So you’re intrigued… Here is the first chapter of SHEATHED, releasing this October.

Chapter 1 – Six Fingers

Serina
The night shrouds me in shadows as I leave the unlit mansion, my heavy cloak covering the bloody daggers at my sides. The pavements blur beneath my feet as I walk briskly in the direction of the White Panther Club—home—without sparing a backwards glance to the grand house where a man lay bleeding. 

Despite the gory scene I’d left behind, my footsteps are light and I feel no remorse walking through the empty streets. I know exactly how the next few days will go. The man’s wife will wake to find his throat slit, she will scream, as will the servants, and by mid-morning, everyone in our city, Ipathev, will have heard of another sycophant’s death. Everyone will wonder and theorise, realise that it was once again someone against the Valrenes or their allies, but no one will say a word, all too happy to turn a blind eye. It is always the same. 

The night is bone-chilling and I shudder, drawing myself deeper into the folds of my cloak. Ipathev rises around me, the silhouettes of buildings and half-crumbling walls like sleeping monsters. In the pale moonlight, I can’t make out the ruins of the temple our city is built on. Only broken walls and scattered memories remain of a place that once was a goddess’ home.

My thoughts meander to the old folktales my mother used to tell me about the water goddess that had once resided in the temple. The goddess Vannien’s power had thrummed in the river flowing through the temple, drawing people close to her. But when the people grew too greedy, and the Valrene family discovered how to harness the goddess’ power without her, it wasn’t long before Vannien was forced out of her city. The temple quickly fell into ruin, and the Valrenes rose in power and influence, their company eventually monopolising the entire energy industry, until there was no other option to power the country. They quickly made themselves into the god the city had forgotten, rising high and being worshipped by all. There is no need for faith in a deity, when faith in man has proven to be more reliable.

Inwardly, I scoff. The power the Valrenes have created for themselves is sickening. Ipathev has become their playground, every business paying into their pocket.

I cross a stone bridge over the river and spy the White Panther Club ahead of me. It is a terrifying building, even more so in the darkness, spanning a length of at least three houses and three floors high. Large, frosted over windows look into the Club, and a few lights still burn blue with the tell-tale sign of Valrene power.

In the middle of the building, the Club’s insignia rises like a scar—a roaring white panther, its sharp teeth unmissable. I glare up at it, and flash my identification card to the guards at the front, stepping into the cosy, wood-filled entrance hall. This late at night, the Club is empty and quiet, its warmth perfectly shielding its true purpose.

Known to everyone in Ipathev as a school for training the local authorities and other armed forces beneficial to the far-off, detached Senate, there are only a handful who know the true darkness rotting within the oak walls. We are a school and place of employment for assassins and spies, working at the mercy of our king, White Claw—and funded by the Valrenes. As though their energy monopolisation wasn’t enough to fund their lives of luxury, they had to invest in assassins.

In the safety of my own home, I roll my shoulders and let exhaustion slump over me. My body seems to tingle in anticipation of my bed and it doesn’t take me long to bounce up two flights of stairs and the hidden, rickety staircase leading to the attic.

The muffled melody of a piano floats down to me, and my chest lightens. A simple door opens into a large attic, as familiar as my own face. Despite the late hour, the room is wide awake, with candles sputtering and flickering on the windowsill, and a large table in the middle of the room. Five faces look up, the music stopping. A tension that has never belonged there stifles me.

My back tenses, defences returning even here. “What’s going on?” I say slowly, hanging my cloak on a stand. I subtly tap my trouser pockets where I can feel the familiar shape of my dagger, still bloodied.

The tallest and burliest girl, Sasha, lifts her eyes to me from her seat on the windowsill. The candles cast moving shadows on her face, creating mountains and valleys out of her features; her crooked nose even more warped; the broad forehead hiding her steel-grey eyes beneath thick eyebrows. She stares at me intently, and even though I have known her for the better part of ten years, she terrifies me. I see the monster that White Claw loves Sasha for.

“White Claw has given us a new member,” she says. The tension crackles like sparks of fire and I sweep my eyes over the girls with whom I share a home and a heart with. Only one face is unrecognisable.

She sits in a chair by the table, curled into herself, hands held demurely in her lap. There is a mouse-like shyness about her, but she meets my gaze with a terrified bravery.

“Francesca Dol-Baehr,” a voice murmurs. I glance over at Anahid, sat opposite the newcomer and darning a cloak, though her focus darts between the girl and me. Her usually bound, black hair falls like ink past her shoulders, her beige skin glowing like molten bronze in the luminosity of the candles.

I look at Francesca again.

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

My heart sinks in my chest. All of us, bar Saya, quietly plucking a tense melody at the piano, have been working for White Claw for at least a decade. No member has ever joined the Hand and been younger than fifteen. And yet, here she sits. I roll my tongue in my mouth, biting back angry words—not at her, but the system White Claw has created.

“Take that bed,” I say, pointing to a single iron bed by a wall. Three other double beds have been pushed together not far off, with the one left for illnesses; and those I don’t yet trust. “We’ll discuss your place in the morning.”

Without a word, Francesca moves. I spy a cardboard box on the floor, presumably full of her things. I don’t see much past the thick tome of Belnard fairytales at the top of the pile. The iron springs creak as she climbs into the bed and wraps the duvet over herself.

I step further into the room, and motion to Saya, a small-boned girl with nimble fingers, to play louder. She plucks the yellowed keys of the grand piano, enveloping us in a small space to talk without Francesca overhearing. Sasha, Anahid and the final member of the Hand, Zenny, join me by the piano.

“White Claw didn’t say much when he dropped her off,” Zenny explains. Her black eyes look down on me from thick lashes. Zenny is almost the tallest of us all, falling short of Sasha by a few centimetres, but where Sasha is a mountain, all stone and ice, Zenny is fluid like water. Her long limbs are crossed elegantly across her chest, fingers stained with paint.

“Are we going to keep her?” Anahid asks, as though Francesca was nothing more than a stray puppy.

“She’s safer with us than she would be in the school with White Claw. At least here we can protect her a bit better,” I say. I rub my face tiredly, breathing out deeply. The night seems to carve into my skin. “I’ll talk to White Claw in the morning. Hopefully without getting my head bitten off.” I stretch, ready for bed. “Let’s figure it out then.”

The Hand nod, and peel off. I watch Saya finish her melody and stay by the instrument as she walks away. She pats Francesca’s shoulder, the most comfort the mute girl will show, before slipping into her space on our large, shared bed. Just as I turn to follow her, a hand grips my elbow. Sasha leans in, dropping her voice to a whisper I can barely here.

“We can’t keep her,” she says. Her eyes flicker between mine. “She’s thirteen for Vannien’s sake, tell White Claw to—”

“I’m not going to tell him anything. Besides, she’s here now. Maybe under our protection we can keep her away from missions, but… She’s our responsibility now.”

“Ours, or yours?” She whispers and heads towards the other assassins, already curled up under our blankets. I blow out the candles one by one, and with the last light, all warmth disappears, the Ipathevian winter settling in our room.