Hidden Daughter

I sat at the table, dressed in the red spider silk gown. A low fire burned in the hearth, its flickering light throwing shadows into the far corners of the room. In front of me were the remains of an exquisite meal: soft bread, thinly sliced meats, roasted vegetables, and rich cheeses all washed down with a fine wine. It was the sort of feast nobles took for granted, but which I still approached like a starving stray at a banquet.

Blush and Crush stood nearby, hands folded, silent. Tonight, they acted more like servants than companions, their watchful presence more ceremonial than casual.

“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “That was... very nice.”

They nodded slightly. Of course they were good at cooking it made sense. Assassins often blended in by posing as servants, cooks, attendants. Getting close enough to kill without suspicion. But I didn’t feel threatened. If they wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be sitting here digesting roast vegetables and goat’s cheese.

“It was a pleasure to serve you,” Blush replied, exchanging a glance with Crush.

“Now, if you would be so kind, do what you need to do and retire to bed?” Crush added, her tone matter-of-fact.

“I’ve put a warming pan in the bed,” Blush said gently. “You won’t have to endure the chill.”

“Thank you, but that’s unnecessary,” I replied. “I’ve slept in worse conditions.”

“We know,” Blush said softly. “That’s why we do it.” Then she added, her tone unyielding but not unkind, “Are you not Miska’s wife?”

That stopped me cold. I looked between the two of them, caught off guard by the quiet certainty in her voice. “I don’t know what I am to Miska,” I admitted. “She confuses me. I don’t know whether I’m dancing on a rooftop or hiding in a cellar because of her.”

“Miska cares about you deeply,” Blush said, a warning and a comfort in one. “That is an absolute.”

“And what you should be doing,” Crush added, “is sleeping.”

They were right, of course. I murmured my thanks, excused myself to use the privy, and then climbed the stairs to Miska’s room. Her bed broad, luxurious, too much for someone like me, called to me like an old friend. Careful not to wrinkle the silk too much, I removed the gown and chemise, folded them neatly over the chair, and slid the warming pan out from under the sheets. The bed was already warm. Already welcoming. As a precaution I slipped a dagger under my pillow. As someone with a price of her head. I had to make sure I could defend myself even if I was protected by Blush and Crush. Sleep claimed me before I could wonder what the morning would bring.

I woke with the kind of clarity that only danger ever summoned. Instant, electric awareness surged through my body. I wasn’t alone in the bed. I lay on my side, covers tangled at my hips, and behind me, pressed close was a body. A woman’s body. I knew that instantly. The soft pressure of breasts against my back, the unmistakable sharpness of hardened nipples grazing my skin. Warm breath stirred the hair at my neck. I froze. Cuddlers, the infamous assassins, were said to kill their targets while naked. Rumour held that it was easier to wash blood from skin than from silk or wool. The thought chilled me. Slowly, I edged my hand beneath the pillow, fingers curling toward the dagger I’d hidden there. I wasn’t going to die in bed without a fight. Then a hand caught my arm, gently, but with undeniable strength. The fingers were both soft and callused. Familiar.

“None of that, Julia,” a voice whispered against my ear. Sultry. Teasing. Known.

“Miska?” My voice came out cracked with surprise.

“The one and only, my sharp,” she purred.

She released my arm only to let her hand trail upward, skimming the curve of my breast with a lazy confidence that made my breath hitch. Her fingers paused, possessive, before slipping lower across my ribs, down to cup the swell of my hip.

“As much as I’d love a taste of your sweet,” she murmured, lips brushing the edge of my ear, “we need to be up.” With that, she slid away, leaving only warmth and ghostly memory in her wake.

I lay still for a moment, blinking into the quiet. If Dale had been here he’d be laughing his head off. He told me that this would happen but I’d thought the Griffons were weeks away. The bed creaked as she rose, the rustle of covers replaced by the pad of bare feet. I sat up, the cool air prickling across my skin. The absence of her touch was suddenly keenly felt. She crossed to the window, her silhouette a study in shadow and curve. Naked and unashamed, Miska threw open the shutters. Light spilled across the floor, golden and cold, scattering the darkness like birds startled from trees. She stood there for a moment defiant, radiant. Like a goddess saluting the sun. But I saw more than light. I saw hollowness along her ribs, the faint sag of exhaustion in her posture.

