Blades and Witchery

[Work in progress, subject to change]

The Goue Leeu Inn, nestled in the heart of the free city of Soetvryheid’s bustling merchant district, hummed with the low chatter of traders and the clink of gold changing hands. Amidst the crowd, a flash of copper caught the lamplight – the striking red hair of Lyra Vuurdans, a young woman whose beauty was matched only by the mischievous glint in her emerald eyes.

At 22, Lyra was already a master of reinvention. Tonight, she played the part of a naive country girl, all wide-eyed wonder at the grandeur of Soetvryheid. Her dress, a touch too bright for the city’s fashion, marked her as an outsider – exactly as she intended.

“Oh my,” she exclaimed, her voice carrying just far enough to pique interest, “I’ve never seen so many important-looking people in one place! Do you suppose they know any fun games?”

A group of merchants, already deep in their cups and flush with the day’s profits, turned their attention to the vivacious redhead. Lyra suppressed a smile. The fish were taking the bait.

“Why, love,” drawled a portly spice trader, his waistcoat straining against his girth, “we know all sorts of games. Care to learn a few?”

Lyra feigned excitement, bouncing on her toes. “Oh yes, please! I have a few Gilders saved up. Maybe I could play too?”

The merchants exchanged knowing glances, each already calculating how to separate this naive girl from her coin. They had no idea that Lyra Vuurdans was about to give them a master class in deception.

As they settled around a corner table, Lyra made a show of fumbling with the cards, dropping them clumsily as she attempted to shuffle. The merchants chuckled indulgently, offering to cut the deck for her. Little did they know that each fumble was precisely calculated, each dropped card finding its way exactly where Lyra intended.

The game began, and Lyra lost her first few hands with convincing dismay. “Oh dear,” she sighed, “this is harder than it looks. One more hand? I’m sure to get the hang of it!”

As the game progressed and Lyra’s staged clumsiness began to give way to “lucky” wins, the atmosphere around the table shifted. The merchants, initially amused by the country girl’s naivety, grew increasingly agitated as their coins migrated to Lyra’s growing pile.

“Say, girl,” drawled a paunchy spice merchant with a reputation for crude humour, “where’d a country lass like you get the coin to play with us fine gentlemen? Don’t tell me you’re one of them Rooilamp girls from down in Bitter Wyk?”

The implication was clear – the spice merchant was suggesting Lyra might be a working girl from Soetvryheid’s infamous red-light district. Some of the other merchants shifted their stance, and a few chuckled, eyeing Lyra with newfound interest.

“Oh my,” Lyra giggled, affecting a scandalised tone that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “what a thing to say! Why, if my pa heard such talk...” She trailed off, biting her lip in feigned embarrassment.

Emboldened by the drinks and his own bravado, pressed on. “Come now, no need to be shy. A pretty thing like you must have some tricks up her sleeve, eh?”

Lyra leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. She placed her hand on the merchant's chest, caressing him through the fabric of his clothing. “Well, if you must know...” She glanced around as if checking for eavesdroppers. “A lady never kisses and tells, but let’s just say I’ve learned a thing or two about how to... handle men.”

The merchants roared with laughter, their earlier suspicions about her sudden winning streak momentarily forgotten. Lyra used their distraction to her advantage, her nimble fingers working overtime as she dealt the next hand.

“Maybe you could show us some of those tricks later,” another merchant suggested with a leer.

Lyra batted her eyelashes. “Oh, I’m showing you right now, darling. Didn’t your mothers ever warn you about playing with fire?”

As if to emphasise her point, she laid down her cards, revealing another winning hand. The merchants groaned, but their frustration was tempered by amusement and a misplaced sense of camaraderie with the “working girl” they thought they’d unmasked.

Little did they know, Lyra was playing them like fiddles. Every lascivious comment, every lecherous glance, served only to distract them further from her true game. Her pile of coins grew steadily, the merchants too busy imagining her fictional exploits to notice the subtle movements of her hands as she manipulated the deck.

