Excerpts Evan Leikam Read Anji Kills A King by Evan Leikam: Prologue and Chapters 1-2 An unlikely assassin struggles to escape a legendary bounty hunter… By Evan Leikam | Published on April 14, 2025 Comment 0 Share New Share She killed for a cause. Will she die for it too? An unlikely assassin struggles to escape a legendary bounty hunter in Anji Kills A King, the fantasy debut from author Evan Leikam—publishing May 13th with Tor Books. Join us for an extended preview, with new excerpts every Monday through May 5th. Anji works as a castle servant, cleaning laundry for a king she hates. So when a rare opportunity presents itself, she seizes the chance to cut his throat. Then she runs for her life. In her wake, the kingdom is thrown into disarray, while a bounty bigger than anyone could imagine lands on her head.On her heels are the fabled mercenaries of the Menagerie, whose animal-shaped masks are magical relics rumored to give them superhuman powers. It’s the Hawk who finds Anji first: a surly, aging swordswoman who has her own reasons for keeping Anji alive and out of the hands of her fellow bounty hunters, if only long enough to collect the reward herself.With the rest of the Menagerie on their trail, so begins an alliance as tenuous as it is temporary—and a race against death that will decide Anji’s fate, and may change the course of a kingdom. A Note From the Author Hello Reactor fans! Anji Kills A King was a labor of love and learning for me. It’s a sad story at times, violent as hell at others, but I also made every effort to give the characters herein the heart they needed to get through it. In writing this book, I wanted to take someone arrogant yet insecure, passionate yet somewhat ignorant, eager but sort of sheltered, and throw them into an uncaring world and make them face the consequences of their actions, even if their heart was in the right place. I’m so excited (and a little nervous) for Anji Kills A King’s release in May, and of course overjoyed that it’s found a home at Tor and that the first chapters are here on Reactor as an early sneak peek for you. Thank you for giving this debut some of your time, and of course, happy reading!  Prologue Hot noble blood pumped over Anji’s hand. She clapped the other to his mouth and held it tight as he convulsed like a fish pulled from the sea, his bare feet squeaking against the marble floor. A fresh surge of crimson caked her fingers as she dug the knife deeper into the hot ruin of his neck and forced him to lie flat. He gurgled and groaned, his thrashing tongue soaking her palm with spit. His gray eyes met hers, wide and confused. “Shut up, please, shut up,” she hissed, stepping aside at an awkward angle to avoid the still-gushing blood. There was so much of it. His chest finally stilled. His eyes grew distant. Fingers trembling, Anji wrenched the blade free and stuffed it under the mattress. She snatched a silken sheet from the ocean of bedding and bundled it around her blood-smeared arm. Then she took a final look at his lifeless form under the open window and allowed herself a silent, satisfied breath. Up so high, the air was clear, free from the reek of the city streets below. The guards outside paid her an indifferent glance as the doors clicked shut at her back. She scurried on her way, hoping her eyes weren’t too wide, grateful for the baggy trousers hiding her shaking knees. A terrified squeak bubbled in her throat, but she swallowed it down and took the carpeted stairs one at a time, her unbloodied hand clutching at the polished railing. Her vision tunneled as she descended. She was sure she would faint, that she’d tumble down the steps and wake the entire castle. The landing was empty, the corridors dead to either side. She ignored the pulse pounding in her ears and stole through the entrance hall, past the ballroom’s double doors, and into a narrow servants’ passage. Not a soul passed as she ducked behind a tapestry hiding the stairs to the basement where laundresses were kept. Kaia and Libby and all the others were asleep. Angry snores issued from Matron’s quarters. Anji stepped lightly between the cots, past her own, then down a short hall and into the washroom. A latticed window cast half-moon light onto the toilets, the sinks, the beaten-copper basin. She dumped the length of silk into the tub and dunked her stained hand into a pail of clean water. She scrubbed in silence. Her mouth felt stuffed with cotton. Fingers clumsy and