She was thinner than I remembered. I rose and walked to the washstand, the tile cool beneath my feet, the air sharp against bare skin. I poured water from the pitcher into the basin, the splash shockingly loud in the quiet. I leaned down and washed the sleep from my face, the cold water anchoring me. Behind me, sunlight warmed the sheets where Miska had lain. Her scent lingered in the bed. So did her touch.

I regarded her carefully. Despite all her lewd remarks and whispered jokes, I had never actually seen Miska naked until now. In the morning light, her body was a map of hard-won survival. Faint scars traced her skin in places that had always been hidden beneath leather and steel. She didn’t try to hide them. Miska stood there unabashed, watching me with a stillness that felt almost ceremonial. We held each other’s gaze. No words, just breath and quiet, the weight of unspoken things building between us. Then she ruined it beautifully. She raised one arm above her head, sniffed her armpit, and pulled a face.

“Pew. Someone needs a bath,” she declared, grinning. “Care to join me?”

“Not if you’re going to eat in it,” I replied, arching a brow.

Miska’s grin turned lazy, indulgent. “A bath and a meal? What’s not to like?”

I crossed my arms. I might be a guest in her house, but I still had a few standards, granted, not many, but they existed.

“I’ve been told you make a mess. It’s just... gross. And I don’t like wasting food.”

The smile dimmed slightly. Her eyes softened. She understood.

Memories stirred: scraps from bins, hunger like a gnawing wound, the desperate gamble of stealing crusts from guarded stalls. In the slums, every morsel mattered. Nothing was wasted. You didn’t throw away food. You didn’t have that luxury.

“You’re right,” Miska said at last, voice quieter. “I forget sometimes. But I’ll stick to my habits, and you’ll stick to yours.” She tilted her head, her gaze steady and intense, cutting through me like a blade honed by familiarity. “Still, I’d like to be in sync with you if I want to taste your sweet. And I’d like you to taste mine. I can promise I’m very juicy.”

That earned her a sharp shake of my head and a faint glare. I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw a pillow at her. Instead, I walked over to the chair and slipped into the red spider-silk gown. It slid over my skin like water, clinging in a way that felt indecent and comforting all at once.

“You said we’re in a hurry,” I said, tying the sash. “What for?”

Miska sauntered toward her clothes, unapologetically bare.

“We’ve got an audience with the King,” she said. “He wants a report from Lee. And we need to be there.”

“I’m not crossing the bridge to the palace,” I said flatly.

Last time, they’d wrapped me in a blanket like contraband, slung me across shoulders, and hauled me over like a sack of flour. I’d been unrolled at the King’s feet like a poorly trained pet. The memory hit like a stone dropped in water, but something was off. That hadn’t happened. Not here. Not this palace. I’d never even set foot in it.

The image was from one of Danni’s old movies, I realised. The one with the exiled queen, dry lands, dusty crowns. My chest tightened. The line between my memories and hers, or someone else’s, was blurring again. That wasn’t comforting.

“You won’t have to,” Miska said smoothly. “They’re holding the council at the Adventurers Guild.”

I raised a brow. “And the Grandmaster allowed that?”

The Guild prided itself on neutrality. Adventurers came from every corner of the continent, loyal only to coin and cause. Dale and I were from the Acalian Empire, not exactly friendly to the local crown. The Guild didn’t play politics. Not openly.

“Yes,” Miska said with that casual shrug she wore like armour. “Ameline spoke to him. Seems someone I know has... bridge issues.”

I winced. Of course Ameline knew. Of course she’d mentioned it. She was watching me too closely. Again.

“If we’re going,” I muttered, “I need to eat first. And I need to gather my party.”

Miska waved a hand, unconcerned. “Already done. Your party and the Griffons will be there.”

