“Okay.  Just so I’ve got this straight …” Ryanne lifted up on her tiptoes, leaning into Trand’s personal space. “Some crazy mercenary —”

“Thief.”

Ryanne bared her teeth in anticipation. “Some thief recognizes her Royal Highness Astrea’ea Torval, second in line to the throne of Tor’valla, daughter of the Priestess Zara, born in the waters of the fount itself. But …” She held up one tattooed finger. “They don’t know that she can shred their minds or skin them alive from kilometres away?”

“Technically I can’t flay skin with my mind,” I said, trying to not laugh as my friend schooled the new recruit.

“You just bought two knives,” Ryanne growled. “And you can wield both at the same time with your obscenely powerful magic. Consequently, the flaying of skin.”

I looked at Trand. “She has me there. If the blades are sharp enough I suppose.”

“They’re sharp enough.” Ryanne sniffed. “Because your freaky ass magic sharpens them, doesn’t it?”

I made a face, looking at Trand apologetically as if I’d been trying to be on his side of the argument. “Technically … possible.”

– untitled space opera, chapter one, first draft