Dusk has come and gone, the night has gotten on. It must be close to midnight. Most of the working class is in bed, most of them sleeping, but here in the city-state of Zayir, the rich are always active. The catacombs and arenas and hidden tunnels beneath the palace are always surging with pleasure-seekers, pulsing like the heart of a living thing. Money changes hands, lust is kindled, then drowned in sin. Lives are created and extinguished, fates are bought and sold. Secrets are stolen, bargains made, promises broken, plans laid. Here, there is truly no rest for the wicked.
Outside the palace, life is colder, more meager. Fear and ambition and hatred are the soul's daily fare. Markets thrive during the day, fed by trade along major highways and a shipping route up and down the river, and magic and mercenaries can be found for barter down every street, but there is always some subtle reminder that none of this would exist but for the need for pretense, some respectable cover story readily available to those who have some reason to come, some sinful hunger to satiate, or desperate offer to make.
Tonight, in a second-story bedroom in the docks district, over a dry-goods warehouse, a merchant sits awake, Momir by name. His legs are crossed, his hands wrapped around the handle of a short sword, white knuckles betraying the fear that grips his heart even more firmly. His eyelids are heavy, but he dares not close them for he knows if he does, he will not see sunrise.
He hates the trips to Zayir. He does not come to visit the underworld below the palace, like many men do. The slave markets and the coliseums where the gladiators fight naked disturb him. The money is here though. Relics and curios flow from here through traders like himself across the face of the civilized, and the import profits here are unparalleled, though the tariffs nearly make up the difference. Regardless, he had never wanted any part of the unsavory laws of this city. He wishes now that he had become more familiar with their workings.
Two days prior he had been approached by a wretched waif, thin and caked with mud, desperation in her eyes as she tried to sell herself to him. Disgust warred with pity, for what wretch in this place was so poor-off that she tried to make a living as an unlicensed prostitute? Doubtless she had some terminal disease that was more trouble to cure than her body was worth. He had shaken off her advances a tad roughly, but was unable to turn her away. In his unthinking compassion he offered her shelter. This morning, he had woken to find her masticated frame sprawled carelessly in the corner of the tiny room beside his. The flesh had been flayed from her bones, and if he had any doubt before, the broad strokes in the pooled blood, like long licks across the floorboards, had banished any doubt. Widows. Momir and his impromptu charity case had been reported for unlicensed flesh trafficking, and were marked for the Widows. They would come for him tonight. He knew they were coming because they wanted him to know, it was known that they liked the taste of fear.
He glanced out the window to find the moons, seeing little Naima high above the horizon, nearly out of sight. The night was wearing on. Soon they would be here. He knew his chances of fighting off a Widow with a sword were slim, and if he survived, his only chance in the morning would be to take a horse at the break of dawn and ride as fast as possible for the Oranama Sea, where the salt water would wash away his trail. He glanced back to the door, but his eye caught something and his gaze flicked back to the darkest corner, far from his candle. There, slinking in the shadow, was a form. His heart thundered in his ears, and his breath caught in his throat. She stepped from the shadow, eyes locked on his chest. He thought briefly that she didn't look so dangerous after all, but his common sense reminded him that only a handful of men had ever escaped a Widow's mark.
She was naked from head to toe and unconcerned, comfortable in her skin. She bore a passing resemblance to a human woman, or perhaps to an elf. Of medium height, her shoulders were slight and her face sharp and angular. Her mouth was unnaturally wide, and her eyes were a crystal blue. Her bare breasts were small, and darker blue stripes like claw scars wrapped around her torso towards her navel should be. Her hips were wide, and swayed as she walked, and her feet held only three toes. Long fingers ended in wickedly pointed fingernails. As a predatory grin spread across her face he saw that her teeth were triangular and serrated, like the shark jaws that jaded sea traders often had mounted in their staterooms.
He gasped suddenly, his body reminding him to breathe, and he scrambled off the bed into the far corner, striking what he imagined to be a passable swordsman's pose, brandishing his blade before him menacingly.
The Widow smirked, and bent over the bed, gathering the blankets at the center and pulling them free. She stepped onto the cot and panic flooded his mind as he realized what her plan was. He froze for a moment, then made a desperate lunge, but she saw him coming and hurled the blanket over him, blinding his eyes and tangling his limbs. He stumbled and caught himself, only to collapse with a cry as wicked claws slashed at the back of his ankle. He collapsed as blood welled instantly in the wound, and his mind was gripped by the imminence of death. A sharp impact knocked his sword free of his grip, and more blows drove him back into the corner, where he felt the blanket pulled roughly away from him. The widow stood over him, grinning as she tossed the blanket, sword inside, into a far corner. He stared up into her clear blue eyes, wide with hunger, and was gripped by the senseless panic-driven frenzy of a cornered animal. His hand lashed out and clamped around her throat, the fingers of his other hand reaching to claw desperately at her face, when he saw her suddenly pause, and go stiff. Her expression changed instantly from one of predatory hunger to one of uncertainty and anticipation.
