Excerpt From Right Hand Procedure: Vol XI, Ch. 9 — Interrogation & Intelligence Practices
Captain Esmerai Rathi (1st Right Hand Company | Palace Hold | Command Use Only)
Sec 1. On Discipline
Your power should end exactly where your will does. There can be no spillover, no accidents. There are no excuses.
Chapter 1
I felt caged.
I had to get out of this hold, even for a few hours. Tonight, I planned to slip out of Palace Hold by blending in with this patrol. With watchful eyes on me at all times, I craved a break from being Captain Esmerai Rathi and the constant scrutiny that came with it. Lately, a heavy pressure had settled over me, close and almost claustrophobic.
Standing alone in the cover of the eastern colonnade, my helm down and my Right Hand insignia covered, I was just another armored figure in the courtyard. The rose quartz gravel underfoot still held the day’s heat, crunching softly beneath the shifting boots of a dozen restless riders.
Above us, silk banners stirred against a star-pricked sky, crimson and black, the colors of Palace Hold, rippling like blood in water. Torchlight flickered across the main gate's decorative glazed blue tiles, casting an illusion of slickness that defied the dry reality of the arid night.
From the shadows, I scanned the riders. None were familiar. The patrol gathered in loose groups, tightening buckles, checking weapons, cracking jokes to fill the silence. Waiting for the order to ride.
I hadn’t come here to hear their gossip. I came to vanish. To ride out, unnoticed, with the patrol providing the perfect breathing space. But they were talking about me and every word landed like a barb.
“They’re saying the Assassin wanted intel on the Coven’s Fury… wanted to know where we’re keeping her.”
Fury.
The name I’d never asked for. The name that wouldn’t let me forget what I’d done.
Everyone in the hold knew my story. At least the sanctioned version. But hardly anyone knew me. Not the lord’s daughter, not the captain of intelligence. Not the promising war hero who came back broken. I knew what they whispered—traitor, slayer.
Let them whisper. Their whispers echoed the truth: that I deserved to be buried under my medals, shut away in this hold, where I couldn’t hurt anyone ever again.
“I guess Anders was already fang deep, feeding, before he realized the blood was silver-tainted.”
The speaker was a novice rider. Too loud for discretion, and too proud of his rumor to care who might hear. His voice carried through the limp air, slipping past the towering main gate, past the brick walls that once protected mortal kings. Now with exquisite irony, sheltering the very vampires their builders swore would never breach them. Past me.
I didn’t flinch or step forward. I just listened.
A veteran rider, his sleeve covered in patches for each injury he'd survived, shook his head at the others. “The Silver Assassins are posing as our mortal savorys now?” He ran a hand down his face where a light blue scar dented his chin. “Clever bastards.”
I had to admit, exploiting our appetites as a weakness was a clever strategy. Our mortal savorys, as they were called, typically worked in the hold kitchens, preparing regular food and flasks of animal blood. These meals kept our energy up, but it was the savorys’ blood that truly sustained our forever life.
The brazen novice telling the story didn’t appear to agree. “They’re just mortals, Calder. And Anders killed her too quickly, anyway. I would have made her suffer for trying something like that.” He frowned, but the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes gave him away.
No, I thought. You wouldn’t have. Not if she had silver in her blood. It was always easier to imagine your enemy as inferior. It made the killing easier, but I knew better. That arrogance had cost us dearly in the early days of the occupation.
The Silver Assassins, mortal extremists, were fanatics who forged their own weapons and poisoned themselves with silver, just to take one of us down.
Calder snorted at his companion’s bravado, unimpressed. “I doubt you’d be thinking of anything, Leiv. Other than the silver sickness burning you from the inside out. I bet she got a dagger or two into Anders before he ended her.”
The Assassins moved through the city, hiding among their own kind. They had always made the streets dangerous for our vampire cavalry, but our holds were safe.
Until now.
Another rider spoke up, sounding unnerved. “Actually, I saw Anders in the healing tents last night after it happened.” He drove the heel of his riding boot into the gravel and spit on the ground. “He didn’t look good...”
I unconsciously rubbed my right palm over the knuckles of my left hand, where silver scarring had left blue indents running all over the skin. As painful as the old injury still was, I’d been lucky to survive.
If the Silver Assassins were striking within our strongholds, they'd grown bolder and more persuasive. I doubted the Assassins had managed to plant one of their own in the kitchens. It was far more likely they had found a discontented mortal savory and turned her against us.
Calder crossed his arms and leaned in. “Did Anders tell you anything about the attack?”
“Yeah,” said the other, clearly shaken. “She stabbed him with a silver dagger.”
Calder nodded, not looking pleased to be proven right.
“Leiv is right about what she wanted though. She asked whether…” he paused, looking wary again. “Whether the Coven’s Fury was here at Palace Hold.”
Calder’s face drew into a scowl and he swore under his breath. “The Lord save us all if we can’t keep her safe.”
I stood motionless even as my heart quickened, and my mind spun. The Silver Assassins were targeting the Coven’s Fury?
I swallowed. My throat suddenly too dry. They wanted… me.
The novice, Leiv, scowled back. “The Coven’s Fury should be keeping us safe, not the other way around.”
