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Worn Blade, Act II ✦ K.B.

✦ Kaz Brekker x Fem! Reader

━━━━━ ( SYNOPSIS. ) She who was known throughout Ketterdam as 'The Blade' disappeared years ago, leaving behind the blood of many victims. Yet, tonight, some claim to have caught the silver glint of a well-known dagger. But this is impossible: no one escapes from Hellgate.

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ACT II. « Old Demons Always Rise From Their Ashes » ━━━━━━━━━ ✦

Jesper and Inej had paced the Barrel all night, one on the cobblestones, the other perched on the rooftops. Ghosts for an evening, they had melted into the darkness of the sky in hope of seeing the bloody star that would pierce the canvas—the infamous silvery reflection everyone talked about.

The moon remained silent, an accomplice to the murder. A repeat offender, she was the faithful companion of many souls diverted by the thirst for blood and money.

Since he could not be given a proper burial, the bouncer’s body had been thrown unceremoniously into a mass grave, one more among the heap of all the other poor and criminals. With that, his identity had been forgotten, his face blurred and a replacement for his position had already been sought.

An umpteenth victim of the city's violence, he had disappeared like the others. All that remained of him were his wife's heart-rending cries and that morbid stain on the cobblestones, which no one had bothered to clean up.

The pool of blood would disappear with the rain and, until then, would serve as a warning to all who trod on it: the Blade had returned and with her, her murderous ways. With this reappearance, Ketterdam was returning to its truest form: the land built by blood, pain and vengeance it was—a peculiar architecture that the bandit had greedily carved.

“Except for the body, nothing,” Jesper had told him when they had returned, his coat soaked with rain and effort—an unpleasant cocktail. Kaz frowned. “Even the witnesses didn't have time to figure out what was going on. She probably threw the blade from a distance.”

Except that was unlikely. Every criminal in Ketterdam had their own trademark, their own modus operandi. As well-known and feared as she was, the Blade was no exception to the rule of the Barrel's lowlifes. Like all, she was infatuated with routine. An ugly flaw that, however, remained—much like bad memories.

And if there was one thing Kaz Brekker knew about the Blade, it was that no technique gave her more pleasure than hand-to-hand combat.

“Hearing your victim's cries is the best part. You don't get to enjoy it if you send an arrow or use poison,” she had told him on one of the few days they had managed to work together, many years ago.

The next day, at the Slat, Inej had told him her side of the story. The Wraith had returned to the front of the club in the hope that, in the throes of idiocy—or rather, the adrenaline of a perfect murder—the criminal would retrace her steps to admire the fruits of her labour.

There had been nothing but the cold and grey face of the Dreg. No sign of a masked silhouette, except for her own, morbidly reflected in the pool of blood that had turned blacker as it clotted.

From a distance, it could have easily been mistaken for mud.

It was as if—even before being buried in the paupers’ grave—he had already begun his return to the earth.

Matter calls to matter.

“His face was mutilated. A diagonal line across the face. Carved with a worn blade.”

“Worn?”

This detail made him pause. If the sign of the Blade was infamous to everyone in the Barrel, it was its surgical precision that made it particularly terrifying. Clean, almost too much, it barred the face of every victim who had dealt with the dagger known to all. A terrible spectacle whose only witnesses were those who remained, the collateral damages of Man's worst vices, both far from the cyclone and yet at its heart.

No one had yet had the misfortune to see themselves disfigured in the mirror, for no one was yet alive to tell the tale. The Blade took but never gave in return. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," except when the sinners decided otherwise.

Her victims’ bodies became her canvas; their blood, her paint; her blade, her brush. An artist of horror, her finest masterpieces were born out of others’ affliction.

If the Barrel was teeming with bastards and human scum, the Blade was perhaps the worst of them all. It made one wonder if, among the fragmented puzzle of her soul, there was still a heart beating, or if it had died with all her victims, mutilated for the sake of it.

“Perhaps an accomplice?” Inej suggested, drawing Kaz out of his thoughts. He hadn't realised that his grip on his quill had tightened to the point of staining his gloves with ink.

“No.”

