Chapter 11: A Priestess in All the Wrong Ways

The first rays of sunlight crawled through the small window of our attic room in the inn, cutting straight across my eyes. I had been awake for a while, despite how exhausted I still felt from the day before. My mind never really let me rest, not completely.

Beside me, Serine was still sleeping soundly, curled up in the blankets with her hair spilling over the pillow. She looked more like an overworked child who had finally collapsed than the usually serious, bookish girl she liked to pretend to be. Seeing her like that almost made me forget everything else. Almost.

I slipped carefully out of bed, pulled on my boots, grabbed my satchel and cloak, and left the room. No note for Serine. She’d survive the heart attack when she woke up and found me gone—maybe it would even build character. Besides, I planned to be back before she opened those big innocent eyes again.

The village of Cinabar in the early morning was different from the noisy chaos of the night before. The streets were quieter, though the aftermath of the festival was everywhere: half-burnt paper lanterns still hanging from ropes, sticky patches of ale staining the cobblestones, and one drunk who’d chosen the space under a cart as his new home. Charming.

The market was already alive, though. Merchants setting up their stands, calling out to the few early risers with promises of “fresh” bread, “rare” spices, and “honest” prices—three words that had never once belonged in the same sentence.

I wandered without much purpose until a flash of white caught my eye. Hanging from one of the stalls was a silk robe with a hood, soft and flowing, its fabric thin enough in places to be almost transparent. Too delicate, too holy-looking, and far too impractical. Exactly the kind of thing I should hate.

And yet… it pulled at me. Black had been my uniform since the beginning. Black was power, menace, age. But this? This was mockery wrapped in silk. A necromancer wearing white—like some twisted priestess of death. The thought alone made me smirk.

“Ah, mistress, you have excellent eye!” The stall keeper, a squat man with greasy hair and an even greasier smile, rushed over. “This piece, ah, unique. White silk, rare as sunrise over the northern sea. For you, only fifteen silvers.”

“Fifteen?” I lifted the hem between two fingers, letting it slide down again. “That’s cute. You mean fifteen for all your stock combined, maybe.”

He clutched his chest. “Ah! You wound me, mistress. Ten, then, ten silvers for something fit for a noble lady.”

“Seven,” I said flatly, then added with a slow smile: “And I don’t tell the rest of the market how your ‘rare silk’ has the exact smell of a goat pen.”

His face went pale. “Goat?!”

“Seven,” I repeated sweetly. “Or I start baa-ing.”

He stared at me with the look of a man forced to choose between money and humiliation. In the end, humiliation won. He shoved the robe into my arms like it burned. “Seven. And may the gods curse you with fleas if you lie.”

“Darling,” I said, dropping the coins into his sweaty palm, “if fleas could curse me, I’d have been dead years ago.”

I draped the robe over my shoulder as I left the stall. White. Holy. Almost angelic. It didn’t suit me at all, which was exactly why I liked it. The world could see me as the saintly little priestess if it wanted. That made it easier for me to laugh when they realized what I really was.

And since it was still early, there was only one logical place to test out my new disguise: the tavern. If anything interesting was happening in Cinabar, it would be brewing there among the drunks and adventurers.

I slipped into a quiet alley, shrugged off my usual dark clothes, and pulled on the new robe.

Oh, it fit like it had been sewn with my sins in mind. The silk hugged my body with indecent precision, clinging where it shouldn’t and flowing where it wanted to tease. The fabric was pale white, edged in faint blue shimmer that caught the light when I moved. The hood draped delicately, a thin veil of silk hanging just enough to shadow my face, but not enough to hide my lips—or the sharp little smile I couldn’t stop.

The neckline dipped low, scandalously low, gathered with a ribbon that framed my breasts in a way that made even me raise an eyebrow. The fabric across the stomach and thighs was thin, nearly translucent, leaving only the barest suggestion of mystery where there should have been modesty. Every step made the silk slide along my legs, flashing hints of skin and the curves of muscle underneath. Innocence dressed like temptation.

My long black hair fell like ink down my back, spilling out from beneath the hood and veil. With every movement, it contrasted against the pale silk, making me look—dare I say it—like some saintly figure painted by a drunk artist who really hated saints.

Yes. Dangerous, innocent, and absolutely not to be trusted. In other words: perfect.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: SEE IMAGE NUMBER 3 IN THE SHOWCASE FOR RISSA IN HER PRIESTESS ATTIRE.

The tavern was half-empty when I entered. Morning was a poor time for drinkers, but there were still enough men nursing tankards to notice me the second I crossed the threshold. Several heads turned, their eyes crawling down my body like greedy hands. I caught the first lascivious glance, then the second, then the third. Exactly what I wanted.