She was still standing by the window, naked, shameless, the morning light tracing the old scars on her skin like a map of battles long survived. She flaunted herself without effort or apology, like danger in repose.

“I’m grabbing food,” I said, turning away. “You go take your bath.”

“Sure you won’t join me?” she teased, fluttering her lashes, her hand sliding slowly down her thigh.

I didn’t flinch. “Not if you’re going to eat in it.”

Her grin was slow and wicked. I could almost feel the snare closing around me.

“I’ll keep that in mind, my sharp.”

“Miska.” I put a warning in my voice.

She nodded with all the faux innocence of a cat caught on a table. “Go eat. I’ll be down soon.”

I had just reached the door when her voice slid after me, silk against skin.

“We can always wash again later. Maybe by then you’ll be ready to taste my sweet?”

I shut the door harder than necessary, trying to block her laughter from curling around my spine.

Crush stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded like she'd been stationed there for hours.

“Julia?”

“Why didn’t you warn me Miska was here?”

“Because we didn’t know,” she said, without hesitation. “She does that.”

I believed her. Miska moved like a storm, sudden, disruptive, impossible to ignore. The only warning sign was the appearance of the Griffons, like distant thunder before the sky cracked open. Breakfast had been simple but satisfying: crusty bread, a selection of sharp cheeses, and slices of cold cured meats arranged neatly on a plate. I ate at the table, the fire in the hearth burning low, the coals casting a warm glow across the floorboards. Miska, of course, took her meal in the bath, much to the visible disapproval of both Blush and Crush. It was a strange domesticity, one I still wasn’t sure I was comfortable with. But it was... peaceful.

The sun was still low on the horizon when we stepped out of Miska’s house. Morning light caught the rooftops and turned the dew on cobblestones to gold. The city stirred around us. Servants bustled toward the markets, their baskets bouncing at their hips. Merchants loaded carts, shouting at apprentices and pulling back tarps to reveal wares. The buzz of waking life hummed in the air the creak of wagon wheels, the rhythmic clop of hooves, the soft pad of boots on damp stone. No one spared more than a glance for the two armed women walking side by side. I wore my bunker-enhanced leather armour. It wasn't true leather but a material the bunker excelled at making. Slick, matte, and reinforced, it resisted blades, weather, and hard wear alike. Ancient magic ran through its lining, subtle but unmistakably powerful. Miska wore her own version: dark, plain, and unremarkable. It had the look of armour made by a master craftsman, expensive, understated, and built for stealth as much as protection. At my waist hung twin short swords bunker-forged, their laser-honed edges unnaturally sharp. Across my chest, six throwing knives rested in a criss-crossed bandoleer. A dagger rode my lower back, tucked where most wouldn’t think to look. Miska carried a slightly longer curved sword, elegant and cruel, and her knives outnumbered mine two to one. She moved like she’d always worn them. Like her weapons were part of her. To the casual observer, we were just two adventurers. Friendly. Relaxed. But if you looked closer, you’d see it: we were prepared.

As we walked, I filled Miska in on what had happened since I’d last seen her in West Riding village. My voice was quiet but steady, carried easily in the hush of early morning. It felt strange to recount it all. The battles. The politics. The broken parts of me I hadn’t mended yet. Our pace was calm, watchful but unhurried. And then everything shattered.

From the mouth of an alley came chaos a dozen armed men burst onto the street with steel drawn and eyes wild. Civilians screamed and scattered, fleeing in all directions. Market baskets hit the ground. A cart toppled. The crowd turned panicked, desperate to get away. And we, Miska and I stood at the eye of the storm, waiting, composed. They came expecting prey. Instead they found an ex-Knight of the Order and one of the Griffons’ deadliest blades.