Even if, she still held the strings of poor frightened souls—the conductor of an army of unbreakable string puppets—, all while rotting in a cell, never would the criminal have delegated a murder to anyone else. Why take the pleasure of killing away from herself, especially after years without it?

Inej hesitated. She could see how much the subject of the Blade was bothering him. His dark circles were more pronounced, his eyebrows, always furrowed. Since the attack, he had not slept. The sound of his cane echoed on the floor of his room when all were sleeping. Perhaps he was desperate for a plan? Perhaps he was busy finding ways to cover his back? No one really knew, but everyone had noticed the change in their boss.

The looks exchanged between the Dregs spoke volumes.

Again, no words. Ketterdam spoke in silence.

“Maybe she's not as strong as she used to be?” the Suli girl ventured after a few moments without Kaz speaking. “Who knows? She's only recently came back. Starting to live again after spending six years in Hellgate... I mean… no one would blame her for not sharpening her knives.”

He chuckled.

“Do you honestly think she'd do that? Think about it, Inej. It's in her name. The Blade is no longer the Blade if her dagger is not sharpened.”

He stood up without his cane, as if the mere mention of his rival made him forget all pain. With each word he spoke, he moved a little closer to Inej, who remained motionless, used to his fits of anger.

“She's a pest who thinks of everything, who's probably spent all her hours locked up in her cell sharpening a knife against a wall—hell, against her teeth, even—waiting to stab it into my heart. The Blade doesn't do anything randomly.”

“Perhaps, but-”

“But nothing. If the knife was worn, there was a reason.”

But, which one? The question hung in the air, almost tangible. Inej did not try to answer it for this unspoken inquiry had barely been mentioned and, yet, already seemed to materialise on Kaz Brekker's shoulders, who faltered under its weight.

Inej stood as a bewildered spectator before this unprecedented picture. Nothing remained of her boss and friend.

Kaz Brekker had become the embodiment of defeat before the fight had even begun.

━━━━━━━━━━ ✦

Nothing.

No new rumours or murders, let alone a silver dagger. Its reflection had faded, as had the fear.

It was as if the news that had shaken the whole city had never existed. Those who had hid in their homes for fear that their blood would end up on the cobblestones took to the streets of the Barrel, which rediscovered the sound and smell of its constant intoxication.

The kruge began to clink in the Crow Club's tills again, the glasses were refilled and stained the tables, which became slimy again after midnight. The bellies were stuffed and the laughter shook the walls, almost as much as the renewed cries of rage from those who lost their bets.

Such was the melody of happiness for all the opportunists who capitalized on human baseness and its simple spirit. How good it was to see it set the rhythm of hearts and businesses.

The general euphoria was contagious and had spread to the whole gang. Even Jesper and Inej had returned to their usual positions. Only Kaz was cursing the resumption of the Barrel's continuous festivities, despite being one of its main coordinators.

The poor innocent people—did they really exist in this Barrel anymore? —were the only ones happy about this return to normality. As normal as it may be in a city paced as much by ghosts as by the living and fed by the taste of blood.

This multifaceted absence was not a good omen, and Kaz’s own symbol reminded him of it, like a poor joke. The croak of the crow merged with a demonic laughter that tormented him in his dreams and awakening. A feminine, cruel laughter. A sordid déjà vu that would not leave him alone.

He saw her everywhere. He was almost waiting for her, wanting to end this strange cat-and-mouse game where the cat doesn't chase the mouse which doesn't escape. There was simply the expectation of the inevitable. A certain acceptance of the situation, which was no less barbaric for who would consent to their own murder?

Silence and inaction were not good in Ketterdam. A city of deeds, it thrived on fighting and conflict. The radio silence of the Blade was only a foretaste of what was to occur.

The thoughtful and meticulous torture of the mind, which cannot help but ramble on to the worst possibilities. This is how fear is born. This is how the opponent wins. In the dawning fear.

A pattern known and used by all, but which, nevertheless, always worked perfectly, as if the human mind was incapable of clear-sightedness when it thought itself in danger.

Logic is nothing compared to imagination. Paranoia is the best of all weapons, and perhaps the most destructive.

How strange it was to see Kaz Brekker fall for one of the oldest tricks in the book. How strange it was to see these almost mythical figures of the Barrel demonstrate humanity at its most fragile.

