High Heeled Revenge Pt. 02: Beginning

The ship cut through the waves like a blade through silk, its sails taut against the salt-laden wind. Damien stood motionless at the bow, his jet-black hair whipping behind him like a shadow's banner. His dark eyes remained fixed on the distant horizon where the jagged peaks of Kaelthar Keep would soon pierce the morning mist.

Behind him, Camila leaned against the weathered railing, her vibrant crimson hair catching the sunlight like embers as the wind played with loose strands escaping her braid.

"You're thinking too loudly," Damien said without turning, his hand resting on the ornate hilt of his sword.

Camila exhaled sharply through her nose - almost a laugh. "And you're listening too closely," she countered, tucking a lock behind her ear.

They made landfall at dusk in a nameless port just south of Veythar, where the sky bled violet and gold across the waterfront. The air hung thick with the tang of salt, fish, and wet timber - a welcome change from weeks at sea.

Damien adjusted his pack straps as they walked the creaking docks, his gaze scanning shadowed alleys between leaning buildings. "We'll stay the night," he said, voice low. "Ride out at dawn."

Camila nodded, though her fingers drifted to the dagger at her belt. "Still no word from Scarlett?"

His jaw tightened. "Nothing. We proceed as planned."

Her lips curled in a smirk that didn't reach her eyes. "How reassuring."

The port's narrow streets teemed with sailors and traders, lantern light flickering across cobblestones. They found a tavern near the docks, its sign so weathered the name had vanished long ago. Inside, smoke and ale hung heavy in the air, mingling with murmured conversations.

After securing two rooms, Damien pressed an iron key into Camila's palm. "Two nights. Then we ride for Veythar."

The room was small--arrow enough that bed took up most of the, with a lantern casting flickering light the wooden walls Damien barred the door behind them, the lock clicking into place with finality.

Camila sat on the edge of the bed, tugging free the leather tie that held her braid together. Crimson strands tumbled loose over her shoulders, catching the lantern's glow like molten copper. She met Damien's gaze, a challenge in her green eyes.

"You're staring," she said.

He exhaled through his nose and crossed the room in three strides, his hands finding her waist as he pulled her up against him. No words--just the sharp intake of her breath, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic.

They didn't need words.

Clothes were discarded with impatient hands--her dagger belt clattering to the floor, his sword propped carefully against the bedside. The mattress groaned beneath them as he pushed her back, his mouth hot against her throat, her collarbone, the curve of her breast. Camila arched into him with a quiet, bitten-off sound, her nails scoring down his back.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't meant to be.

The heat between them had always been like this--a clash of teeth and bruising fingers, a fight for dominance that neither truly won. Damien pinned her wrists above her head at one point, his breath ragged against her ear, and she laughed--low and breathless--before twisting free and rolling them over.

Afterward, they lay tangled in sweat-damp sheets, the lantern guttering. Camila traced idle patterns across his chest, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Damien's fingers combed through her hair, catching on the fiery strands.

Outside, the wind rattled the shutters. Somewhere in the tavern below, a drunkard began singing off-key.

Camila's breathing evened out first, her body going slack against his. Damien stayed awake a while longer, listening to the steady rhythm of her heart, his fingers still curled in her hair.

When sleep took him, it was with the scent of salt and copper lingering in the air.

Camila woke to the sound of boots outside--too many, moving with purpose. Her hand went to Damien's chest just as the door burst inward.

He was on his feet before she could blink, sword already drawn. Moonlight glinted along the steel as he moved with lethal grace.

The first attacker lunged--too slow. Damien's blade opened his throat in one clean arc. Blood sprayed black in the dim light as the man crumpled.

"Get out!" Damien snarled at her, just as the second man charged. Their swords met in a shower of sparks, Damien pivoting to avoid a dagger thrust from a third assailant.

Camila saw his boot hook behind the man's knee--saw him yank hard, sending the attacker crashing to the floor. A quick downward stab, and the body went still.

Then the crossbow bolt took him through the chest.

Damien staggered. Another bolt hissed through the air, this one burying itself in his gut. He swung wildly, keeping them back as blood soaked his shirt black.

"Go!" he choked out--his last command to her.

Camila ran.

Behind her, steel rang out one final time before the wet, crunching sound of a killing blow silenced it forever.

The killers didn't follow. They'd gotten what they came for.

The alley air smelled of rotting fish and wet stone. Camila pressed her back against the cold wall, fingers trembling against her thighs. Not from fear--never from fear--but from something worse. The hollow, sickening realization that the warmth still clinging to her clothes wasn't sweat.

Her breath came in ragged bursts, echoing too loud in the cramped space. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images burned behind her lids--Damien's sword flashing in the moonlight, the way his shoulders had jerked when the first bolt struck, how he'd looked at her in that last heartbeat before she ran. Not pleading. Not frightened. Just... resigned.

A sound escaped her throat--half snarl, half sob. She slammed her fist into the wall again, relishing the bright burst of pain. Better this than the other feeling, the one clawing up from her gut like a wild thing trying to tear its way out.

Morning light crept between the buildings, cruel in its cheerfulness. Somewhere nearby, a merchant called out prices for fresh bread. Life went on, stupid and oblivious.

Camila pushed off from the wall. Her legs held. Good.

The silence in the house was a living thing--thick, unnatural. Camila stepped over the threshold, her boots too loud against the spotless floor. Every muscle in her body was rigid, braced for something--a smell, a sound, some remnant of the violence that had happened here. But there was nothing. Only the sharp, astringent bite of cleaning agents, the kind used to scour butcher's blocks after slaughter.