cold. Her breaths were clipped and rapid chokes. The low light made it difficult to tell if she’d removed all the blood. She held up her hand in the moon’s pale glow. Blood was still caked under her nails, but she’d rubbed her hand raw. It would have to do. She snuck back into the sleeping chamber to her cot. Underneath was a box she’d never opened in front of Kaia and Libby— certainly not Matron. She eased it across the stone floor, lifted it, and set it on the thin sheets above. Inside were a thick bronze coin, a dagger in a leather sheath, and a clutch of silver Celdia pieces she’d managed to stow away, the hollow iron rings looped to a length of frayed rope. The Celdia jingled as she pocketed it. She clutched it tight, staring around the darkened room, but the other laundresses didn’t stir. Matron’s snores droned on. A steady thread of air escaped Anji’s lips and she turned, grabbed her father’s coat from its peg, and said a silent goodbye to her friends as she slipped out the door. The catacombs were an ancient maze, lit by sconces throwing flickering orange light to the dirt floor. Her breaths echoed off the rock walls, each scuff of her shoes like a hammer blow she swore the whole castle could hear. Pale, barred light appeared down the passage, and a tension released in her throat. She hurried forward, clutching her coat tight. The grate opened on oiled hinges onto an empty cobbled path. The sky had eased into the cloud-dusted pink of early morning. Linura’s city streets began their new-day bustle as she walked. It didn’t take long to find a wagon, even less so to convince its owner to let her on. She dropped a few Celdia into the old man’s callused hand and climbed in between bulging canvas bags. The cart rattled through the main gate, past a pair of constables leaning on their halberds. Anji watched the road lengthen as the wagon took her up the Roseway, blinking at the sun climbing higher over the city’s receding rooftops, shining red on the sea beyond the docks. Linura Castle’s thin spires dwindled as the bells began to ring. Anji clutched her dagger’s hilt with cold fingers, felt her coin buzzing against her thigh. She settled against one of the canvas bags and a turnip tumbled into her lap. It was filthy, but she took a bite, smiling as she chewed. Chapter 1 Anji was shitfaced, and likely about to get stabbed. She’d made it two days on foot in the pounding wind and snow with an empty stomach and piss frozen to her shins by the time she’d found the town—whatever it was called. The old farmer had kicked her out of his cart after a day of travel, all for eating a few turnips. Bitter old fuck. Walking through the barren tundra had reduced her feet to stubby blocks of ice, numb and cumbersome and swollen in her ragged shoes. She’d thrown up the moss she’d eaten. The town had sat in darkness as she’d approached—dead apart from a scattering of lit windows and a fat column of smoke rising from the thatched roof of a two-story building just off the main road. There’d been a sign swinging on rusted hinges over the building’s front door. A faded relief of a burly blacksmith, hammer raised high in one hand, beer stein in the other. the hammered smith. Four days past—before she’d become a murderer—she’d have heeded her father’s wisdom and avoided bars altogether. They were haunts for thieves and drug fiends, mercenaries for hire. The low places for downtrodden upstarts. Hell, she’d thought, I’ll fit right in. Regardless, by the time she’d stumbled up the main thoroughfare of this ramshackle village, lips flaking, fingers frozen to brittle twigs, she’d been too exhausted to care. She’d clattered into the cavernous space, ignoring a poster depicting a hazy likeness to the girl she’d once been tacked to the door. She hadn’t even stopped to check the bounty. Now she sat sweating and drunk and hating the inside of this bar more than the road she’d crawled down to get inside. She hated the shriveled bartender and the sickly way he rubbed his hands together as he puttered around the tables. She hated the ceaseless wind outside, clapping the tavern’s shutters against the brick. She hated the rotten, pestilent stench of mushrooms pervading every crack and pore of this town. She hated the huge framed poster hanging over the mantel depicting a dark, gangly creature she’d never seen. The shape seemed to shift slightly, its bony shoulders rising and falling, its ugly face contorted in a snarl. Above the moving