The nightmares had multiplied. Jordie and the waves were fading away, replaced by an equally raging sea. Only a silver, bloody dagger pierced the swell. Held by a dark figure, Death followed him even in his unconscious. He wasn't sure when he had begun to associate the Reaper with the Blade but the two figures had merged until they were one single expanse of black, jumping down his throat every time he dared to close his eyes, even to blink.

The life of a criminal is full of torment. Few manage to keep their peace of mind. Dead but unearthed souls, they are condemned to wander alone in the hell they have created for themselves.

The Blade was his punishment, his sword of Damocles.

On the floor below, Kaz heard Jesper's cry of joy, far from the heavy and lonely atmosphere of his office. Everything was quiet. Only the sound of the pen scratching the paper disturbed the silence. This graphic whispering was perhaps the only word that had been uttered since that night. Even his own breathing seemed too loud. He sometimes found himself holding it back to finally achieve total quietness.

This silence was controlled. His own work, not that of paranoia and the anxiety of a reunion that would surely be eventful. In his office, Kaz was in a strong position. He felt untouchable.

A pure illusion, no doubt, but one that had the gift of comforting him. Almost. The plans in front of his eyes did not make sense, which annoyed him deeply.

Inej had told him about a priceless jewel box during one of her many nocturnal escapades. Contaminated by the enthusiasm of his Crows, Kaz had given in and managed—perhaps with the help of one or two of Wylan's bombs—to get the blueprints of the house housing the said diamonds.

The ink had smudged at times, making the whole thing incomprehensible: a stain that he had spent the last few days trying to decipher.

With this, his daily life was back to normal.

Life had to go on. The Blade could not win.

The cool wind, trickling in through the half-open window, made him shiver for the umpteenth time. The cries of victims of the city's cruelty could almost be heard in the whistling gusts.

Ketterdam was quieter than usual and the Barrel, which was alive day and night, whether it was windy or rainy, seemed eerily silent. It was strange, especially after having witnessed the new-found joy of life in the whole neighbourhood.

A strong gust of wind slammed the window against the wall, shaking the collection of stolen DeKappels that decorated it. He turned around.

The blade against his throat, cold and mocking, caught him off guard but did not surprise him.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn't let you bleed to death right now,” a voice whispered in his ear. Only the volume matched the seeming delicacy of the action, the rest—from words to tone—was full of wrath.

“Hello, Y/N.”

You pressed the blade a little harder and watched with satisfaction as the carmine gold beaded.

Kaz Brekker's blood would be your greatest reward.

“You lost the right to speak my name the day you sold me for five million, Rietveld.”

You emphasised that name, this weakness.

Kaz tried to stab his quill into your hand, but you countered the blow before hitting the back of his injured leg. He bent and swore.

The Barrel's bastard was a poor show that you would gladly tear to pieces.

“Six years I've been gone and you're still this bad at hand-to-hand combat? I'm almost disappointed,” you taunted him.

Without waiting, Kaz grabbed his cane on the ground and ran towards you. Dagger versus crow's head, the fight would have been laughable if it didn't reflect all the hatred of its two opponents. He managed to slap you, the beak scrapping your cheek. You felt the blood running down your face.

This reminded you that he wasn't bleeding enough.

From your belt you drew another knife and stabbed him in the shoulder. This sent him crashing into the door in pain, but he got up quickly, driven by hate and—above all—pride. Yet, not as much as you, who had waited six years for this moment.

The Saints were finally giving you the opportunity to take your revenge. Your vision had become blurred, your heart had quickened under the adrenaline, the sadistic joy of causing pain.

You circled for some time, glaring at each other, waiting to see who would be audacious enough to strike first.

It was you who, in a hurry to claim your due—his life—gave in and jumped on him. You both fell to the ground, breaking several ornaments. He punched you in the same place he had made you bleed. Insensitive, probably from the adrenaline, you immediately headbutted him. The back of his head hit the floor with a satisfying crack. His eyes blurred under the shock.

Taking advantage of it, you grabbed a piece of glass from one of the broken vases and pressed it against his stomach, a sadistic smile on your lips.