She ran her fingers along the wall where the bloodstains should have been. Not even a shadow remained. They had scrubbed away every trace of him, as if he had never bled here, never fought, never died. The wrongness of it made her throat tighten.

Her gaze snagged on the hearth--the one place untouched by the frenzy of cleaning. A fine layer of dust coated the stone, save for one clear patch where the letter lay, pristine. Waiting for her.

The sight of her name in his handwriting hit like a fist to the ribs. That jagged slant of the C, the impatient cross through the t--she would know it anywhere. For a wild moment, she wanted to burn it unread. To let the flames take this last piece of him, because whatever was written there would change things. She already knew it would.

Instead, she reached for it. The paper was cool against her skin, but as she lifted it, she caught a whisper of scent--gunpowder and the faint, fading trace of the rosemary soap he'd always used.

Her hands shook.

Camila,

You saw them, didn't you? The men who carried out what I could not be bothered to do myself. I won't waste ink describing what you already know--the way they moved, the way he fell, the way you stood there, frozen, too weak to even scream. How does it feel knowing you watched it happen and did nothing?

I spared you not out of mercy, but because your suffering amuses me. Dead women don't grieve. Dead women don't wake up screaming his name in the dark. Dead women don't waste their lives chasing ghosts. But you? You're alive. And that means you get to spend every single day remembering the exact moment you realized you couldn't save him.

If you think yourself brave enough, come find me. Try to take your revenge. I'll be waiting--though I doubt you'll make it far. After all, you couldn't even protect him when it mattered. What makes you think you can hurt me now?

Run. Hide. Or come at me with everything you have left. It makes no difference to me. Your pain was the point, and in that, I've already won.

--S.

The road stretched empty before her, a pale scar across the landscape. Camila walked without hurry, without pause. The wind pulled at her clothes, carrying the dry scent of dust and distant rain.

She knew where this path led. Knew who waited at the end of it.

Scarlet would be ready. She always was. Camila could picture her now--leaning against some sun-bleached doorway, arms crossed, that same knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She'd have something clever to say, some sharp remark meant to cut.

It wouldn't matter. Words had lost their power over Camila weeks ago, when the world had narrowed to this single, simple truth: Damien was gone, and nothing would ever be right again.

A bird circled high above, its shadow flickering across the road. Camila watched it without raising her head. Some part of her envied its freedom, its simple animal indifference.

The first buildings of the town appeared on the horizon, their outlines wavering in the afternoon heat. Camila's step didn't falter. Her hands stayed loose at her sides.

She wasn't coming to win. She wasn't even coming to fight.

She was coming so that Scarlet would have to look her in the eye when the end came. So that for one moment, beneath all her clever words and easy confidence, she would have to understand what she'd done.

The road dipped, then rose again. Camila walked on.

Camila stood at the crossroads where a child sold withered apples from a basket. The air smelled of damp stone as she passed through the narrow alley, her amulet pulsing warm against her collarbone near an abandoned shrine humming with residual magic.

The courtyard was empty save for a dead crow hanging from a rusted chain - someone's idea of a welcome. The stable boy's eyes widened in recognition, but he only muttered about "the lady upstairs" before disappearing into the shadows.

The wooden stairs groaned as she climbed, each step releasing the scent of old wood and something faintly floral. At the landing, a single candle flickered uselessly against the gloom. The door before her was silent - no voices, no movement, just the quiet she'd expected.

She turned the handle.

The room was sparse, lit only by the weak light filtering through dusty windows. And there, standing perfectly still in the center, was Scarlet. Her long dress pooled around her like spilled ink, the sharp points of her heels digging into the worn floorboards. She didn't speak. Didn't move. Just watched Camila with that familiar, unreadable stare.

The door clicked shut behind Camila, sealing them in the quiet.

The moment Camila saw Scarlet's slight smile--that faint, knowing curve of lips--she struck. Fire roared from her palms in a blistering stream, but Scarlet didn't even flinch. A flick of her wrist, and the flames split around an invisible barrier, licking harmlessly at the air before dissipating into smoke.

Scarlet was stronger. Faster. More precise. The magic rolled off her in effortless waves, each movement calculated, each defense flawless. But Camila was relentless. She wove between Scarlet's attacks--ducking under a whip of shadow, sidestepping a surge of crushing force--her own magic sparking wildly, untamed.

The room trembled. The walls bore scorch marks, the floor cracked under the weight of raw power. Scarlet exhaled sharply when a shard of ice grazed her cheek, her fingers coming away smeared with blood. She almost looked... impressed.

Neither yielded. Neither would.

This was a dance they'd been locked in for what felt like hours--Camila, fueled by grief and fury, Scarlet, by something colder. And neither intended to stop until the other broke.

Camila's breath came in ragged gasps as she finally slowed, her magic flickering weakly. Scarlet saw the opening--the slight stumble in her step, the way her flames sputtered like dying embers. With a cold smile, she raised her hand.

Invisible bonds snapped around Camila's limbs, locking her in place. The magic forced her upright, rigid, her body no longer her own. Scarlet stepped closer, her heels clicking against the cracked floor. Another flick of her fingers, and Camila was lifted higher, the magic tilting her forward until she was balanced precariously on the tips of her toes. The strain burned through her calves, her ankles trembling in her own heels, but she refused to make a sound.

Scarlet circled her like a predator admiring its trapped prey. "I'm almost impressed," she murmured, tilting her head. "You lasted longer than I expected." She stopped in front of Camila, close enough that her breath ghosted over her skin. "But then again, I knew you'd come. And I did prepare something special for you."

Scarlet stepped forward, fingers tracing a slow arc in the. "First she murmured, voice like velvet over steel, "let's try something--a little of breath."