The thing about resolve is that everyone pretends it’s this noble, shining thing.
They paint it on statues, carve it into poems, talk about it like it’s the golden core of a man. Bullshit. Resolve isn’t gold, it isn’t noble, it isn’t anything glamorous.
Resolve is nothing but a stubborn, piss-soaked mutt that digs its teeth into your ankle and refuses to let go no matter how much you scream.
And in that moment—my heart sprinting, my breath shallow, my hands trembling against the cold iron of the shotgun—I realized resolve wasn’t lifting me up. It was dragging me forward, snarling, biting, refusing to let me stay safely in the shadows like the coward I so desperately wanted to be.
So forward I went.
Skirting the chaos at the edges of the courtyard, boots whispering against the cobbles, my skirt swishing just enough to remind me that yes, I was still indecently dressed for the apocalypse.
Around me the air ran wild, every direction filled with the shuffle of prisoners, the bark of the escorts, the sick crunch of bones being punished for daring to resist.
And there he was.
A guard, not one of the armored monsters but one of the trembling ones, the kind who’d drawn the short straw and was now clutching his lantern like a holy relic. He shook so badly the light quivered in his hand, casting frantic shadows across the wall as if even the fire itself was terrified of what stalked this place.
I don’t know what gave me away first—the weight of my boots, the way the shotgun gleamed as I lifted it, or just the cosmic joke that is my entire existence—but he stiffened.
His back went rigid, his shoulders jerked, and I swear I saw the little hairs on his neck bristle. Then, as the cool press of the shotgun’s barrels touched the back of his skull, he froze solid. Good. Fear always makes better conversation than reason.
"Don’t twitch," I hissed, low and tight, the words buzzing against his ear. "Not even once. You twitch, you piss yourself, you sneeze—hells, you even think too loud—and I’ll paint the walls with what little brain you’ve got in there."
His finger flinched on the lantern’s handle, and I pressed the barrels harder against his head. "That counts as a twitch."
The poor bastard made a noise. Not a word, not a cry. Just a whimper. A wet, pitiful sound that immediately carved itself into the comedy club in my skull.
"Please," he stammered, voice shaking. "What...what do you want?"
"Now that’s the right question." I grinned, unseen in the dark, enjoying the way his back quivered. "First? Slowly, very slowly, drop the lantern. No sudden moves. Let it kiss the floor like it’s your lover’s hand."
He obeyed. To his credit, he didn’t clatter it. He bent at the knees, careful as a maiden balancing a jug, and set the lantern down on the cobblestones with only the softest click of glass against stone. I rewarded him with a pat on the shoulder. "Good boy."
He whimpered again. Saints, I nearly lost it right there. But there wasn’t time for jokes. So instead, I stepped in closer, looped an arm around his neck, and gave him one sharp, efficient chop to the side.
His body jerked, then wilted like a puppet with its strings cut. I caught him before he hit the ground, grunting at the unexpected weight, then lowered him onto the cobbles with all the delicacy of a lover tucking someone into bed after a long, sweaty night.
"Sleep tight," I whispered, brushing nonexistent hair from his forehead before slinging the shotgun over my shoulder and snagging the lantern from the floor.
From then I peeked around the nearest building, just enough to glance at the chaos.
Saints above, the sight nearly made me gag. The escorts were still at their grim work, dragging prisoners, ripping away hoods, knives flashing like silver vipers. Anyone who resisted—even flinched—earned themselves a blade between the ribs, their bodies collapsing in twitching heaps on the stones.
And Freya...oh, Freya.
She was still pinned flat on the ground, her chest heaving, her cloak and shirt beneath torn clean open to bare the curve of her breasts to the courtyard’s greedy eyes. Her face burned with fury, but her breath came ragged, frantic, the twitch of her ribs betraying the strain.
My stomach lurched, anger clawing up my throat. But I couldn’t move yet. Not until I had an opening.
So I did the only thing my reckless, horny, suicidal brain could think of. I hefted the lantern in my hand, whispered a silent apology to whichever god owned fire, and hurled it.
The lantern spun through the air, glass flashing, flame trailing like a comet. Then—crash! It smashed into a wooden stall to my right, and in an instant the dry timber caught. Fire roared upward, hot and hungry, spilling orange light across the courtyard in a sudden, furious blaze.