“I'm going to make you suffer, you bastard. When I'm done with you, you'll beg me to kill you to ease your pain.”

Drops of sweat began to bead on his forehead, drops of red, on your hands. The metallic scent of his blood filled the room; you could almost taste it on your tongue. It tasted like victory. No. Better. It tasted like revenge.

“And when you think that finally, it’s is over, I'll start again. I'll drag you to Hell and pull you out so I can put you back in. Again, and again, and again, until justice is done.”

Driven by an invisible force—no doubt the threat of death, which was getting closer and closer—Kaz managed to break free of your grip and grabbed his metal paperweight, which he smashed against the side of your head. Your body fell to the floor.

As a last resort you drew your gun from your boot and stuck it to his rib, but your fingers gave way, suddenly weak, as did your head. A senseless, lightning fatigue hit you. Your legs and arms followed in a second.

Reduced to a disjointed puppet, no muscle responded to the signals sent by your brain, which was still alert and hungry for murder.

It was only when the sensation of floating came and your heart—anaesthetized by years of crimes—jolted against your ribcage that you finally understood what was going on.

“Brekker can't cope on his own, he needs a heartrender... Awe. It's almost touching. Or pathetic... I don't know...”

Everything went black.

━━━━━━━━━━ ✦

It was a strange sight to see the dreadful Blade tied to a chair in the now emptied Crow Club, her head bobbing under Nina’s spell.

In the corner of the room, Kaz was wiping blood from his jacket, his face grim. He hadn't spoken once since the Crows had come to his rescue, not even when Jesper had tried to lighten the mood with one of his tasteless jokes.

No doubt he felt embarrassed to have been overpowered so quickly by his rival. No doubt the rage was beginning to boil in his stomach and numb the pain of the flailing wound.

His gaze had not wandered from the sleeping figure, a few steps away from him and yet too close, too dangerous. Even out cold, with Nina's help, she represented a past he sought to forget.

“What are we waiting for? Shouldn’t we kill her?”

They all looked back at the chemist, who shrugged his shoulders, an innocent look on his face. Jesper rolled his eyes, though a fond smile revealed what he really thought of that.

“The sooner we get rid of her, the sooner business will pick up,” the sharpshooter added, agreeing with his boyfriend. “And I’ll stop having nightmares, which is welcomed.”

It was as if just seeing her asleep made them forget the immense power that laid dormant in the criminal's soul. Her cruelty disappeared with unconsciousness. Yet, Kaz Brekker knew.

She was just waiting to be unleashed.

“To kill her is to declare war on her gang.” Kaz's voice cracked in the air like a whip, ending the group's jovial air.

“Since when are you afraid of that?” Nina asked.

“And besides, as you said, the Blade acts alone. She doesn't have a gang,” Inej interjected. She still didn't understand how that could be possible.

Surviving alone in Ketterdam was pure madness. In the midst of predatory gangs, the individual is prey offered on a silver platter. Only a few manage to gain respect in this determined hierarchy of gangs and circles. The spy shuddered as she counted how many people the Blade had had to kill to gain respect, to the point where she was feared not only by the entire city but especially by the one person who never felt terror: Kaz Brekker.

“But she has fanatics. People who want to win her favour.”

It was an unspoken rule in the Barrel. To serve a serial killer is to avoid a knife in the chest.

His attention returned to the hostage. Even unconscious, her fingers were spasming, as if eager to wrap themselves around her famous dagger.

Her facial features had changed with time. They now bore the full burden of Hellgate and told more of what she had faced for six years than any rumour. The scar that ran diagonally across her face, from her left eyebrow to the right side of her jaw, was perhaps the worst proof. If the wound looked rather old, it was still bright pink. He could imagine perfectly well the constant pain, similar to that he felt every day, hour, minute, in his leg.

Was it easier to bear than the weight of her sins?

“Nina. Wake her up,” he ordered.

The murmurs stopped short, and the Grisha seemed to hesitate. She asked him if it was the right thing to do, saying out loud what everyone else was thinking.

“I'm beginning to think he's masochistic," Jesper whispered to Wylan. Everyone heard him. “What? Tell me I’m wrong!”

