A mottled red scream clawed through the darkness, another echoing howl from Grasdan’s living ghosts. Serein heard all the colored sounds that painted her dark world. Water falling in opaque purple drips. The speckled green rattling of chains. Her pale yellow exhales. Death was outlined in silver and shadows, his face ageless. He drew closer with each labored breath dripping out of her scars. 

The charcoal stick in Serein’s hand scratched against the wall, dusting the ground with its light orange scraping as she finished drawing a face. Other drawings marked the walls, eyes staring at her. Her arm shook, the chains chafing against her wrists covered with puss-covered sores. Dark, lice-infested hair hung in front of her face. Scabs and scars riddled the faded tawny skin stretched over a hunched skeleton. A fiery itch radiated from the mass of scar tissue along her left side that ran down her leg.

Serein ran a finger along the stone, eyes stinging with tears. I’m sorry, my Sun and Stars, she thought. 

Are you going to die here, volchitsa? I trained you to survive! A white voice bled through the darkness, hissing with a forked tongue. 

Serein shivered as the pale words fell like snow on her skin. 

Dark amber footsteps collected outside the cell door, and she stiffened. “How about this one?” a copper voice asked.

“In her state, there’d be no profit. Jabir wouldn’t be interested,” the warden replied, his lemon-colored words seeped through the darkness with disdainful sour tones. 

“I heard he wasn’t too picky about fodder he uses in the fighting ring. With her reputation, we could make some coin.” 

The warden clicked his tongue. “Might as well see what we can get,” he said. 

A heavy pause hung in the air, broken by the orange-red shifting of chainmail and a nervous coppery breath. 

“For Saints’ sake, don’t just stand there! What are you scared of? She bleeds like everyone else.” 

The key jammed into the lock with sharp tangerine-colored sparks. Fragments of light flooded the dark cell, and Serein shut her eyes, recoiling. Rough hands slammed Serein against the ground, and a boot pressed against her back. Her arms were jerked back, the chains tightened. Metal cut painfully into her wrists, puss and blood oozing down her skin. 

“Make sure those bonds are tight.” A faint tremble carried in the warden’s voice. 

A sack went over Serein’s head as she was dragged from the cell through the innards of the once-great Old Kingdom fortress. All traces of its former glory were buried under soot and misery as the Malik of Sarddon filled its walls with prisoners from across the continent. 

Beneath Serein’s feet, the hard-packed dirt turned to stone. Horses snorted nearby in puffs of goldenrod, their metal shoes clacking vermillion against the ground. “Load them into the wagon,” said a gruff topaz voice. 

Serein slammed against other bodies as the guards threw her into the wagon. The hushed ocean-blue whisper of a desperate prayer filled the space on her left. A gasping green sob on her right. Rattling crimson coughing trickled across from her. Ragged light orange and soft purple breathing spread through the air like dye in water. 

Five other prisoners, Serein thought, slumping against the wall of the wagon. Will they kill us if they can’t get anything for us? 

“All secured. Let’s set off,” the warden said nearby.

Her head cracked against wood in a burst of blinding blue as the wagon rumbled forward with an ivory groan. Stinging pain bit into her wrists with each green rattle of the shackles.

Don’t forget the colors of their screams. May the Lights take you quickly and give you rest. The Old Kingdom prayer echoed in time with her ragged pulse.

* * *

Serein’s feet scraped against the ground as guards pushed her out of the wagon. Dirty light filtered through the burlap, a breath of hot air sweeping away the smell of sweat and urine. Soreness burrowed into her shoulder joints, the pain around her wrists flaring with each movement. The ever-present burn of hunger clawed at her stomach, gnawing on what remained of her flesh and bones. She caught bits of Sarddonian and Common Tongue, the orange clanging of metal, and voices shouting prices in the distance. 

The sounds faded as she was led through winding hallways. Sounds bouncing off of high walls. Cooler air of being underground. A day’s ride from Grasdan. Probably the Harpy’s Chest since it’s between the Old Kingdom and Sarddon. A trading den, she thought, remembering the place from her travels years ago.  

The information clustered in Serein’s mind but sloughed off instead of weaving into something tangible. She let the inklings dissolve away in broken fragments. Her legs shook with each step, heart slamming against her ribs. 

A door opened with a teal creak, and she was shoved forward. The sack lifted, and red light bled through Serein’s eyelids. She blinked, the blurry forms of people moving past, torchlight stinging her eyes. Someone grabbed Serein’s chin and forced her mouth open with an iron grip as she tried to wrench away. Water sloshed past her cracked lips, and she gulped it down. 

“This is a sorry lot you brought me, Gharib.” The steel-gray voice speaking Sarddonian appeared on her left, cutting the air like a dull knife. 

Dark amber and purple-red footsteps shuffled closer, and nervous purple breathing trickled next to her, chains rattling with green clinks. “These ones survived the longest in the fighting pits, Jabir,” the warden, Gharib, said. “This one is one of Sarddon’s most wanted—the Grinning Assassin.” 

The footsteps stopped near Serein. “This Ravanassë woman?” 

“Don’t let her looks deceive you. She’s a Bone Viper assassin. She tried to escape once. Killed seven guards. She also killed one of the Malik’sgeneral in Sava eight years ago in his tent.” 

Serein felt a gaze resting on her, taking in her emaciated state. “General Mansur? A woman took down a man like that?” Jabir asked. 

“I have the papers about her capture. Eighty gold dijils for her life contract,” Gharib said. 

Light plum-colored rustling flew like beetles as papers were moved. “Eighty gold? Saints, you’re out of your mind. She’s half-dead and might keel over before the day is done,” Jabir snapped. “The only thing dangerous about her is her stench.”

