The cobbled streets of Mermaid’s Cove glowed with the soft orange hue of the afternoon sun.
Mira walked at a leisurely pace, her wicker basket tucked against her hip, filled with herbs, linen, and a paper-wrapped packet of cinnamon buns still warm from the café.
Children darted past her with wooden swords, laughing and shrieking. A fruit vendor called out across the square. The scent of sea salt and fresh bread mingled in the breeze.
It should have been an ordinary afternoon.
Mira slowed. She took a moment to enjoy the peacefulness.
It’s still a wonderful day, despite the morning incident, she thought.
That was when she suddenly felt it. A stir in the air.
She turned her head slightly—not enough to draw attention, but just enough to listen.
There. The sound of metal.
Distant, faint—but unmistakable.
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A blade meeting another.
Then again.
Clang.
Not practice. Not friendly. A real fight.
Mira’s fingers tightened around the handle of her basket.
A heartbeat later, she felt it—through the soles of her boots, in the pit of her stomach. The pulse of mana. Controlled, sharp, coiled like a trap ready to spring.
And then a surge of something else—bloodlust.
Mira’s breath caught.
She glanced down the street. A pair of old men argued about oysters. A girl hummed a lullaby to her baby brother.
These innocent people remained unaware—that something so dangerous was just around the corner.
It’s close. Too close.
She didn’t hesitate.
She turned, stepped off the main road, and began walking—briskly—toward the source.
Her senses sharpened with every stride. The cobbles gave way to cracked stones. The houses thinned. Shadows deepened.
Then—the scent hit her.
The scent of blood.
She reached the mouth of a narrow alley—
And saw him.
Cassian.
Breathing hard. Bleeding. Holding his ground against six cloaked figures—but barely.
Mira’s eyes narrowed.
She dropped the basket.
And the temperature dropped rapidly around her...
Back at the alley...
Cassian gritted his teeth, dragging in a breath that rattled through cracked ribs.
His blades were heavy now. Slower.
His arms screamed with each parry, and blood trickled down his side where one of them had landed a clean cut.
There were just too many of them.
The Crimson Crow didn’t fight like thugs. They didn’t even fight like soldiers.
Every move was trained. Measured. Elegant and merciless.
They didn’t waste steps. They didn’t show off. They came to kill.
And they were doing it well.
“You’re good,” came the voice of the branded one—their leader, probably. He was circling now, eyes gleaming in the shadows. “Better than most. I almost regret the order.”
Cassian coughed, spat blood to the side, and adjusted his stance.
“Then don’t follow it.”
The man chuckled.
“Oh, it’s not that kind of job.”
Another slash came—Cassian barely blocked it. The shock of it rattled down his spine.
He spun and kicked, catching one off-balance, but the next instant he felt a sting at his back.
A deep cut made one of his blades slip from his fingers, clattering to the stone.
No. He couldn’t go down now. Not without warning the others. Not with the Crimson Crow this close to the prince.
A foot swept his legs.
He fell, hard. His vision swam.
A dagger glinted above him.
The branded assassin stood over him, mask half-pulled, revealing a face too calm for what came next.
“This is the end, old timer,” the man murmured, voice low and almost pitying. “You shouldn't stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Cassian’s breath came ragged. His back ached from the fall, his vision pulsed at the edges.
Old timer? he thought, teeth gritted. Guess this is who I am now, huh?
His eyes flicked to the blade above him.
So this is it. No grand last stand. No clever escape. Just a footnote in someone else's job.
He braced himself.
It’s been a pleasure serving you, my prince.
He closed his eyes as the dagger arced down—
But the pain never came.
Because the blade had stopped—mid-air.
Frozen.
Literally.
What…? Cassian blinked as a fine mist danced around the assassin’s arm. The air crackled. The temperature dropped sharply.
And then the frost came.
It started at the wrist—thin, delicate. Then, in the span of a heartbeat, it raced along the limb, encasing it in a sheath of ice.
The assassin tried to pull back, but the cold was faster. The frost surged up his shoulder, across his chest, down his legs.
In seconds, he was encased in a block of jagged, white-blue crystal.
Cassian could see the assassin’s eyes still darting wildly beneath the ice, his mouth twitching faintly as if he were still trying to speak.
He was alive. Just locked in place. Like a specimen on display.
Cassian’s breath caught in his throat.
Then he felt it—the shift in the air. Cold. Dense. Radiating power.
He turned his head, slowly.
And heard the soft crunch of footsteps over frost.
Mira stood there. Mana glowing in her eyes, hand raised—and the air changed.
Like a winter wind had swept through the narrow alley.
Her voice came slow and steady. “Step away from him.”
She had no weapon at her side. No armor. Just her hem fluttering in the wind and her hair catching faint glimmers of sunlight.
Her hands were bare, her posture relaxed—almost gentle.
But the magic thrumming around her was anything but.
One of the assassins snapped out of his shock and lunged toward her, blades flashing.
Mira didn’t flinch.
She raised her right hand.
A thin ring of sigils spun into existence—glowing white. And with a snap of her fingers, a column of shimmering force burst upward beneath the attacker, hurling him into the air and slamming him into the opposite wall.
He didn’t get up.
Another charged her from the side, faster, smarter.
Mira didn’t look at him.
She whispered something under her breath.
The air folded inward—just for an instant—and the attacker froze mid-swing, then exploded backward, as if struck by a gale.
His body tumbled across the alley, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Cassian could only watch, in awe.
He’d seen mages cast. He’d seen them chant, gesture, draw runes in long seconds of preparation.
But Mira didn’t chant.
She didn’t have to.
She raised her left hand—and the alley bloomed with crystal spears, erupting from the ground in a rising arc, forcing the remaining two assassins to leap back.
But the ice chased them, branches curling like vines, jagged and beautiful.
One got his footing and tried to throw a dagger—only for his arm to go stiff, then blue, then encased in rime up to his shoulder.
“What the hell—” His scream cut short as he froze solid, eyes wide in disbelief.
Only one remained now. The last assassin backed away, eyes wild behind his mask, breath fogging in the cold.
“It’s very hard for me to control my spells without my gloves on,” Mira said, gaze locked on the last man. “Yield now, before you get yourself killed.”
The assassin turned to run.
He got two steps before the ground beneath him froze solid, his boots slipping—
And a shockwave of force slammed down from above, pinning him to the cobblestones with a burst of wind and pressure.
Not enough to kill. But just enough to break.
Cassian stared at her from where he lay on the ground, blood in his mouth, heart still hammering.
Mira didn’t speak. She just stepped forward and held out a hand.
A warm glow surrounded him—a soft healing spell, gentle and efficient.
“You okay?” she asked softly, her voice cutting through the lingering stillness like sunlight after a storm.
Cassian swallowed. “I… am now.”
He looked around at the ruins of the alley. Frost clinging to every brick. Five assassins down. One still groaning.
And Mira d’Ark, the girl Mermaid’s Cove called a saintess, standing over them like a goddess herself had taken her side.
“…I think I’m starting to understand why they call you the Saintess of the South,” he muttered.
Mira blinked. "They’re just flattering me."
Then offered the faintest smile. “Who are these people, Sir Cassian?”
“Assassins. From an old, evil guild.” He pushed himself up. “We need to warn the prince.”
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