image, bold letters proclaimed: HELP DESTROY THE DREDGER MENACEREPORT ANY SIGHTING TO A CONSTABLE Most of all, she hated the incessant gurgling grunts issuing from the man opposite her as he shuffled and shuffled and threw Celdia onto the table’s center. Made her want to pop his fucking eyeballs out. Four, five. Anji pressed her fingers tighter to the cards. An old deck with chipped, greasy edges. Smoke hung rank in the stuffy air, stinging at her eyes, creeping through the rafters, into the long-silent kitchen behind the bar. She scratched at her cheek, adding a layer of filth to the blood still caked underneath her nails. I could afford a bath after this hand, she thought, blinking at the blurry duo opposite with cards held before them, at the grungy sod staring her down. Should probably buy one for him too. Best not count your fish before pulling in the net, sprout. More fatherly wisdom. She pictured him hunched over their little table, varnished deck in hand, in the quiet hours after her mother had gone to bed. His mischievous grin as he taught her how to count cards—strictly academic, of course. Her mother would never have approved. Anji pulled her coat tighter despite the sweltering fire. The sharp scent of boiled leather racked her nose and her breath came a bit easier. “Final draw,” the grungy sod said. “Come on, boy, you in or out?” Anji narrowed her eyes, feigning confusion—mostly feigning. Her hand twitched to her rough-shorn hair, but she stilled it. Somewhere along her mad dash north she’d gotten the bright idea to shave her head to look more like a stableboy and less like the girl who’d shoved a letter opener through a king’s throat, though without a mirror she couldn’t be sure if the change would be enough to fool anyone searching for her. She seemed to have gotten lucky with the Hammered Smith’s few patrons, all of whom appeared well past even Anji’s state of drunkenness, but she’d nearly corrected the man calling her a boy. The word floated to her lips, but she caught it like an eel in her fingers. Keep it together, Anji. She set a hand to the rim of her mug, to the handle, brought its lip to her mouth. The beer tasted flat and bitter, nothing like the clear spirits she’d grown accustomed to in the laundry. She pictured Kaia passing her a bottle, an ever-present lock of blond hair dangling over her eye. Libby giggling on her cot, the three of them nursing sore heads and sharp words from Matron in the early hours before their shifts. Anji doubted she’d see them ever again. Her bottom lip twitched at the thought, the loss like a weight settling deep in her chest. Here in the tavern, her drinking had started in seclusion. She’d polished off three mugs of cloudy beer like they’d save her from the Senate’s headsman, then had the audacity to look into her coat pocket. Empty save for a stray button and eleven measly Celdia—enough for a few more drinks, perhaps, but Conifor was still days away on foot. She needed more money. Gulping down beer on an empty stomach, wondering what she would do, she’d been on the edge of tears when the man in the seat across from her now had begun shuffling cards. She couldn’t help herself. She’d had to do something. Seven, eight… no, nine… “Piss drunk,” the man said, dragging on a greasy cigar. He stabbed a pudgy, dirt-stained finger at her mug. “How can someone with so much booze in them win this often, eh?” He exhaled a blue plume of smoke and barked out a sticky cough. “Ale’s got nothing to do with it, Jom,” said the wispy, middle-aged woman to Anji’s right. “Hot streaks come and go.” Jom wrinkled his bulbous nose. “Hot streaks,” he murmured. Anji darted a glance at the deck, counting as best she could despite the fuzzy cloud nestled where her brain had been. She did a quick mental dance, keeping her face still, and tossed two Celdia into the pile. She rubbed a thumb at the heavy circle of bronze pulsing in her pocket. The tension in her shoulders eased. The chair groaned as she sat back and sipped at her mug. The thought that she really should stop drinking made an appearance, but was quickly dismissed. The buzz felt nice, and though this man Jom had a murderous look in his eye, there was no chance he suspected her. Eleven, twelve… right, and the next one… Suns? Jom flipped a card off the deck: Suns. The woman cursed and threw her cards facedown onto the scarred wood. Her scuffed brass earrings shook as she slumped back in her seat, arms crossed. She