Narcissus
Chapter 1 - The Frail Flower
The young woman walked through the busy streets of Corus with the grace of a leopard. Her coal black hair cascaded in large waves, softening her piercing green eyes in beguiling manner. She walked with a quiet smile, one that reminded one of the strange smiles a cat displays when it is about to slip its paw into a milk jar. She was wrapped in a rag for a shawl, covering most of the beige robe that she wore—but even rags could not hide the long legs and the swaying waist. Oh, this one was beautiful, all right: the kind that coyly stopped your heart and left you there. Even flirty boys along the street simple eyed her with a hunger that is surprisingly common in youth and poverty.
Sharon walked on, thrusting her finely sculptured nose (no truer sign of blue blood) in the air and her delicate chin forward. She tossed her hair back in a clean, haughty flick of the wrist and narrowed her eyes as she saw the door in the distance, halting suddenly. Those who loitered about scattered as if she turned into a beast. Street savvy was necessary, you see, in these parts, and they would bet their few coins that even a beast would cower and run if stared with those frosted eyes—they belonged to a killer.
She was a killer. And a damn good one at that.
Too bad her own family would not acknowledge that. After all, simply being good was nowhere near enough to be accepted as a member of the L'Morae. That name spoke of nightmares and blood and tears from vagabonds to kings. That name spoke of sudden, violent deaths that were as certain as the sun rising. The name spoke of gold and wine and sharp steel stained by blood, even their own kin's. After all, only the finest of assassins were to live, if their name was to be kept.
And Sharon Soon-To-Be-L'Morae, was here to prove this girl with flimsy wrists, a thin neck, and an embarrassing habit of wearing narcissus flowers in her hair when she was a girl of five—this woman here, was the best. The Best would only slay the Best, naturally, and her target was the King of Thieves.
Kill George Cooper, and she would be treated as a true descendant of Osidan L'Morae.
Nothing could stop her. She was not the best fighter, she knew, but she also knew from a very young age that the best fighter did not always win: she had her wits and her beauty, both of which could dazzle and blind. Her wits would gain her speed, speed of hand and mind, while her beauty gave her time to use her wits.
She would become the best, if only because the fierceness blazing in her eyes.
Author's Note: Cover art is William McGregor Paxton's Girl Combing Her Hair.