A woman’s panicked, pleading voice floated in the air. It died in a whimper with the echoing sound of a hand striking flesh. Laughter, vile and expectant, followed.

  With silent steps, Risens skirted the edge of the current building before bounding across to the next. Darting across another pair of rooftops, he froze as he reached the corner.

  In the alley below, he found the source of the disturbance. Beneath the Shadows Shroud, he felt his lips curl into a snarl as he witnessed the depravity on display. A single woman stood her ground against five men who surrounded her. A hand-shaped welt on her face stood out against her light skin. She spun in a futile circle, desperation fueling her hopes for escape. He knew her chances were non-existent. These men were not there for coin, but pleasure.

  In a coordinated effort, one of her attackers feigned a lunge forward, causing her to jump back. The man behind her responded in turn, grabbing her and pinning her arms to her side. The move was planned, practiced, and executed with meticulous attention to detail. Risens’ stomach churned. A second vicious blow registered, this time across the opposite side of the woman’s face, strong enough to shift the stance of his companion securing her.

  Their excitement seemed to only be encouraged by her pleas for release. For mercy.

  “Shut it,” the booming voice of the man who had struck her echoed through the clogged filth of the alley.

  “It seems you’ve failed to pay in time again, miss,” a second said. The slimy, sinuous quality of his tone sparked a recollection in Risens’ mind.

  “I owe you nothing,” she retorted. Her voice was laced with an unexpected measure of strength. He was impressed. “My rent has been paid. I’ve never missed …”

  This time, she was stopped by a hammering blow to her stomach that doubled her over at the waist. A knife sprouted in the hand of the largest of the group, the one who’d struck her silent.

  “Not mine,” he growled as he lowered the point of the blade from her throat to her chest.

  “You see you’ve neglected the tax for far too long,” the other speaker—the smaller of the two—continued. He grunted as he smiled a gap-toothed, wicked grin. “Dorchette is merciful, yet even he has his limits for repeat offenders.”

  There it was. The memory he’d been missing. The name struck a chord. As the King’s Rightmaker, Risens knew most—if not all—of the criminal element in the city. Though many bore the titles of nobility, they were one and the same.

  The gang in the alley, rapists, murderers, and thieves, followed the peculiar instructions of a man known only as Dorchette—the hulking brute, now carving holes in the terrified woman’s blouse, leering at every measure of exposed skin. The mouthpiece of the organization, Vinch, was rumored to be his twin, though in appearance, they couldn’t be more different. One inherited the brawn, while the other the brains, though both had a ruthless penchant for violence.

  The woman, continuing to impress Risens with her resistance, spat a wad of bloody phlegm into Dorchette’s face. The admirable defiance earned her a swift, revolting beating.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, miss,” Vinch grinned between the blows that he leveled on her body. His companion then tossed the woman, bloodied and bruised, into a stack of aged wooden crates along the edge of the alley. She struck hard, cracking through the rotted wood with a weakened cry of pain. Like a pack of wolves swarming their prey, Dorchette, Vinch, and his willing henchman fell upon the woman, tearing at her clothing, ripping off her top, and wrapping the torn fabric over her head. He was surprised to see the hints of a Brand on her naked chest.

  The Brand of the Courtesan. It was faded, though not from makeup, but from disuse.

  “What’ ave we here?” Vinch sneered. “This is a profession for her. She’ll enjoy this as much as we will.”

  “Please, no,” she whimpered. “It was a long time ago. A different life. I beg you.”

  Risens knew her cries would fall on deaf ears; her entreaties only served to entice them more.

  “Once a whore, always a whore.” Vinch cackled to the merriment of all.

  Her screams were brought to an abrupt end as Dorchette squeezed his hand around her throat.

  “Keep squirming,” he growled.

  Risens had seen enough.

  Courtesan or not, none deserved this. He was a killer, the King’s killer, not a monster.

  It didn’t even matter that his face was disguised behind the Shadows Shroud. None of Dorchette’s gang would survive.

  She would not recognize him by sight.

  A few steps brought him to the edge of the roof. From his perch two stories above them, the leap from here would cause him far more harm than good. Thankfully, several sturdy ropes—used to dry the laundry of the tenants within—stretched across the gaps. Slipping silently from the roof to the nearest windowsill, he grabbed the line, wrapping it firmly around his forearm and fist. In a single fluid motion, he slashed his blade through the rope while leaping off the edge of the sill.

  The line snapped taut as Risens reached the zenith of the arc. He gritted his teeth as the rough cord bit into his arm, squeezing as it bore the full strain of his weight. With the force of his weight and motion behind him, he careened feet-first into the back of the closest thug. The henchman let out a pitiful whimper as his head snapped back. Body, tossed like a rag doll, careened into Vinch. The pair barreled into the crates to their victim’s side, the soggy wood collapsing under their combined weight.