clicked her tongue and snapped bony fingers at the barkeep. “I think it’ll be a nightcap for me and I’ll be getting home,” she said, still glowering at her hand. “Not alone you won’t,” Jom grunted, glassy eyes still on his cards. “I hardly need an escort.” The woman sniffed as the barkeep ambled over and lowered a foamy mug to the table. He’d feigned disinterest for the duration of their play, seeing to other customers and checking in on the trio now and then. Now, with the denizens of this poor excuse for a town turned in for the night, he seemed more inclined to watch. “You might listen to him, Tela,” said the barkeep, his wattled chin bobbing up and down. “Dark times to be wandering the streets by yourself.” He stuffed the tray under one arm and glanced at the latticed window. “Quite literally dark.” Jom exhaled another plume of smoke. “Roff still hasn’t turned up?” The barkeep shook his head. The woman, Tela, furrowed her brow. “The lamplighter?” “Not seen in days,” said the barkeep. “And Alma Woodward came in yesterday raving about a Dredger prowling about, keeping to the shadows.” Tela gaped. “You don’t think Roff…” “The change comes on fast,” said the barkeep, picking at his chin. “Man has no wife, no family to speak of. Lonely sort of life. Nine know folk are struggling enough these days with what little they have, and he didn’t have much.” “But even so, resorting to snorting that awful stuff,” the woman’s eyes widened, “knowing what becomes of you. I’ll never understand it. Then again, lamp lighting isn’t much work, is it? He should have found himself more to keep his hands busy.” She sighed. “That’s the trouble with young people these days. Laziness. This will happen when you don’t have a proper job.” “And no telling the damage a Dredger will do,” said the bartender, frowning. “I hear they’ll dig right through cobblestone looking for Rail. More places for my taxes to go.” Anji flicked her eyes briefly from her cards to the pair as Jom screwed up his face in concentration. He dragged at his cigar, the exhaled smoke sailing straight into Anji’s nose. She breathed in the fume and wished she had the stomach to ask for one of her own. Somehow looking at Jom she didn’t think he’d offer. Jom dropped two of his own coins into the pile, metal clinking. He slid another card off the deck (Ravens) and slipped it into his hand, glowering at Anji as she glanced once more to the pair. Tela wrinkled her nose. “Vermin,” she said. “The whole lot should be rounded up.” “Shut it, you two,” grumbled Jom. “Trying to think here.” A shutter outside slapped against the window and the woman jumped in her seat, one hand to her chest. She raked her fingers through graying wisps of hair. “Darkness and drugs and everything in between,” she said, eyes fixed on the window and the black streets beyond. “Plague in Kardisa. And now King Rolandrian murdered in his bed.” Anji bit her lip and made a show of rearranging her cards as the two spoke. “I say the old ruin had it coming,” said the barkeep, and Anji’s earlier distaste for the man ebbed a little. “Rolandrian’s legacy will be letting Governors fatten like pigs off our hard work. This tavern has been in my family for six generations, left to me by my father, who would rise out of his grave just to die again if he heard the rates I’m paying—for a place owned outright, mind you.” Jom huffed a heavy sigh through his nose, but the barkeep rambled on. “I’ve had next to no custom now everyone is working triple shifts out in the fields. All that strain on the crops—it’ll bleed the ground dry. Anyone of an age to drink is too exhausted to do anything but go straight to bed after work. On top of that, they’re terrified of the new constables—Sun Warden tax collectors in all but name if you ask me. Trussed up in yellow, tacking up their decrees and handing out pamphlets, accusing us of impiety with one hand while they drain our pockets with the other. Last night two of them came in and told me to hang that up.” He dipped his head to the poster over the mantel. “Wouldn’t leave until they were satisfied it couldn’t be ripped down. Then the pictures and words started moving and about scared the whole bar out into the street. Hardly anyone’s been back since.” He glanced out the window again. “All this muster and bluster and maxia, and for what? So they can carve up a little more for themselves when they’ve already got the world.” He snorted. “I’ve got half a mind to pack up and join the