They are here.

She watches them move along the far right edges of the street, masked and armored, slipping in and out of the flames. She doesn't need to see the missing arm on that small, leading figure to know who she is. She doesn't need to see the antlered symbol to know what they are here for.

Around her is screaming chaos, girls shrieking and soldiers hollering, hands gripping her arms and yanking her up, away from the flaming river that was once a street, the collapsing, igniting ruin of the split dais. But she just keeps watching, watching as the figure she had remembered, one of the three that haunt her steps and thoughts, moves with ease in this bloodied, burning mess.

The trio have been phantoms in her dreams since the Day of the Black Sword; dark, slippery things that tormented just out of reach, ghosts of rage and cruelty.

But this is just a girl.

And so is she.

It's her handmaiden that lets out the blood-curdling scream when Fae breaks free, and another takes up the call when she rips the binding coat off, throws the heavy, black crown to the ground. The knife at her thigh is in hand now, held tight in the blinding orange light.

The ash crumples and crisps underneath her boots as she jumps down from the balcony, smoldering in black tar as her feet turn, her shoulders align themselves, her hands curl into careful fists. It's all just a roar now, a pounding furnace.

One step; two. Duck and lunge, a buried knife, a muffled groan. She takes this sword, letting it dance between her hands until she finds the right home, the right grip.

The Cabal was gleeful when she jumped down alone. They're afraid now.

She kicks up embers with the sword's tip; sprays up coals and cinder as she swings. And she remembers again how it is to feel the strength in her fingers, the lethal dexterity of her legs.

Her principal opponent has noticed; she moves, taking the direct path, running alongside the wall of flames in a straight line to Fae, her quarry.

They clash.

Steel hits steel, ringing, singeing in the blasting heat as sparks fly and they break apart, Fae ducking the chunk of burning rock that sails for her head, twisting, slipping the hidden knife back out, burying it in the other's side.

And this girl grunts beneath the mask, the raised sword quavering in her one hand, but it does not drop. It falls with purpose, toward the juncture of Fae's neck and shoulder, and Fae rolls, feeling the tip of the blade cut deep into her thigh, feeling the burn of searing flesh. It's a pain that throbs, a pain that glows, but her sword switches hands and her left hand lifts it to deflect as another punt of concrete unearths itself. The other woman's sword is coming up again just as Fae's is down, and it arches high, flinging on a tight fist, and Fae flings her own unoccupied fist out, white-knuckled, and pounds into the still-lodged knife at Meg's side.

It's a gasp of pain, a scream of rage, and Meg's sword clatters down and her hand clutches, grasps, at the protruding hilt.

Meg staggers back as Fae staggers forward, her stolen sword shifting up now, moving quickly, and it is the Cabal woman's turn to roll away from the blow. But it's not just a roll, not just an evasion, and Fae had prepared for the Skilling, the sudden spurt of smoking dirt spraying up into her face, but not what came after. The knife, yanked out of its place, the knife flung out on smoke-tinged fingers.

It catches in Fae's shoulder, buried deep to the hilt, and Fae feels the tendons and sinews connection to that arm collapse, leaving it hanging, useless, at her side.

It's a pause of shock, a lung-snapping gasp of horror that cleaves like another blade.

Then Fae grips her sword in her one good hand and swings.

They meet again, rock and steel, the small woman kicking while Fae swings. The muscles in her arm throb and ache, stretching and straining in the quick parries, the ceaseless blows as she presses forward, striking just to pull back and strike again, and again, and again, chasing the uneven backward steps of her foe, watching the feet shift and shuffle.

Speed, she decides, and lunges forward.

Meg's heels kiss the cusp of the street's edge and silver-quick dawning crosses in her uncovered eyes; she shifts, ducking and twisting from the brink as the unblocked blade catches on her thigh.

Another grunt beneath the mask, but she turns still, dancing away from the edge, and Fae lunges.

They collide. A blow to the head; a knee to the abdomen wound; a grip on the knife; a scream, rent from unwilling lips. Fae feels the blade slipping out, feels the hot surge of fresh pain at her shoulder and she swings her working elbow around, cracking it across the girl's head, swinging her head down to follow suit, not minding the sting, not minding the ringing, only pushing forward to deliver suffering to match her own. It's a gush of warm blood that spatters Fae's face—her own—as she lunges forward, pressing while the feet ahead of her stagger, hitting harder as the body sways.

Meg moves to kick, but Fae does first, digging her boot under the hot coals she had stepped on, digging deep until her foot screams and then kicking up.

It's a spray of stars, blistering red and black, set against the gray plume. A spray of stars that ignite and scream as Fae's sword swings at neck-height in one, clear swoop, true and unchecked.

And the body in front of Fae crumples to the floor.

It takes her sword with it and Fae stands, dumb, staring down at it. Her one good hand reaches out, reaches for the mask, and pulls it off.

Just a girl, she thinks, looking at the glassy eyes, the slack face, but thinking of the sharp, arresting gaze from the drawing. Just like me.

She stares, not hearing the chaos around her, not seeing the new figure emerging from the smoke, swinging for her.

She only starts when she hears the pound of feet; she looks up, one of the Cabal hammering down on her—armed when she is not, poised when she is slack—but even as she recoils this foe too collapses into the ash, next to its fallen leader. 

The bolt rising out of its back crinkles her brow, crawls on her face like a question, and when Fae Urilong looks around she sees them. Her soldiers, running back from the Tower, rushing in from dark side streets, jumping down from the dais, pushing back the Cabal, collecting in a scattered half-circle around her. Those that approach stare, stare at the wall burning behind her; at their queen in bloody ruin; and at the body, the body with the face on the posters, the body of the insurgent, lying at her feet.

They're waiting, Fae realizes, their eyes settling on her. They're waiting for me.

My people.

Fae bends down and picks up her sword, and when she straightens back up, when she faces them, she stands tall.

"With me now," she commands, pushing blood out of her eyes, setting her shoulders back. "Her horde is still in my city. Lets show these dogs what happens to those who try to the Queen's mercy."

A/N: A bittersweet win as Fae remembers who she is, and what she can do.

(Also, holy crap, 200k reads on Partisan?! 😱 Hiii new friends, welcome to the pain train. HAHAHA)