  Risens jerked his arm free from the rope as his momentum carried him through the blow. He landed gracefully, spare articles of clothing from the line raining down around him.

  “Five against one is hardly fair odds,” he hissed.

  One of Dorchette’s two remaining henchmen, cobbling together the scraps of their courage, charged his position. A swift stab to one’s eye brought the man’s lifeless body down at Risens’ feet. Wrenching the dagger free, he flicked a splatter of blood back over the corpse.

  “Four,” he corrected.

  Dorchette seemed frozen in rage, his hulking form rippling with anger. His pants were down around his ankles, which was perhaps the only reason he had not yet taken personal action against Risens. He and his companions represented the lowest rung of Windwake’s seedy underworld. They were tough when the moment served them, when they exerted their will over those who had no means of victory, yet hadn’t given up the will to fight.

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  “Kill him.” Dorchette’s face turned bright red as he cursed. One pointed finger jabbed toward Risens, the other, seemingly caught in the throes of his deviant act, still tugged at the woman’s clothing.

  The sinister whispers of steel ripping from their sheaths filled the alley as Risens found himself engaged from both the front and rear. Vinch and the remaining soldier attacked with a terribly coordinated assault. They had the advantage of both positioning and numbers. However, they were unaware of whom they fought. The man who had taken the brunt of Risens’ initial aerial attack struggled mightily to stand, his wobbly legs failing as they refused to take weight.

  He finally rose, but an ill-performed lunge and a quick twist of his body brought his knife around in a too-wide arc, managing to catch the thin skin of Vinch’s neck.

  “Shit! I’m sorry, boss!”

  Vinch’s gasp of horror choked into a weak gurgle as he—caught up in his own rage—hammered his fist into his henchman’s throat.

  Amateurs.

  Nothing but bullies and thugs.

  Vinch dropped to his knees, feverishly clutching at his throat. His raspy gasps for breath turned to pitiful squeals as Risens rushed forward, darting past him and planting his blade into the back of the stumbling companion’s skull. His body buckled to the ruin of crates and refuse, never to rise again.

  Pulling his second blade, Risens leveled it ominously at Dorchette, who, pants still around his ankles, stood frozen like a perverse statue.

  “It seems that I’ve spoiled your fun, though I admit that was my intention,” Risens snarled as he glared at Dorchette. “Perhaps while you cover your pathetic excuse for manhood, your brother can give me the information I need.”

  Risens fell to one knee beside Vinch. The man’s eyes were wide and desperate, though, still sputtering for air, he emitted nothing but weak gurgles and blood.

  “Hm, seems like he’s lost his tongue,” Risens said.

  Grabbing Vinch’s head, he gave it a sharp jerk to the side before running his blade across the vile man’s neck. Vinch didn’t fall immediately. Risens stood and gave him a kick into the gutter. The rancid water ran crimson as the blood spurted from Vinch’s throat.

  “You shite-eating…” Dorchette failed to find words enough to express himself. “That was my brother!”

  He scrambled to reach for his daggers, blades that were still in their sheaths around his ankles.

  “I don’t have all day to wait for you.” Risens stalked toward the man. With him frantically reaching for his pants and his daggers, he had left himself open for an easy shot. Driving his knee upward, Risens heard the disturbing, yet satisfying crunch of Dorchette’s nose against his knee. With his opposite leg, he swept the feet out from under the man, grabbing him as he fell, directing his body to the ground beside his intended victim.

  The woman at his side was nearly half naked, her body trembling violently. Her exposed torso was battered and bruised. The Brand of her station—more aptly, previous station—light and faded, could just be made out.

  Streetwalker or not, no one deserved this.

  Anger swelled inside him as he turned his attention back on Dorchette. Without a concern for standards, he drove his knee into the vermin’s groin, while the other one pinned his right arm to the ground. The man howled in pain, anger, and frustration. The sensations, so rapid and swift, his mind struggled to keep up. Grabbing his other hand, Risens bent the thug’s pointer finger back at nearly an impossible angle.

  “I’m only going to tell you once, apologize to the lady, Dorchette,” Risens hissed.

  “Vinch,” he cried through the pain.

  His desperate call turned into a sob as his finger snapped.

  “Vinch can’t hear you now. He’s dead. Apologize.”

  “Bastard.”

  The crack of another finger overtook his pitiful whimpers.

  “You only have so many fingers, and I have no qualms about breaking them all if I must,” he stated plainly. “Apologize now.”

  He easily dodged the wad of spit that flew at his face, breaking two more fingers for the effort. He was tired of this.

