada stood at her usual post near the Black Market Square's hidden entrance, grinding herbs with practiced motions. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Mara.
"Twice in two days?" Ada asked, "What brings a healer back so soon?"
"Supplies," Mara said smoothly. "Herbs and potions."
Ada's lips tightened. "Be careful what you seek in these shadows, child. Some remedies cost more than coins."
The market beyond was a maze of covered alleyways and secretive stalls. Mara moved from vendor to vendor, showing the wanted poster, meeting only shakes of heads and averted eyes. Desperation began to build in her chest with each passing moment. The ledger's deadline loomed—twenty-four hours to transfer the healing she had performed or face the consequences. It heaved against her back where she had stuffed it in her satchel slung over her right shoulder.
The Fairhaven Inn squatted at the district's edge, its windows smothered with decades of grime. Inside, the common room was nearly empty, smelling of stale mead and old smoke. Mara ordered a ginger ale and sank into a corner seat, her fingers drumming against the rough-hewn table.
"You seem worried." The voice came from the man beside her, but it carried false concern.
She unfurled the poster on the table and passed it to the stranger. Before she could ask, his hand shot out, fingers coiling around her throat. Mara reached for her dagger, but it slipped from her grasp, clattering against the floorboards. The world narrowed to the pressure on her windpipe and the cold fury brewing in the assailant's eyes.
An unmistakable scar ran across his left cheek. It was the shadow-weaver!
The man flung her onto the floor.
"If you have a death wish, then you caught me at the wrong time and in the wrong place."
As he departed, he collided with another figure in the doorway. Mara's fingers found the dagger, and desperation guided her throw. The blade glinted through air thick with smoke, but the shadow-weaver was faster. The dagger found flesh, but not his. The bystander crumpled with a cry of pain.
The shadow-weaver melted into the darkness beyond the door, leaving Mara with the consequences of her actions. Her victim—a girl even younger than herself—lay bleeding on the threshold. The choice lashed her conscience: pursue her quarry or heal her mistake.
Cursing under her quickening breath, Mara knelt beside the wounded girl. The newfound healing power flowed through her touch, knitting flesh and cleaning blood. She felt the ledger in her satchel grow heavier but ignored it. One problem at a time.
"Thank you," the girl gasped, color returning to her cheeks. "He's headed west, toward the old tanneries."
"How do you know for sure?" Mara said as she blinked in confusion, but the girl was already pressing a vial into her palms. The golden fluid splash bubbled, and Mara recognized it as Lightning Nectar, a scarce potion banned in practice.
"If you want to catch him, drink it. Trust me," the younger girl said.
The potion burned in her throat as she gulped it down. The world sharpened, colors becoming more vivid, sounds clearer, time itself seeming to slow. She burst out of the inn and into the labyrinth of streets, her enhanced senses scanning for any shadow that moved with an unnatural flow.
There—a mismatched shape twisted. The healer gave chase, her feet barely touching the cobblestones. The shadow-weaver realized he was pursued and fought back. Dark blades materialized from the shadows themselves and darted towards her, but she dodged them with serene grace. Black spikes erupted from the ground, but the Lightning Nectar kept her steps ahead of death.
The chase led them deeper into the district's maze, past startled vendors and suspicious guards. The shadow-weaver turned down a wrong alley—and found only a blank wall before him. Before he could summon his powers again, Mara was on him. The dagger's blade neutralized his connection to shadow, and he collapsed, helpless for the first time.
Mara knew she couldn't kill him with conventional means—shadow-weavers were notoriously resistant to physical damage and the dagger would only afflict pain, not death. But she had other weapons in her arsenal. Her hand pressed against his chest, and she concentrated. The sickness that she had drawn from her sister flowed from her into the man.
The transfer began. Indigo light streamed from her fingers into the shadow-weaver's flesh. His face went pale, then grey, then black as death itself. Blood erupted from his lips as his eyes shifted from normal to crimson to absolute pitch black. His body convulsed, wracked by seizures as the injected disease claimed him. His screams echoed off the alley walls until they didn't; however, he let out a parting groan and muttered, "Pesterio… Damn you..."
The last three words shook Mara, and she ached for an answer. However, the transfer victim's pulse ceased, and the warmth of the corpse began to dissipate. The ledger in Mara's satchel began to glow with the same unholy red. She pulled it out with trembling hands, opening to the first page where words wrote themselves in blood, organized in a table:
Healed - 2
Transfers remaining - 1, transfer must be a murder
Time remaining - 24 hours
Mara's stomach churned as reality settled over her like a shroud. She would have to kill again, and soon. But her rationale weighed down on her like an irremovable burden. It pressed her to seek the mysterious girl who had helped her.
The blood moon's light painted Ravencross in shades of morbid scarlet. Somewhere in the shadows, Mara could have sworn she heard cackling, a heinous voice that could only belong to the plague demon.