She pressed her finger and thumb together, squeezing the blood between each, before separating the connection. The sticky stretch of wet redness between each finger mesmerized her in a way that shouldn’t. Not unless she was a child. Perhaps, her mind fell back into the days before she fought for coin. Back before the men and women in her life found her suitable to abuse and belittle for their own enjoyment and profit.
Was it her blood or that of the bald-headed, bearded man she killed earlier? Who could say? It looked the same no matter the owner.
“You shivering bastards…” A man staggered by, catching sight of her as she pressed her back against a low stone wall. The cool air of the early morning made both of their breaths misty.
Chasiel bit back the cooing sound in her throat, ready, and surprising the ugly fool who belonged to her rival mercenaries, the Silver Way. He stepped in, short sword raised and ready to hack at her, but Chasiel’s instinct and will to live could not be undone even by her childish lapse. Her dagger blade sliced open the man’s thigh. He screamed but could barely get the sound out before she twisted the blade upward into his throat. More blood.
She fell back to the cold, hard ground as the man toppled over, shaking slightly as life slipped away. Her body ached in pain. Her cuts and the stab wound to her lower back were beginning to burn. She could see her reflection in the fresh pool of blood now. How could it reflect like a mirror? Truly, it was a considerable quality to reflect back the reflection of the one who killed its master.
A voice came in the distance of the manor’s grounds. Fenroe. He lived. Chasiel let the coo finally slip from her grasp of it in her throat. The Silver Way set the trap for them. Somehow, they knew of Chasiel’s attempt at taking their contract. Crisp was dead and she saw her captain, Feller Crowne, take an arrow in the chest. Maybe he lived. Maybe he didn’t. Others fell as well. How many of their numbers remained?
An odd thing blood was to be so important for life, she thought. Yet in death, it was trivial. Lose some and you live. Lose too much and you die. There she was again, mesmerized by the red fluid. She preferred the days before she saw so much blood. Days of seeking food and shelter only. There was no need for blood back then.
Fenroe again. She let the cooing sound come from her lips and heard him curse, hurrying towards her across the yard, likely searching behind the structures and stalls of the wealthy merchant. Chasiel wanted to sleep. Her eyes grew heavy. She did not think she lost too much of her own blood. Not yet at least. Such an odd thing, though, for her life to be leaking slowly.