Another hand, and another pile of coins heading towards Lyra's stack. But among the group, one pair of eyes narrowed with suspicion. A veteran cloth merchant known for his sharp mind, had seen his fair share of cons in the ports of the Continent. As Lyra’s hands flickered over the cards for another deal, his hand shot out, grasping her wrist.

“Well, well,” he growled, “what have we here? A regular little cheat, aren’t you?”

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Lyra’s mask of innocence cracked, replaced by a feral grin that transformed her from prey to predator in an instant.

“Caught me, old man,” she laughed, her country accent vanishing. “But can you hold me?”

With a twist and a kick, Lyra broke free, snatching the pile of coins from the table in one fluid motion. Chairs clattered to the floor as the merchants lunged for her, but Lyra was already in motion, a crimson blur darting between tables and patrons.

“Thief!” The cry went up, and the inn erupted into chaos. Lyra vaulted over the bar, blew a kiss to the stunned innkeeper, and burst through the kitchen doors. Cooks and scullery maids yelped in surprise as the flame-haired whirlwind tore through their domain, sending pots and pans clattering.

Out the back door she flew, into the lamp-lit streets of Soetvryheid. The pounding of boots and angry shouts told her the Stadswag, the city's police had joined the chase. Lyra grinned, relishing the challenge. This was what she lived for – the thrill of the con, the rush of the escape.

Through winding alleys and crowded marketplaces she ran, her knowledge of the city’s layout proving invaluable. She took a sharp turn into Bitter Wyk, where shadows deepened and questions were few.

The sounds of pursuit grew fainter as Lyra wove through the maze-like streets. Finally, certain she’d lost her tail, she slowed to a walk, casually straightening her dress and tousling her hair to blend in with the night crowd.

In a dimly lit courtyard away from the scene, Lyra approached a nondescript door and knocked three times, paused, then twice more. It opened a crack next to the door, and she slipped inside.

“Cutting it a bit close, weren’t you?” grumbled a voice from the shadows. His tone a mix of irritation and concern.

Lyra grinned, tossing her bag of ill-gotten gains onto a table. The coins, papers and everything within her purse spilled out, glinting in the candlelight. “Had to make it look convincing, didn’t I? Besides, the Stadswag could use the exercise.”

She reaches behind her back, her fingers deftly finding the zipper of her dress. With a practiced ease, she pulls the zipper down, the sound of it a soft, familiar hum in the room. She then slips the dress off her shoulders, her arms sliding out of the sleeves. The dress falls to the floor in a soft rustle of fabric, pooling around her feet.

Ezra stepped into the light, his scarred face set in a frown. “Reckless, Lyra. Your antics could have compromised us.”

“Oh, come on, Ezra,” Lyra laughed, unfazed by his serious demeanor. “Where’s your sense of fun? It worked, didn’t it?” She began to put on her sleek outfit designed for stealth and mobility.

Ezra’s frown deepened. “Did you at least stay clear of the Pynthessan quarter? You know they’re not fond of...” He trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

“Non-magical individuals?” Lyra finished for him, her voice taking on a hint of edge. “Relax, old man. I know how to handle myself around the magic-obsessed.” She paused, studying Ezra’s face. “You know, you could stand to loosen up a bit. Have some fun once in a while. It won’t kill you.”

Ezra ignored her jab, instead turning his attention to the spoils on the table. Among the coins, he noticed several folded papers. His eyes widened slightly as he unfolded them. “Are these what I think they are?”

Lyra’s grin widened. “If you think they’re our ticket into Castle Yzerhart, then yes, they’re exactly what you think they are.”

Ezra’s serious expression cracked, just slightly, revealing a glimmer of admiration. “How did you—”

“A 'magician' never reveals her secrets,” Lyra winked, now fully changed into her sleek outfit. “Let’s just say our generous merchant friends had more than just coins in their pockets.”

Ezra nodded, his mind already racing with the implications. “This could be our chance to recover the device. If we can get it back—”

“Then maybe we can finally have the money to leave this hell-hole and have a comfortable life for once.” Lyra finished, her playful tone giving way to determination. “So, when do we move?”