“Watch your mouth, you fool.”
But Leiv only raised his voice, jeering. “What’s she even done for us since we got here? She’s healed by now. I’ll drag her out myself and point her at the mortals.”
Calder moved without warning. His fist cracked across Leiv’s jaw, sending the junior rider stumbling back, clutching his face. “You’ll regret talk like that. You don’t unleash a caged wolf in the middle of a battlefield...” He leaned in, voice like a growl. “Not unless you want to get bit, too.”
My jaw clenched beneath my helm.
Not bad, Calder. Not wrong, either.
The murmur died as the Chaplain strode into the courtyard. “May the Lord keep your eyes sharp, your horses swift, and your mission foremost.”
All the riders knelt before him. Their left knee plates pressed into the gravel while their right thighs balanced the weight of their helms.
“The stability of Mithras rests on your shoulders,” the Chaplain went on. “Fight for your fellow riders on your left and your right.”
Chaplain Matthieu meant every word, I knew that much. His captain’s rank, like mine, was pinned neatly at his collar. He’d lost his mate at the beginning of the occupation, when they were both working as healers. I’d met him only briefly during that time, surrounded by tinctures, blood flasks, and whispered prayers. Healers weren’t so different from Chaplains. One mended the body, the other the soul. It made a kind of sense that Matthieu had found peace in the Chaplain’s Corps, after failing to save the one he loved from the slow ruin of silver.
While Matthieu continued, I surveyed the patrol’s war horses. They stood in formation along the shadows of the gate and were unusually still. No pawing, stamping, or head tossing. No nostrils flared toward the group. Naturally prey animals, these horses could sense our underlying, barely restrained hunger.
My own hunger for mortal blood was always just beneath the skin, ready to fuel an intense burst of bloodlust, the first step in unlocking our power.
Power I was under orders to actively avoid. I had a history of channeling my bloodlust into exceptional power. Before I’d lost control.
I drank blood flasks regularly to suppress it.
Lately, it wasn’t working. A realization that should have terrified me. Yet, instead, I felt a secret, almost perverse relief. I had become more aware of my power, resting deep within my chest. Even the slightest touch of it stirred memories of who I used to be.
I’d commanded an elite cavalry squadron to defeat our enemies, the werewolves called lycans, during the Battle of the Veil. As the sole heir of Lord Marcus Rathi, the widowed ruler of our vampiric Coven, it was my birthright to command. I’d even demonstrated my unusual ability to harness bloodlust into magnified power early in officer school. Abilities Colonel Góra had pushed to see tested on the battlefield.
For the first time in Coven history, multiple powers were channeled simultaneously. I delivered kill strikes with my blade while moving imperceptibly fast. Healing, too, occurred continuously, without physical effort or thought. This amplified expression of power, and something darker, had secured our victory that night.
Without their lycan defenders, the borders of Mithras were exposed. Góra’s cavalry swept in. When my father found me after the battle, critically wounded, he was torn between celebrating my triumph and forbidding me from ever tapping into my power again. I rode by his side through the streets of Mithras, honored as a victor, only to collapse in the healing tents soon after.
The riders were told the truth, their champion was injured in body and soul. Only Góra and the Lord knew the real cost of my power. I smothered the memory before it locked my spine rigid.
But Calder’s voice, Leiv’s accusation… they told me more than they meant to.
“Leave none behind,” Matthieu intoned. He raised his eyes to the heavens, pale blue irises glowing like twin flares against his dark complexion. Matthieu’s expression was earnest, and entirely sincere.
A moment of silence settled.
Then—a shout.
From the outer causeway.
Two guards sprinted through the gate, carrying a third. Her armor hung loose at the shoulder, split open to reveal scorched flesh and a gash that smoked from shoulder to wrist.
“They made it past the outer perimeter,” one of them panted. “Guard post three. She didn’t see it coming.”
Matthieu moved fast, his long stole whipping as he dropped to one knee. “Hold her steady. Someone fetch ash and water.”
The injured vampire groaned as Matthieu pressed on blistered, silver-burned skin.
One of the guards lost his grip. Her body fell hard to the courtyard, limbs seizing as the silver sickness burned through her shoulder.
I recoiled without thinking, unsettled by the sudden drop and the reminder of what silver could do to one of us.
My back hit something solid. Warm. Unmoving.
A warhorse.
I caught the saddle to steady myself, breath shallow.
The horse snorted but the rider didn’t flinch.
I looked up, already bracing for disdain, or worse, recognition.
The Patrol Leader angled his head, faceplate down, eyes lost in shadow. His voice was low, almost amused.
“Easy, Captain. I’m not hunting you.”
Just a tease, a flick of attention, but it made my pulse jump.
He didn’t move or offer help. Just let the silence stretch while I found my balance and stepped away.
At least I’d gotten a close look at his saddle. There were no Palace Hold markings. This patrol was likely from a smaller holding, called in as temporary backfill.
Perfect for my escape.
