Zara rolled her eyes at the title.<i>Crimson Blade Witch</i>. Was that what they were calling her now? She crossed her arms with a scowl. A mercenary for hire, it came as a surprise when the nobles first bequeathed her a title. Of course, they’d meant it as a mockery, but she’d taken it with pride. After that, she’d gone through at least a dozen more names over the last five or six years. She stopped bothering to keep count. And they seemed content to come up with even more embarrassing names.<br/><br/>But if the judge called on her, that meant he really had someone he needed offed. That she could do. And the offer of help? Well, well… her lips curved into a smile.<br/><br/>“Bring him here.”<br/><br/>Zara wasn’t the sort to like help. In fact, she’d gained the title of “lone wolf” and “she who hunts alone” over the years. But she also knew when she was outmatched. And a single non-mage going up what was clearly a powerful occultist? She was proud—not stupid. Whether her would-be companion was out for revenge didn’t matter to her.<br/><br/>A woman brought her a drink as she reclined in a chair outside the courtroom. One leg crossed over the other as she lifted the teacup from the saucer. She took a sip, mulling over the details of the man. A pit fighter. Interesting. She’d dealt with the type of hooligans before. They were usually all bark and no bite. But if the judged recommended him, then there might be some worth to him after all. The man knew better than to handicap Zara. He’d learned it the hard way the first time she’d broken the judge’s leg. And cemented it the second time when she broke his neck.<br/><br/>The outer doors opened, signaling the arrival of the newcomer. But Zara didn’t move. Instead, she remained resting lazily within the velveteen gilded chair. Legs crossed. Looking like a queen upon her throne. She leaned her elbow onto one arm of the seat, propping her jaw against her knuckles as she offered the saucer to the woman who took it kindly.<br/><br/>Of course, Zara expected the man would laugh at her display. A woman who looked as if she’d stepped from the desert with her cloak spilling over one arm of the chair. Tape wrapped tight around her calves with the bottom of her trousers tucked into them. But even that just barely peeked out over her knee-high boots.<br/><br/>She didn’t speak. Instead, she took him in. Rather, as much as possible. A cloak obscured most of his features. The hood pulled to veil his face. But he was definitely a warrior. His broad shoulders and height alone more than enough proof. He stood at least two heads taller than Zara. Though she wasn’t tall by any means. If anything, most would consider her rather short. Not that she minded. Her stature allowed her to fit places most others could not.<br/><br/>A long moment of silence passed and, finally, the man lifted his head.<br/>