  “Dorchette, I really don’t want to touch your toes. Apologize to this woman, and I will let you join your brother in Pylkev.”

  “Fuc—”

  “You know, I’ve always wondered, are you and Vinch twins?”

  The question caught Dorchette off guard. “Yes.” The word came out in a blood-blubbered sob of pain.

  “An honest answer for once,” Risens responded plainly. “Fitting you’ll join him in death as you did in birth.”

  Dorchette’s eyes went wide for an instant. He tried to form words.

  Risens turned to the young lady. “Would you care to do the honors? No? Fine. I hope this brings you a measure of satisfaction, at least.

  Still looking at the courtesan, Risens drove his blade through Dorchette’s temple. Then, prying the blade from the dead man’s skull, he cleaned the blood off on the man’s shirt before returning it to his sheath.

  He stood and surveyed the wreckage. Dorchette’s gangs lay motionless in pools of their own blood across the alley. He was talented at what he did, but this had been too easy. He never spent much time pondering the moral stature of his tasks. He killed for the King. He killed for the kingdom. These men, he had done not only for the courtesan, but for himself.

  He felt the peculiar wash of accomplishment pour over him.

  He was quick to note that none watched from any of the sporadic windows that lined the walls. He heard no sounds of alarm or shouts of support. He was well-versed enough in this to know that none would come to lend aid. Those curious to see the destruction and those looking for an easy coin would be the first to show, and men of such ilk knew better than to rush to the scene.

  Dorchette’s gang had left the woman battered and half naked, bruises and welts rising across her pale skin. She trembled uncontrollably, despite being in a state of shock.

  “You can cover yourself up; they will bother you no more.”

  As if the sudden understanding of the fateful moment finally hit her, she curled herself into a ball, pulling at the torn fabric they had used to constrain her arms and cover her face. She exploded into a violent series of sobs, each one of which involved the entirety of her body. Large swaths of her skin were still exposed through the wreckage of her blouse.

  Risens quickly surveyed his deadly work, moving to the body of one of Dorchette’s henchmen propped awkwardly in death among the broken crates. Mindful of the blood, he removed the man’s coat, finding it thankfully and surprisingly free of stain.

  “Here, put this on.” He spoke gently as he placed the garment down by her quivering body. Much of her face was disguised behind a fiery mass of wavy red hair. It was matted in places against her skin by the combination of tears and blood. The welts from Dorchette’s vicious slaps had deepened in color, now dark red as the bruising set in.

  Wiping tears and blood, her eyes grew as she noted the first of her attackers lying gored a few meters from her.

  “You’re safe now,” Risens said, tugging his cowl up and stepping back into the deeper shadows of the alley.

  He turned and watched for a moment until she sat up with a start. She crawled backward as fast as her feet could propel her over the blood-slick cobblestones. She balled the coat he’d given her against her chest, though there was no hiding all of the skin beneath.

  She was an attractive woman, lithe and fit. Her now wild hair seemed to burn with fire as she shifted through a stab of light that filtered into the alley. Her fight had impressed him. She’d stood her ground, even in the face of devastating odds. But it was her wide eyes that gave him pause. They were a deep hazel, shining with intelligence as realization dawned on her that she yet lived.

  They looked disturbingly familiar to him, though he couldn’t place them.

  “You would do well to leave this alley as soon as you can,” he whispered from the shadows. “It won’t be safe for long. Do you have somewhere to go? Somewhere close?”

  “Y-yes. Yes, I do,” she muttered in his direction.

  “Then go.”

  She scrambled to her feet. Her efforts to cover herself were weak. She scoured the darkness as if searching for some piece of recognition in her shadowed savior.

  “Thank you,” she said, moving closer. “Thank you.”

  Her voice… There was something about her voice that scratched at his mind. He’d heard it before—perhaps only in passing—yet couldn’t place it. A frighteningly small number of those he met survived, though he couldn’t place it. He shifted deeper into the darkness to further conceal his features.

  “I urge you, unless you wish to undo the effort spent to save your life, do not look at my face. Mine is an identity you are not to know if you wish to live.”

  Her expression shifted at his words. It wasn’t fear of the threat that ruled her features, but surprise. “You have no need to hide your identity from me,” she whispered. Unsteady on her feet, bruised and bleeding from the wounds that plagued her lithe form. She stepped toward him once more, foot splashing in the rising tide of blood that covered the dank cobbled alley.

  She had been only moments from torture and death before his arrival. Within a matter of breaths, her assailants had been massacred by the lone man who stood before her, yet she had no fear of him.

  “I know you, Rightmaker,” she whispered, taking another step toward the shadows.