Peacekeeper command claims this was the only group willing to take on an embedded writer. As is, there is no way a book about this lot is going to sell on a rich, plush planet like Garden. We’re writing for bored noble ladies, remember? This group is barely fit for the Fool’s Stage on market day.

There are instructions to send this manuscript along in the event of my death. And thanks so much for the opportunity to risk my life, by the way. I noticed that bit in the waiver you had me sign: death by, among other things, giant lizards? This book had better make enough to settle all my debts, like our patron promised.

Speaking of, I remember you said we’ve got a mysterious patron paying for this book, and we’re not supposed to mention that to the Peacekeepers. So far, they think this was my idea, and I’ll probably leave it that way. I’m hoping I can figure out the identity of our patron.

Yours, albeit begrudgingly at this point,
Belkan Candor

Chapter 1

There was nothing, and then there was pain.

I jerked back to consciousness with battle raging all around me, but that wasn’t what woke me up. What got my attention was the fingers jammed into the sucking wound in my chest.

Whatever had caused the wound had been ripped out, and someone had rammed her fingers straight into the pulsing gap. My eyes focused enough to make out the form of a woman in plate armor crouched over my body. She straddled my torso in a defensive stance, showing me her back. The armor she wore covered most of her upper body and was crafted from ceramic material painted silver with blue accents. Dark, heavy leather battle skirts looked long enough to hang to her ankles but, right now, were draped across my body and the mud under us as she squatted over my stomach. Her hazel eyes continuously flickered between watching over her shoulder as she worked on me and surveying the dank, miserable alley in which we were all fighting.

I realized she was mumbling something under her breath, something with a musical tone. My chest grew warm, the flesh squirming around her fingers. I think I screamed. The flesh began to knit together, forcing her fingers out of the wound.

My investigative mind went to work. I’d been injured and clearly fallen unconscious. Some sort of battle was going on, and I was more than likely involved. This woman was healing me, so either she was on my side or she had a vested interest in keeping me alive.

My eyes drifted over the half of her face visible to me, her left side: the strong jaw and pointed chin, the mole like a tear under her eye, her chestnut brown hair pulled back and wound into two tight buns and pinned on either side of her neck. I noticed she held a white ceramic kite shield in her right hand.

Shield. That’s her name.

Right. One of the Peacekeepers I was sent here to write about. The Peacekeeper emblem, a gauntleted fist wrapped in ivy, was emblazoned on the outside of her left shoulder and confirmed her allegiance.

I tried to shake my head and clear it, rolling it back and forth on the ground, but it only made things worse. I nearly blacked out and had to close my eyes. As soon as I could open them again, I turned my head to the side to try and catch the rest of the battle.

Wilted sunlight from a cloudy sky cast the alley in murky shadow. Wooden walls closed us in on both sides and ran in both directions, leaving us in the middle of a long trough.