Kaz's gaze did not waver despite the protests of his Crows. He repeated his order. Finally, Nina stepped forward and held out her arms before unclenching her fist and with it, her grip on the Blade's heart. Everyone watched her regain consciousness. No one dared approach except Kaz, who took a chair and sat down opposite her.

When you finally realised where you were, your muscles tensed and you began to pull at the rope that bound you. Brekker stared at you. There was no expression on his face, though it was bruised from your fight.

A satisfied smile stretched your face, despite the pain it cost you. It was obvious that Brekker's minions had not been gentle when tying you up.

“If you think bounding me is the way to get the upper hand, you’re mistaken,” you said.

“Careful, now," threatened a woman in a garish red dress. Way too many frills for your taste.

“And who are you? His watchdog?”

So, it had taken six years and your imprisonment for Kaz Brekker to finally put together a gang, which was nothing grand despite what you'd heard, hidden in the constant darkness of the Barrel's streets. Between the puny man at the back and the limping leader, it was a rather interesting sight to see—both pathetic and entertaining. A laugh fell from your chapped lips.

“Those are the Crows? Well, I knew the Barrel went to shit when I left, but damn, I wasn't thinking that much.”

“What's with the scar?” Kaz ignored your provocations and nodded towards your face.

The latter suddenly seemed to burn. It was as if the hot blade was cutting into your eyebrow for the second time. It was going down the same path, digging its own furrow a little deeper to make sure it would never fade.

“You know. The usual. Acquaintances of victims who wanted revenge after Hellshows.”

You still remembered the screams and the cage, the blood and the beatings, the ever-longer fights, the insults and the sadistic look on Pekka Rollins' face. You showed nothing of this, your expression neutral even if, in your skull, the prayers of those you had killed with your bare hands—dozens of them, perhaps hundreds—resonated and haunted you.

“Why did you kill one of my Dregs?”

“To piss you off. I heard you took the lead. Congrats on the promotion. I always wanted to slit the throat of a gang leader.”

The urge to kill was itching. Visceral, it colonized your mind, your soul, and your body. Your entire being wanted to see Kaz Brekker suffer, bleed, die. The red stained your vision and it seemed to wrap itself around your target. This imaginary strangulation was your only satisfaction in your forced inaction, just as it had been your mental refuge for six years.

Six years spent imagining a thousand and one ways to torture and kill the one responsible for your fate. When the time came, you would make them all come true. One by one. Slowly.

The sharpshooter pointed his revolver at you, more annoyed by your threats than the concerned man, who, incidentally, stopped him with a simple wave of his hand. He probably wanted the satisfaction of finishing you off himself. For Kaz Brekker was selfish.

During several minutes your eyes clashed, almost as violently as your bodies had earlier. A psychic war from which no one wins. In this city, only blows and killing lead to victory.

“I want you as one of my Crows.”

Silence.

And then the laughter came.

You laughed until you couldn’t anymore. Curled up in that chair, you laughed so hard you lost your breath. The exclamations of protest from his members were drowned out by your hilarity, which stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

Wylan shuddered at the sight of the Blade's expression.

It was as if Death itself had sculpted it.

“You really think I care about being the dog of the asshole who sent me to Hellgate?” You spat at him. Your saliva dripped from his eyebrow to his cheek. He didn't bother to wipe it off. “I would never stoop that low. Do you hear me? Never. I'd rather die.”

“Things have changed at the Barrel, L/N. You don't belong there anymore. The dynamics have shifted. You’re back at the bottom.”

“And so, because of that, I should go with you? With those useless pieces of shit who can't tie a rope properly?”

Everything happened so quickly. You jumped on him, a gun pressed to his forehead. This set off a series of reactions. Soon four Crows were against you, their respective weapons brandished like an unfortunate trophy before them. Their gestures were tremulous, amateurish. You detected a glint of fear in the masked girl's eyes.

Good.

“Tell them to shoot and stab me. Go on. I don't mind dying if it means taking you with me,” you whispered. “I will haunt you in life and in death, Brekker. There is not a universe where you will be safe.”

An explosion sounded.

When the dust finally vanished, you were gone.

“You know… I'm almost disappointed she didn't stab you.” Jesper sighed.

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