Because men are simple. Show them a bit of silk, a bit of skin, and their brains leak right out of their ears. Manipulating them is like picking apples from a tree—effortless, unless you’re too short to reach the branch.

I moved to the bar, sliding onto the stool halfway turned, crossing one leg over the other in the most deliberately feminine pose I could manage. The robe parted just enough to make at least three men choke on their ale. Lovely.

The bartender, a thick-armed man polishing a mug like his life depended on it, raised an eyebrow. “Morning, mistress. Don’t often see the likes of you dressed that fine in Cinabar. What’ll it be?”

I smiled, slow and deliberate, and rested my chin against my hand. “Surprise me.”

The man set a steaming mug in front of me, the faint scent of herbs rising into my face. Tea. Tea, of all things.

I took one sip, and nearly spat it back into the cup.

“What the hell is this swamp water?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.

The bartender blinked at me. “Er… chamomile. Good for the nerves. I thought—”

I cut him off with a laugh, sharp and derisive. “You thought I looked like a wide-eyed little maiden who needed a warm bedtime story in a cup? Do I look like someone who drinks flowers boiled in ditch water?”

The poor man actually chuckled. “Well, when you put it like that…”

“Bring me something strong. And don’t insult me with beer either. I want the kind of drink that makes grown men regret waking up the next morning.”

Now he grinned, leaning forward on his elbows, amused. “Is that so? You don’t look the type.”

I arched an eyebrow, pulling the mug of tea away from me as if it were a chamber pot. “Then clearly your eyesight is as bad as your taste in beverages.”

That got a proper laugh out of him. He rummaged under the counter, and moments later he set down a small, squat glass filled with liquid so clear it could have been water. But the fumes alone made my nose sting. “This is the strongest we have. Locals call it Whitefire. Careful, mistress. Most men can’t handle it.”

I didn’t even bother replying. I raised the glass, tipped it back, and let the fire burn down my throat in one glorious blaze. For a heartbeat, it was like swallowing molten iron. My chest burned, my eyes watered, and my stomach did a little dance of protest.

Perfect.

I slammed the empty glass on the counter and pushed it back toward him. “Another.”

The bartender’s grin widened. “By the gods, you’re mad. It’s not even noon.”

“Exactly. Why waste daylight being sober?”

He poured me another, clearly entertained, and I could feel the eyes of a few patrons on my back. Men, always fascinated when a woman does something they think belongs to them. Drinking, swearing, existing with a spine. Shocking, apparently.

I took another gulp, savoring the fire this time, and leaned toward the bartender. “Now that you’ve proved useful at last, maybe you can prove even more useful. Tell me about this place. What paths leave Cinabar? Where do travelers usually head? Who should I talk to if I wanted to find… work?”

He eyed me, resting his chin on his hand. “Work, hm? You don’t look like a farm girl. And you’re not dressed like a trader. And with how you drink…” He smirked. “I’d say you’ve got adventurer written all over you.”

I gave him my sweetest, fakest smile. “You’re sharper than you look. Go on.”

“Well, you’ve got three main roads. North takes you through the mountains, risky but faster if you’re heading toward Vallendar. East winds down to the lowlands—safer, more caravans, lots of trade. West leads you straight into swampland and bandit country. Most sane folk don’t bother.”

“Good to know.” I tapped my empty glass, and he refilled it without being asked. “And if someone wanted to find odd jobs? The kind that pay better than hauling sacks of grain?”

“There’s a little adventurers’ hall down by the south gate. Nothing fancy—mostly mercs, treasure-hunters, and braggarts who die too young. But they post contracts, if you’ve got the guts.”

I sipped again, hiding my smile behind the rim. Perfect. Exactly what I needed.

Because sooner or later, we’d need coin. And not just to eat. Traveling wasn’t free, and hiding in little towns like this forever wasn’t an option. If I wanted Serine safe—and if I wanted me alive—it was time to stop tiptoeing around what I was and actually use it. No more pretending.

And maybe it was time I learned what my “soul-sharing” actually meant in practice. Arkanthos would know what to do, he could guide me in my training in ways no book ever had.

But for now, I smiled at the bartender and lifted my glass. “You’re not half bad, old man. Keep the drinks coming, and maybe I’ll even leave you a coin or two.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he poured. “Gods save me from strange women who drink like knights.”

I clinked my glass against the counter, grinning. “You’re welcome.”

By the time I finally staggered out of the tavern, the world was pleasantly spinning. I wasn’t falling down drunk — not yet — but “a little tipsy” would have been the understatement of the century. I walked a crooked line down Cinabar’s narrow street, boots scraping on the cobbles.

From the depths of my bag, muffled but clear in my mind, came Arkanthos’ familiar, dry voice.

