Now she had her great-ax assembled and ready, Stasia ripped her coat off and tossed it upon the thin layer of snow that powdered the alley from winter’s last gasp prior to spring. Everywhere she went, she hid her true size beneath coats, dresses, robes, or whatever else fit the fashion of the invaded nation. Anything to disguise the muscles of her arms and tightly corded abdomen. Beneath was a simple pair of trousers and a dark sweater, both bought cheap at a local market. Let her be anyone and everyone, her only singularly distinguishable characteristic that of the finely polished steel of her ax. As for armor, she wore hidden shin guards and metal vambraces, and dared not risk anything more that could lessen her speed or sap her strength. Her fighting style was one of merciless aggression, her battles fought in the chaos of street ambushes instead of organized warfare upon open fields.

Stasia reached into a pocket of her coat and pulled out a long black cloth. It was her only possession that once belonged to her blood-mother, a mask with a roaring panther skull sewn across its center. Her shaking fingers lovingly touched the saber-toothed bones arranged into a snarl. Within her, a rage fed by helplessness and fear stoked a fire hot enough to burn Vallessau to the ground.

“You fear the day you find me hanging,” she whispered, Clarissa’s words ringing in her ears. “I fear the day they drag us apart with whips in hand and holy screeds on their tongues.”

Stasia tied the mask over her face. Last, she touched her word-lace and activated its special magic unique only to hers and Mari’s. A brief tingle alerted her it had taken effect. A spell came over her eyes, fading their red irises to a dull brown so that none would recognize her as Miquoan. She hated disguising herself in such a manner, but this was the price she paid to be the warrior her father had carefully crafted over decades since Miquo’s collapse. Everywhere they went, the resistance one day failed. If they were to keep traveling, and keep trying, she could not be identified.

Stasia lifted her great-ax. The touch of cold steel beneath her fingers gave a pathway for her fire to flow.

The life the empire would leave us, it is wretched, but it is still a life… isn’t it?

Could she exist within Everlorn’s rule? Perhaps. But it wouldn’t be a free life. It wouldn’t be real. It’d be a cruel joke. It’d be as joyful and permanent as the swelling bruise on her cheek.