A wiry officer stood, pale and rattled. “We’ll resume the briefing now. Riders, form up. Helms on.” He brushed dust from his breeches with a folded notebook. “Tonight’s mission is a standard supply escort,” he said. He crossed his arms, drawing attention to the Right Hand insignia on his shoulder, lips sewn shut with thick gold thread. A gruesome reminder.
I recognized the freshly minted officer—Stephen Chae. He was young and new to the palace. I remembered hearing he’d come from Hammam Holding, in the old city district. I wondered what he made of the wide halls and quiet gardens here. He still seemed out of place.
Apprehension stirred low in my chest. If he recognized me, he might report me.
I knew I couldn’t ask permission to leave the hold. If the Lord discovered I was riding out on patrols, it would draw his disapproval. I was expected to stay out of combat and preferably within the safety of the hold’s walls.
Tonight, I wore standard cavalry black and borrowed armor masking my insignia. My saber sat at my hip, a short sword across my back.
My spurs were the only true tell: etched wolf heads with real canines ripped from the fallen Lycan alpha at the Battle of the Veil.
But Stephen’s eyes passed over me, without recognition.
“There’s continued attacks here in the palace district,” he said. “No indication of enemy forces near your destination at the wharves. Weather is clear and the moonrise will be late. Visibility favors us.”
I tuned out the rest.
If the Assassins were probing Palace Hold, then nothing could be safer than riding outside the gate.
Out there, they wouldn’t expect me.
Thin logic but I clung to it.
For the first time in a long time I craved the thrill of adventure, of the unknown that lurked out there in the streets among the mortals. I was exhausted by the relative safety of my chambers and predictability of my intelligence company work.
As Stephen spoke, I scanned the riders, impressively calm and unshaken. They’d seen blood, and they were ready to spill more. It should have made me feel safer. Instead, it reminded me just how weak I was.
I couldn’t channel power. Not anymore.
My shoulders tensed, then straightened.
No. Not weak.
I was fast, nearly a match for a rider when he shadowsprinted, surging forward with power. My blade work was precise, lethal. I didn’t need their power. I had control.
That had to be enough.
“Cheers to a smooth ride,” Stephen finished, ticking a box in his notebook.
Stephen might be a problem.
The riders began to rise and mount up. I moved quickly, intercepting Stephen and Matthieu, who had passed the injured guard to an arriving healer.
“Nice job, Lieutenant,” I said.
His eyes widened at the unexpected praise. “Thank you. I didn’t realize anyone from the palace would be joining us.” Then, a flash of panic. “I mean…you should have done the patrol speech, Captain.”
I smiled, reassuring but distant. “I’m only here as an unscheduled ride-along. No need for formalities.”
Stephen flipped through his notes. “I didn’t see any additions to the manifest…”
Before he could object, Matthieu cut in, tone dry. “I don’t think anyone here is going to argue with an officer of the Right Hand. Are they?”
I bit down a smirk. The Chaplain was arguing with Stephen on my behalf, tactfully.
Stephen crossed his arms, unconvinced.
“The Patrol Leader should be the final word,” Matthieu added, gesturing toward the mounted figure I was already too aware of.
He sat astride the massive dapple-grey, reins in hand. The black plume on his helm stirred faintly in the breeze.
I hadn’t planned to ask the Patrol Leader’s permission. He was just a rider. I’d come ready to issue an order. But now, his approval felt important.
I looked into the slits of his visor and felt the weight of his stare land on me like a gauntlet. He’d heard everything. I was waiting on his judgment.
My breath caught.
Would he deny me? Report me?
My chest tightened. I hated this feeling of being watched, judged, recognized. I was one wrong breath away from losing the anonymity I’d worked so hard to create.
I swallowed hard. There was no reason to worry. These riders didn’t know me. They had no reason to argue with a captain.
The Patrol Leader leaned slightly forward on his horse. He seemed to be considering.
Why was I reacting so strongly to this male?
My fingers twitched toward my saber.
No, Fury. Don’t reach for your weapon.
Instead, I reached for something older. Something buried.
I hesitated, but only for a breath. Then I let my awareness drift inward, brushing up against the sealed vault inside me where I kept my power locked away.
Even now, my mind screamed not to touch it. Once I opened that door, even a crack, it might be impossible to close.
But I needed something…clarity, steadiness, control.
A reminder.
I gently touched the vault door, the edge of my power, and I could feel it stir beneath, slow and molten, answering like it had been waiting. It didn’t roar; it breathed. Cool and low. Whispering against my touch like a promise.
I exhaled carefully and, with practiced discipline, sealed my power down even tighter.
The vault door wouldn’t open. Not today. Not ever.
My power retreated.
I was at a disadvantage without my power, but I had control. Total control. I lifted my chin and met the Patrol Leader’s gaze.
He urged his horse to take a couple of steps forward. A curtain of power, cool and thick, rolled over my skin like smoke… or silk. It curled around my cheeks, my mouth. My lips tingled, flushed. Almost like being kissed.
What in the realm was that?
My pulse thrummed. My own power strained to rise in answer. I locked it down again and forced my body to still. I had no idea what had touched me or where it came from.
The Patrol Leader?
Without a word, the Patrol Leader gave a curt nod.
Permission.
I was in. And whatever came next, I’d be riding straight into it.