“Mistress, forgive me if I sound blunt, but are you planning on drinking every tavern in this miserable realm dry before noon?”

I laughed out loud, earning a sideways look from a passing vendor. “Don’t be dramatic, skull-face. I was gathering intelligence.”

“Ah yes,” he drawled, “intelligence. Truly nothing screams ‘brilliant strategic maneuver’ like drooling on yourself over a glass of Whitefire. You’re a genius tactician, mistress, the bards will sing of it.”

I snorted, nearly tripping over a loose stone. “Don’t tempt me, Arkanthos. I might just make you sing it yourself.”

“Gods forbid. My jaw is bone, mistress, but even it would fall off in shame.”

That only made me laugh harder. I hiccuped, stumbled, and finally pushed my way back to the inn.

When I opened the door to our little room, Serine was already awake. She sat at the small mirror, still in her chemise, brushing out her dark hair in calm, practiced strokes. She turned just enough to glance at me.

“Oh, finally,” she said, matter-of-fact, as though I’d only gone for a walk instead of drinking the town dry. She knew me too well.

Then her eyes landed fully on me — on the new outfit. Her brush stilled, and she blinked once, twice. A faint flush crept across her cheeks, and she immediately looked away, suddenly very focused on untangling some imaginary knot in her hair.

I leaned against the doorframe with a wicked grin. She had looked at me exactly the way those men in the tavern had — and that was far too good an opportunity to waste.

“Well, well,” I purred, sauntering over to her and throwing my arms around her shoulders from behind. My chest pressed firmly against the back of her head as I pulled her close, overly affectionate. “What’s with the blushing, sweet sister? Do I look that scandalous?”

“R-Rissa!” Serine squeaked, face now burning bright crimson as she squirmed, trying to push me away. “You’re impossible! Stop it!”

I only laughed and hugged her tighter for a moment, thoroughly enjoying how flustered she got, before finally letting go.

I set Arkanthos’ skull down on the bedside table with a little clunk and collapsed onto the bed myself, arms spread out. Serine turned to give me a disapproving look, her nose wrinkling delicately.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said, voice soft but scolding. “I can smell it from here.”

Before I could answer, Arkanthos chimed in with malicious glee.

“Oh yes, mistress smells like she bathed in a barrel of spirits. I do hope she didn’t try seducing the bartender — his constitution might not survive.”

Serine’s eyes widened as she glanced at the skull. “Honestly! You shouldn’t encourage her.”

“Encourage me?” I laughed, propping myself up on my elbows. “I don’t need encouragement, darling. And besides—” I shot Arkanthos a mock glare, “—for the record, it was worth it. I got what I wanted.”

“Oh, of course you did,” Arkanthos said. “You always do. Whether it’s information, liquor, or traumatizing your poor little companion here.”

Serine folded her arms with a sigh, clearly caught between amusement and dismay. “You’re both terrible.”

“Maybe,” I said with a grin, “but I’m effective.”

I sat up fully now, my expression sharpening. “Alright, enough fooling around. Let’s talk business. We need coin if we want to keep moving. The smartest way is to get ourselves into some guild or adventurers’ hall. That way, we can pick up jobs, keep money flowing, and get official passes for the roads. Less trouble with guards, less suspicion.”

Serine nodded slowly. “That… makes sense.”

“And,” I continued, “the other thing we need — maybe the most important — is figuring out my powers. Arkanthos, this is where you come in. You know I’ve been fumbling in the dark for years. The first real clue I had was when I brought you back in the Mist Caves. That was the first time it all… clicked. If you can help guide me — even just a little — it could make the difference between survival and stupidity.”

The skull’s empty sockets seemed to glimmer faintly as his voice slid into my mind.

“Oh, mistress, how flattering. To think you’re entrusting your grand destiny to a disembodied head. But yes… I can help. I may not have practiced your exact craft, but magic is magic, and I have trained more apprentices than you’ve had lovers. Which is saying something.”

I rolled my eyes, smirking. “Charming as always. But that’s what I wanted to hear.”

Serine was looking between us with an uncertain expression, but she didn’t argue.

“Then it’s settled,” I said. “We take a simple job. Something that earns us coin, takes us somewhere quiet, and doesn’t draw too much attention. While we work, I practice. No whispers about a strange woman with unnatural powers — not yet. The last thing I need is some pompous court knight sniffing around.”

Both Serine and Arkanthos gave the barest nods of agreement — which, in this odd little trio, was about as unanimous as it got.

I stood, smoothing the folds of my new robe with satisfaction. “Good. Then let’s see what this adventurers’ hall has to offer.”

And with that, the three of us — a hungover necromancer in scandalous white, a blushing would-be scholar, and a snarky skull — set off down the cobbled streets toward Cinabar’s south gate.