Tora stepped off the barge with the weight of steel on her back and the scent of salt and soot filling her lungs. Oceanforge’s harbor was as loud and fragrant as ever: fish guts, wet ropes, spice smoke, and people shouting like they were all owed money.
She cracked her neck to the left. Then to the right.
“Gods, I hate boats,” she muttered, ignoring the sailor who dove out of her path after catching a glance at the battle axe strapped across her shoulder.
The city loomed ahead—great spires of copper and strange tech, lined with violet stone and humming pipes. Oceanforge: where machinery danced with magic and everyone had something to sell. It was also, unfortunately, the home of Ridlee.
She pulled the Blood Missive from her pouch. The dried crimson wax was still sealed with the crescent-and-nail insignia of Ridlee’s particular brand of insanity. She hadn’t seen him in ten years. He once got drunk and taught pigeons to fight. She liked him.
"‘Come quick. Trouble.’ That’s all he wrote," Tora muttered. “That idiot better not be dead. I still owe him a kick in the ass.”
Two steps into the lower docks, and trouble found her first.
A group of thugs—three, maybe four depending on how generous she was with counting necks—blocked the path into the city. They had the greasy look of mercenaries who drank more than they fought and wore their blades more like jewelry than tools. One stepped forward, licking his lips. Another had the decency to look slightly nervous.
“Oi oi, what’s this then?” said the biggest, his mustache curled like he paid someone to fear it. “You look lost, sweetheart.”
Tora stopped. She turned to face them, letting her cloak fall open. Her armor was patchworked leather and bronze, worn from a hundred fights and twice as many close calls. And her skin—her exposed arms and neck—was a map of scars: thin white lines, brutal gashes, even a faint burn trailing down her collarbone. Every mark had a name. Every one told a story.
The mustached man whistled. “That’s a lot of scars for a lady. Didn’t anyone teach you how to dodge?”
Tora tilted her head. “Didn’t anyone teach you how to shut the fuck up?”
The moment held—long enough for the wind to toss her braided hair and for a fishmonger to quietly bet on the outcome.
She sighed. “I’m in a rush. You can move. Or I’ll move you.”
Mustache blinked. “You threatening me, wench?”
She smiled.
That was all.
Then it was a blur—axe unslung, boots planted. The first thug went down before he could scream, his shoulder separated from everything it had previously loved. The second tried to grab her. She twisted, grabbed his arm, and dislocated his elbow like it was a badly-made toy. The third one ran. Smart.
Mustache drew his blade.
“Oh now you’re ready?” she asked, stepping forward.
He lunged, clumsy, overconfident. She caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted until the sword clattered to the ground. Then she cracked her forehead against his nose. It broke with a satisfying pop.
“Gods above!” he yelped, falling on his arse.
Tora picked up his sword, inspected it, then dropped it in the bay behind her.
“Garbage.”
She turned and kept walking. The docks parted like the sea before her.
Half an hour later, she was in the steaming back-alley tavern called The Vomiting Dragon, where the beer was hot and the clientele hotter—mostly from the fever that came from drinking anything served there. She found Ridlee in the back corner, exactly where he promised: surrounded by drink, herbs, and half a chicken leg.
“You brought trouble to my door, didn’t you?” she said, sitting down hard enough to rattle the bench.
Ridlee looked up, comfortable in his his rogue leathers and black cloth, too big for his wiry frame.
“I invited you to trouble,” he corrected. “That’s friendship.”
Tora raised a brow. “Explain. Fast.”
He pushed forward a parchment. “Something’s stirring in the east docks. Smugglers, enchanted steel, maybe Narrissian. I’ve been poking at it. Now they’re poking back.”
“You? Smugglers? You faint at sharp cheese.”
“I’ve grown bolder,” he said proudly.
“You grew chin hair and joined a book club.”
He leaned forward. “Tora, they’re trafficking cursed weapons. One man’s arm turned inside out. Just the arm. Do you know how magically precise that has to be?”
She exhaled. “What do you need me to do?”
He grinned. “Go knock on a door and terrify some bastards.”
She found the warehouse by the smell—old oil, old blood, and newer corpses trying to lie about being both. The guards outside were better equipped than the earlier thugs, but still looked like they’d fold under a firm breeze.
Tora didn't knock.
She kicked the door in.
The two guards inside barely had time to raise their weapons before her axe made a neat, hissing arc through the room. Blood sprayed against crates stamped with foreign seals.
Inside, more men. Six, maybe seven. They stared at her, dumbstruck.
One muttered, “It’s a woman…”
She stepped into the light.
Another corrected: “No, that’s a warrior.”
Tora grinned. “Got that right.”
The fight didn’t last long.
Axes against enchanted steel. Scarred knuckles on soft jaws. She fought like a storm—precise, practiced, and utterly without hesitation. When it ended, the warehouse was silent, the criminals either unconscious or leaking regrets into the floorboards.
She rifled through the crates and found what Ridlee feared: Narrissian blackglass blades etched with glyphs that hummed low and foul.
She grimaced. “Yep. That’s not local.”
Back at The Vomiting Dragon, she tossed the blade on the table.
“Problem solved,” she said.
Ridlee blinked. “You just walked in there and… handled it?”
“Did I stutter?”
He laughed. “Tora, you’re a legend.”
She sipped her mug. “I’m a woman with a good memory and a bad attitude. Oceanforge should learn the difference.”
A man approached, nervous. “Miss, I saw the way you handled those scum. You looking for work?”
Tora eyed him.
“I’m looking for a drink. And maybe a nap.”
Ridlee leaned in. “They’re already calling you The Thousand Scarred Blade.”
She rolled her eyes. “That's ridiculous.”
Pause.
“...It has a ring to it though.”