Stasia stood, but not to her full height. Let him think her smaller, weaker. Her entire body tensed beneath her thick coat. Her twin axes rattled at her hips, but so far the soldier had not noticed them, they were so well hidden by her coat. The arrogant man would see nothing of her honed muscle, her sharpened weapons, or her rage growing within her breast. All he’d see was a woman bending before him, neck bowed, eyes low. Willing. Submissive. As the Uplifted Church would demand it.

“Your friends await you,” she said through clenched teeth. “Perhaps another time, when duty does not threaten to interfere?”

Sure enough, the other two soldiers stood by the door, and they were pulling their cloaks off nearby rungs and clasping them about their necks. Whatever time they’d wasted drinking and eating, they’d run out and needed to resume their patrols. The scarred soldier glanced over his shoulder, then let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Yes, yes, my lovely Miquoan,” he said. “Another time. I’ll keep my eye out for you.” He winked at Clarissa. “And you as well. I’d hate for either of you to fail in your duty to the church.”

He pushed his bench aside and stood. Before he left, he reached out a mailed hand and touched the metal of his fingertips to Stasia’s cheek. When she did not move, he slapped her. Not hard. Not even with any real animosity. Just enough to let her know how little she meant to him.

“Pleasant nights and sweet dreams, you two perverts.”

The soldier left, and he laughed with his two waiting friends as if he’d told the greatest joke in the world. Pain flushed Stasia’s face as her cheek swelled. Perhaps he had.

“Stasia,” Clarissa warned, and she grabbed at Stasia’s wrist. “Please, don’t.”

“I have to,” Stasia said. Her red eyes locked on the three men as they exited the tavern. “I’m sorry, Clarissa. I have to.”

There were two separate doors to the tavern. While the soldiers exited the front, Stasia ducked out the back to the cramped alley between it and the neighboring home. The moment the door shut behind her, she pulled her two axes free of their hip holsters. The two axes, while usable separate, were actually two opposite-facing halves of a larger weapon. Stasia slammed their backs together, connecting barely perceptible grooves and hooks. Her father’s intricate designs worked perfectly as ever, the twin axes locking into a singular great-ax. Next she pulled out a metal pole hidden in a secret side pocket of her coat. The pole was a little over two feet, with one end flat, the other sharpened into a spike. A shove and a twist later, the pole slid into a waiting slot at the base of the ax and locked tight, granting her a much longer reach.