“You can see the scars. She also has the brand of the Bone Vipers. Marks only the real Grinning Assassin would have. Look.” 

Gharib’s dark amber footsteps moved toward her, and she cracked her eyes open. His sallow face with bloodshot eyes blocked her vision, lemon-colored breaths getting stuck in the brown hairs of his beard. Nails from a four-fingered hand dug into her chin, jerking her head up. Serein’s scarred mouth tightened as she tried to wrench away. Bile burned her throat as she was spun around and pressed against the stone wall. The back of her shirt ripped, streaks of magenta tearing the air. 

Smells grew sharper. A fire crackled, and the smell of burning bodies clogged her nose. The pain in Serein’s side returned and crawled across the pink flesh. Her body crumbled, bones fragmenting. 

No! Anger crept up, the cool wall cutting into her cheek. Don’t touch me!

“That brand could mean anything,” Jabir said. 

“I assure you that she’s the real thing. Tried to slit her throat several months back, but she didn’t die. Never lost in the fighting pits in Grasdan.”

“Perhaps whoever tried to slit her throat didn’t know how to handle a knife.” 

“She bit off my damned finger!” Gharib hissed, lemon-colored voice bristling.

“I don’t care if she can walk through walls or survive having her throat cut. This woman isn’t worth what you’re asking.”

“Sixty gold then?” the warden asked, and Serein was released. 

She slumped to the floor, peering through the cracks of her eyelids. The world came into focus, and she spotted Death in his pale gray robes etched in silver behind the men, turning a piece of silver wood over in his hand. 

Will I make it through the day, my Sun and Stars? Have I come this far only to die in chains? Serein thought. 

“I’m not paying that much for someone I’m just using to settle some debts.” 

“Forty then? This is a skilled assassin, not just some common prisoner.”

“An assassin who will probably die in the first match I throw her in, then my coin will be wasted.” Anger spiked Jabir’s words, the steel sharpening. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“No, El-Hashem-effendi. But I stand to lose as much as you do with this arrangement,” Gharib said, lowering his voice. “If the Malik finds out about this, he’ll deal with both of us severely for not sending the profits to him.” 

“That’s why I’m not taking a risk on this woman for that price. I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone interested in her reputation.”

“But think of how much you could earn by telling people that you have an infamous assassin in your fighting pits? Even though she’s a woman, the name alone will bring people to watch and place bets to see if she’s the real deal.”

Jabir paused, breaths even. “One gold dijil,” he said finally. 

“One?!” The word splattered against the wall like a rotting lemon. 

“Ask for any more, and I’ll end our arrangement. You may run Grasdan, but I have friends in high places here. I can always find other suppliers,” Jabir told him. “Some of the others might have some potential since they’re in better shape. Twenty-five gold dijils for these three. Samil, take the rest to be cleaned. I want to inspect this so-called Grinning Assassin.”

“Watch that one, or you’ll lose a finger,” the warden said. 

“I have experience with dangerous persons. This woman will be no different.” Coins jangled, the dark blue color popping in the air. “Go watch one of the matches, Gharib. Maybe you’ll recoup some of the money you were hoping to get.”  

The other prisoners were led away, the warden sneering at her as he left. Serein’s eyes closed, the last dregs of strength ebbing away. Steel-gray breaths mixed with three others nearby as she sank into exhaustion.

A rough hand slapped Serein’s cheek, the bright blue sound cracking across her eyelids. “Wake up! I didn’t pay for a corpse.” 

A pinched face with a dark beard glared down at her, hazel-green eyes narrowed. The man’s hair was cut short, gray creeping into his sideburns. He wore a long dark gray djellaba that reached his knees, a pair of loose tan sirwal trousers, and a flowing orange rida’robe wrapped around his shoulders.

Jabir el-Hashem. Right-handed, forty-two. Serein followed his movements, the smell of hookah smoke from his clothes mingling with the odor of wine. Vices are drink and tobacco. Makes most of his money off fighting matches. Must owe money to some important people if he bought me for so little just to throw into a fight. Not to win, but to lose. 

“Get up,” Jabir said in Common Tongue, holding a whip in his hand. 

Serein remained with her head pressed into the dirt. The pulse of the earth rumbled in her ears, footsteps, and voices mingling together. Cool air brushed over her collection of silver and red scars. Serein tensed as the whip snapped with a sapphire crack, old pains raking down her back. Fire gouged her as the whip snapped across her side.

“Are you deaf?” Jabir snapped, spitting onto the ground. “I said get up!”  

Kill him, volchitsa, the white voice said, slithering through her consciousness. 

Serein shuddered, eyes shut. He’s not here, she thought. He can’t find me. He can’t hurt me.

Serein groaned and heaved herself up, wrists scraping against the cuffs. They cut into the sores, blood dried against her skin and the wounds reeking of sour infection. Jabir’s eyes roamed over her scars and the blue vine tattoo on her left arm and collarbone. Fingers prodded her, and she flinched at Jabir’s touch. Stale breath crept over her skin as he hit her chest with the handle of the whip. 

“I suppose that Bone Viper brand and the murder’s mark adds merit to your identity. Who would’ve thought that the feared Grinning Assassin was a woman?” Jabir said. “Let’s see if you’re worth what I paid. Get her cleaned a bit and have her hair cut to get rid of the lice.”  

Jabir stalked off, robes swishing with dark magenta trails. The guards dragged her down the hall.

My life is only worth one gold dijils, she thought, scalp itching. He overspent. 

* * *