The girl was small, slight, and had a purposeful look about her. She appeared to be about 14 or 15. Clad in a thin, billowing leather coat, she strode confidently across the square. Others hid and cowered on the sides of the open space, their hands on resting on swords and javelins.

The girl was alone, but the man she approached was surrounded and backed by dozens of tough, muscley goons. He himself was tall and rough with a mocking sneer spread on his face.

The girl walked into a patch of light and stopped. Her face was thin and her nose was knife-sharp. She had blue eyes that were unexpectedly focused, like a laser beam from the sky. Her hair was brown and very short, with sweeping bangs. She had a high forehead and pert lips, that opened to speak three words with intense presicion and care.

“You’re dead, Malder.”