The effect was immediate.
Each escort froze in unison, their movements suspended. Then, like a pack of dogs, they turned as one, their faceless masks catching the firelight as they assessed the flames. I saw the silent exchange in their gestures, the sharp nods, and then—all four darted toward the blaze.
That was my cue.
I bolted. Legs pumping, skirt flaring, shotgun bouncing on my back. I tore across the cobblestones, straight toward Freya, whose eyes snapped toward me in disbelief. Her lips parted—maybe for a curse, maybe for my name—but I didn’t wait. I dropped to one knee, hooked an arm under hers, and yanked her upright.
"On your feet, sunshine," I panted, her sweat-slick body heavy against mine. "Time for a jog."
"Loona..." she gasped, still catching her breath.
"Yes, darling?"
"You’re insane."
I grinned, half-mad. "Takes one to know one. Now run!"
Together we dashed, her shirt hanging in tatters, her chest still heaving, her fury blazing hotter than the flames behind us.
We found the others—Brutus, Atticus, and Dregan—already huddled by the courtyard gate, and without a word we bolted into the massive hall beyond, our footsteps hammering against the stone like war drums.
That was when I heard it.
Two screams. Not human. Not mortal. Deep, guttural, inhuman bellows that ricocheted off the walls and clawed their way into my spine. I risked a glance back. Two of the Warden’s escorts had broken from the fire, their forms surging with unnatural speed, their knives gleaming like wicked promises.
"Go!" I shouted, shoving Freya forward. "All of you, go! I’ll hold them."
Brutus’s head whipped around, eyes wide. "You’ll what?!"
"Trust me!" I yelled, skidding to a stop. "For once in your miserable lives, trust me!"
Freya cursed, but Brutus grabbed her arm and pulled her along. Atticus hesitated—his lips moving as though ready to protest—but Dregan gave me a mad little salute before hobbling after the others.
And just like that, I was alone.
The two escorts closed in, their boots silent against the stone, their knives glinting. Masks hid their faces, but I didn’t need to see their expressions. I could feel their hunger, their fury, their intent.
I exhaled, rolling my shoulders, shotgun slung behind me. No tricks yet. No vanishing. Just me. My fists. My body. And a promise I’d once made to myself: that I’d never die quietly.
They struck first.
One lunged from the left, knife arcing downward in a wicked slash meant to gut me. The other flanked from the right, blade poised for a killing thrust. They moved like wolves, practiced, perfect, their timing so tight it was terrifying.
I stepped into the first. My fist snapped up, catching his wrist mid-swing. With a twist, I wrenched the knife free, the blade clattering across the floor.
He snarled—or maybe it was the mask creaking—but before he could react, I drove my knee into his gut. Hard. The breath whooshed out of him, a sound muffled by his mask, and I shoved him sideways.
But the second one was faster. His knife lunged for my ribs.
I pivoted, just barely, the blade scraping across my blouse with a hiss. Close. Too close. My elbow lashed backward, catching him in the jaw. His head snapped, his knife slipping, and I lunged, snapping a kick toward his wrist, holding back a snicker as the weapon tumbled free.
For a heartbeat, I stood there. Two knives on the ground. Two masked escorts circling me, their eyes invisible but their fury palpable. My fists clenched and heart laughed at me for thinking I could keep this up.
And then—it happened.
One of them feinted left, then darted in right, catching me off guard. His arms locked around me from behind, iron tight, crushing my ribs. I gasped, squirming, my boots kicking against the stone.
And as I struggled, the other escort swooped down, snatched his fallen knife, and charged straight at me, blade flashing toward my heart.
It was time.
I clenched my teeth, tasting copper, feeling that phantom beat well up inside of me like a drunken sailor clinging to a mast in a storm. One. Two. Three. My body coiled and my lungs burned.
Four. Five. Six. The bastard’s arms crushed my ribs tighter, his grip like iron, his mask pressed into the back of my neck.
Seven. His buddy’s knife gleamed inches from my chest, the point trembling with hungry promise.
Eight. My elbow snapped back, hard, sinking into his gut with a satisfying crunch that stole his breath and loosened his arms.
Nine. I tore free, gasping.