Six of them were down before they’d even cleared the alley’s mouth, two by my hand, the rest felled by Miska in a blur of blades and blood. The street beyond had erupted into panic. Most civilians scattered, sensibly fleeing the fight. But a few froze, bystanders rooted by morbid curiosity, as if watching carnage unfold somehow made them braver. Too close. Too many. And I couldn’t risk a ranged attack. The alley spat out the rest of the attackers like broken teeth. I holstered my throwing knives and drew my twin short swords laser-honed bunker steel, eager to cut. Miska was already moving. She flowed into stance beside me, curved sword in her right hand, a wicked dagger in her left. Together we turned toward the attackers, who now hesitated. They hadn’t expected resistance this sharp. Good. An overturned handcart blocked the flank on our left. Its spilled contents, fruit, bundles of fabric, a shattered crate choked the cobbles, forcing the fight into a funnel. No encirclement. That was our edge.

The first came at me overconfident, swinging a long sword like it would do the work for him. I met his thrust with a rising parry, side-stepped, and slipped inside his reach. One of my blades punched through his coat. It snagged on something hard underneath. Brigand’s plate.

“Ware! They’re wearing brigand’s plate!” I shouted.

Steel-backed leather more protection than it looked, and far more expensive than most street thugs could afford. Not light, not flexible. They were trading speed for endurance. I twisted my blade, reversed the angle, and drove it into his thigh. He staggered but didn’t scream. No howl, no cry just clenched teeth and dead eyes. That silence was wrong.

“Someone’s spelled them,” Miska growled. Her voice cut through the chaos like a blade of its own.

She was dancing through them. Not wild, not frenzied precise. Her curved blade sang arcs through the air, always finding a gap, always drawing blood. Her dagger followed, never more than a whisper behind the main strike. The attackers moved like soldiers not like the Plumes, sloppy and brutal, but not polished like the King’s Guard either. Trained. Paid. Retainers, maybe. Someone’s household killers. Someone with coin and ambition, but not quite nobility. I blocked. Parried. Spun low, carving through tendons. Another came at me with a mace. I twisted sideways, hearing the crunch of wood and stone as it smashed the cart beside me. I plunged both swords into his side. He dropped like a puppet with cut strings. I risked a glance at Miska. She was breathtaking a storm wrapped in flesh and leather, every motion purpose-made. For every man that fell, another surged forward, stepping over bodies like broken cobbles. I wasn’t going to die here. Block. Parry. Weave. Strike.

A rhythm. A song. A deadly dance. A blade whispered above my scalp, close enough to take a few hairs with it. I dropped and rolled, catching the attacker behind the knee. He buckled. I didn’t wait I finished him before he could rise.

Another attacker fell, and blood spattered across the cobbles.

Block. Parry. Weave. Strike. The rhythm steadied me but it also cracked something open. I remembered training halls long gone. Stone floors stained with sweat and dirt, the sound of boots, the snap of commands. The Order had taught many things, but most of all, it taught how to survive. The masters were as varied as the blades they carried. Some were quiet, philosophical, sharpening minds as well as steel. Others were brash, barking commands and swinging practice swords with the force of hurricanes. And then there was Lord Kelwin. He wasn’t my first trainer, but he was the one I remembered most vividly. Towering, barrel-chested, perpetually angry or pretending to be he had the voice of a battlefield and the heart of a mountain. He screamed at us from dawn to dusk, voice echoing off the stone walls like thunder.

“Again! If your hands shake when the time comes, they’ll not even need to aim!”

He never flinched. Not even when demonstrating a shield-wall manoeuvre while recruits fired live arrows at him.

I saw him now in my mind standing tall in full plate, commanding the defence of the ambush, yelling like a storm made flesh. Arrows rained down on us from above. Order knights crouched behind shields as Kelwin strode into the open, bellowing orders. Arrows struck him one, two, five. They buried themselves in his chest and shoulders, punching through his chainmail like he was a man-shaped pincushion.

“Get up!” he shouted the knights frozen in horror. “They can't pierce the eye if you’re moving!”

The irony still tasted like rust. He died when one finally did a lucky shot through the eye slit of his helmet. One second he was shouting, alive and invincible. The next, he folded like a puppet whose strings had been severed. I never forgot the sound of it of that armour collapsing, heavy and hollow. Steel doesn’t save you. Fear doesn’t kill you. Hesitation does.

His last lesson, unspoken but eternal. A blade flashed toward my throat. I didn't think. I moved.