Ezra studied the grant of passage papers again, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Soon. We’ll need to plan carefully. The security at Yzerhart is no joke.”

Lyra placed a hand on Ezra’s shoulder, and then giving him a soft kiss on the cheek, her voice softening. “Hey, I may enjoy the thrill, but I know what’s at stake here. We’ll get it back, Ezra. Whatever it takes.”

--

The abandoned building creaked softly in the cool night air, its dilapidated frame a silent sentinel over the streets of Soetvryheid. On the top floor, nestled in shadows, two figures peered out of a grimy window, their eyes tracking the movement of patrols on the cobblestone streets below.

Ezra Steyn’s scarred face was etched with concentration, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his concealed weapon. Beside him, Lyra Vuurdans crouched, her green eyes glinting with a mix of excitement and wariness.

Throughout the times that Ezra and Lyra lived in the abandoned building, they had made great efforts to frame the place as cursed. A haunted house of sorts, to keep anyone away from discovering their little hide-out.

“Looks like our little ‘haunted building’ trick is working,” Lyra whispered, a hint of pride in her voice. “Did you see that patrol leader? He practically jumped out of his skin when that rigged shutter slammed.”

Ezra allowed himself a small smile. “Your talents for deception continue to impress, Lyra. Though I still say the wailing sounds were a bit much.”

“Oh please, the ‘Voice of the Betrayed Bride’ is a classic,” Lyra retorted, playfully nudging Ezra’s shoulder. “Besides, it kept them from looking too closely at the second floor, didn’t it?”

As they watched another patrol pass by, giving the building a wide berth, a comfortable silence fell between them. It was Ezra who finally broke it, his voice low and thoughtful.

“You know, sometimes I forget how young you are, Lyra. Seeing you work, it’s easy to think you’ve been doing this all your life.”

Lyra’s playful demeanour faded slightly, her gaze still fixed on the street below. “In a way, I have been. Deception was my only magic growing up in Thaumatopolis.”

Ezra turned to her, curiosity overcoming his usual stoic expression. “You’ve never really talked about your time there. What was it like, growing up in the heart of Pynthessa?”

Lyra was quiet for a moment, absently toying with the locket around her neck. “Imagine a world where everyone around you can bend reality with a thought, where the very air sparkles with magical potential. Now imagine being the one person who can’t see or feel any of it.”

She sighed, a mixture of old pain and resolved determination in her voice. “In Pynthessa, magic isn’t just a tool or a weapon – it’s everything. Your worth, your future, your very identity is tied to your magical ability. And I had none.”

Ezra nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. “So you learned to create your own kind of magic.”

“Exactly,” Lyra smiled, a hint of her usual mischief returning. “Sleight of hand, misdirection, the art of making people see what isn’t there – it became my way of fitting in, of surviving.”

“You know, growing up in Crosgill wasn’t so different in some ways. Instead of magic, it was all about technological innovation. If you couldn’t invent or improve, you were seen as... lesser.” Ezra said.

Lyra turned to him, surprised by this glimpse into her usually reticent companion’s past. “Is that why you joined the military? To prove yourself?”

Ezra’s face hardened slightly. “Partly. But I also believed in Crosgill’s vision – a world where human ingenuity could overcome any challenge, where we weren’t reliant on unpredictable magical forces.”

“And now?” Lyra asked softly.

“Now I see that both extremes are equally destructive,” Ezra replied, his gaze sweeping over the city below. “Crosgill’s relentless pursuit of technological dominance, Pynthessa’s obsession with magical purity – they’re two sides of the same coin. Both willing to sacrifice anything and anyone who doesn’t fit their vision of the future.”

A comfortable silence fell between them again, broken only by the distant sounds of the city and the occasional creak of their hideout. As they continued their vigil, Lyra’s thoughts drifted to their stint ahead – the mysterious device hidden in Castle Yzerhart, and the role it could play in finally having something that she has thirstily yearned for so long.

At the first light of dawn began to tint the sky, Ezra and Lyra prepared to move. The streets were clearing, the patrols thinning as the night shift ended. Once they were ready, they left their vantage point and continued their mission that would change them forever.