Ten—I was gone.
The world cracked apart, mist swallowing me whole, my vision tearing into double frames of shadow and echo. The second escort’s charge faltered instantly, his knife stabbing through the empty air where my chest had been.
Confusion rippled across his shadowy figure as I slipped behind him, the shotgun already unslung, heavy and righteous in my hands.
The phantom beat surged through me, guiding the motion. I spun on my heel, barrels raised, planting cold iron against the back of his fog-shrouded skull.
For a single breath, I let him exist in his confusion, the ghostly question mark hovering above his masked head. Then reality snapped back, dragging me with it.
Boom.
The sound wasn’t a shot, it was an executioner’s drum. The shotgun roared, the recoil slamming into my shoulder like a hammer, but I didn’t falter.
The escort’s head erupted forward, a spray of blood and shattered bone painting the stones in a grotesque fountain. His body toppled like a sack of meat dropped from a butcher’s hook, the knife clattering from his lifeless hand.
The acrid stink of gunpowder mixed with blood clawed at my throat, and yet—I smiled. Saints above, I smiled.
The second escort froze where he stood. Just froze. He had been a machine, a blade in motion, and now he was a child again—staring at me with horror so palpable I could taste it.
He staggered back a step, then another. Then he ran, turned on his heel and began sprinting back toward the plaza.
"Oh no, sweetheart," I muttered, voice low and cruel as I slung the empty shotgun back across my shoulder. "We don’t do curtain calls."
My eyes darted to the ground, to the glint of steel lying abandoned. The dead man’s knife. I snatched it up, felt the weight balance in my hand and, in a single smooth motion, hurled it forward. My wrist snapped, my arm followed, and the dagger spun through the air with lethal grace.
Thunk.
The blade sank into his back, right between the shoulders. He screamed—a high, ragged sound that cracked into silence as his body pitched forward. He slammed into the stone face-first, his limbs twitching as blood began to seep dark and wide around him.
I was on him in an instant.
I skidded down beside him, grabbed the hilt of the knife, and yanked it free. He groaned, his body twisting, and I rolled him onto his back with a grunt. His mask slipped loose as he turned, clattering away to reveal the nightmare beneath.
Gods.
His face was a ruin. Mangled, burned, twisted as if the flesh had melted and been stitched back together by someone blind and cruel.
Skin bubbled like wax, one eye milky, the other glaring at me with rabid fire. His lips curled back, revealing teeth blackened at the roots. The sight hit me like a slap, not with pity but unease. This wasn’t just a man—it was something half-destroyed, a warning carved into flesh.
He snarled at me, spittle flying. "If you kill me...you damn yourself. Such an act is an unforgivable sin. The High Warden will mark you. Hunt you. Tear you limb from limb. You’ll be nothing but meat for the crows."
I tilted my head, cocking the knife in my hand, letting the blood drip down to stain my wrist. "An unforgivable sin, you say? Darling, you make it sound so romantic." I leaned in closer, my grin sharp and filthy. "Invite the bastard to dinner. I’ll even wear my good skirt."
His face twisted, rage boiling over—but then, suddenly, his eyes widened.
Not with fury, not with pain, but with recognition. They flicked over me, up and down, taking in my ragged blouse clinging to sweat, the sharp lines of my cheekbones, the little fang glinting in the corner of my smirk.
And then he whispered, broken, trembling: "W-wait...you’re him, aren’t you?"
For a heartbeat, I blinked. Him? I almost asked what the fuck he was talking about. But then—oh, then—my lips curled into a smile that could’ve curdled milk. "Yes," I whispered, savoring the word. "Yes, I am."
The realization shattered him. His milky eye rolled, the other locked wide, and then he laughed. Not sane laughter. Not joyous. But dazed, broken laughter spilling out like blood. He chuckled, wheezed, cackled, his chest shuddering as if the truth of me was the last joke in a cruel world.
I didn’t let him finish.
The dagger sang once more as I dragged it across his throat, quick and clean.
His laughter cut off mid-gasp, replaced by a wet, choking gurgle as blood fountained from the gash. He clawed at the wound, fingers slick, eyes rolling, but there was no stopping it. No saving himself.
His body writhed, then stilled, drowning in the crimson pool that spread beneath him.