Tide.” “All talk,” said Tela, waving a hand. “That’s as much a revolution as this bar is a brewery.” “Rumor is it’s growing in strength,” said the barkeep, but his voice trailed off into a mutter. Tela rolled her eyes. “I’ll join when I’ve got more than mushrooms and potatoes on my plate.” “King’s dead, isn’t he?” said the barkeep. “It’s a start is all I’m saying.” “Would’ve gutted the bastard myself if I’d had the chance,” said Jom. “Nine, if the girl were here I’d buy her a drink.” Anji allowed herself the tiniest smirk and took a sip of her ale. Tela scoffed, “Of all the taverns in the world, I doubt she’d choose this one. Most the realm couldn’t find us on a—” Jom pounded his fist on the table, nearly toppling Anji out of her chair. The pile of Celdia rattled and a few discarded cards flipped over to show their stained faces. “Dammit, boy, you going to bet or not?” Tela put a soothing hand on Jom’s shoulder. “Jom, dear, really.” The tavern rang with silence. Anji’s stomach churned, her hand twitching toward her dagger, but Jom relaxed into his seat, waving Tela’s hand away. “Streak like this, he might’ve figured out the rules by now.” Then he guffawed and pointed a swollen finger at Anji. “You scare pretty easy, don’t you? Gap-toothed little shit.” Anji took a steadying breath and hunched once again over her cards. “Waiting for a card, dealer.” Jom stared across the table, his beady eyes bright, but flung a card across to Anji and leaned forward, cigar dangling from his bulbous lips. “Speaking of traveling alone,” he said, “where was it you came from, boy?” Anji’s heart fluttered. “Silverton,” she said, fitting the new card into her hand. “And it’s your call.” She gripped the table’s edge to keep the world from spinning. Tela gulped her drink, a dribble of amber liquid beading onto her rough-spun shirt. She wiped it off and gave Jom a sidelong glance. Was that tension in her shoulders? Or was Anji just eight mugs deep? Anji blinked and directed her hazy gaze to Jom’s watery blue eyes. The man tugged at his ear (the tell he’d been showing all night), then fanned out the three sets of pairs Anji knew he had: two Steeds, two Suns, and two Ravens. She kept her face straight. Jom grinned, his cigar tipped up as he bit down into the paper and leaf. “Beat that, scrawny fuckarse.” Anji lay her cards down, glossy faces flickering in the candlelight. Jom’s face screwed up first in confusion, then realization, and finally—rage. His hand inched closer to his belt. “Issa packed house,” Anji said, arms raised, her words more slurred than she wanted them to sound. A dead quiet settled over the table, through the empty tavern. Anji reached for her mug. “Sorry, old man,” she said, relief flooding through her, “looks like tonight isn’t your—” Jom slammed his hands flat on the table, and in one motion got to his feet and kicked the chair behind him. He slid a thick dirk from its belted sheath, teeth bared. Anji rolled her eyes and began gathering her winnings. “You cost me more tonight than I’ve made in a month, boy,” he said, face purple. “Nobody wins like this without cheating.” “Jom, dear,” Tela said again, voice even. She patted the man’s forearm, sparing Anji a glance. If she’d been more sober and less desperate, Anji might have taken the look as a warning, a plea to run out of the bar, to forget the winnings and spare herself a gutting. But Anji couldn’t run. Not yet. She eyed the money amassed in the table’s center. She tensed, ready for Jom to bound across, for his weight to carry him past her so she could spin around and— The tavern door crashed open with a screaming gust of wind. “We’re closed for—” the barkeep faltered. His tray clattered to the floor, empty clay mugs shattering on the planks. Heavy bootsteps rang in the empty tavern as a specter in all black strode across the room. The figure wore a black mask fashioned into the face of a bird of prey, smooth angles forming into a beak curved to a sharp point. Anji jumped to her feet, then stumbled into the table’s edge. Her head felt soaked in tar. A wave of confusion and fear washed over her. Wasn’t it enough that she’d gone this far? She’d just wanted to celebrate, to rest. She cast a longing look at the money piled on the table, her money. “Nine Gods,” said Jom at Anji’s back. “It’s the Hawk…” The Hawk stopped an arm span from Anji, the open door framing her slight form. Anji dug her nails into her palm, cold panic roiling in her gut. Nine, not now. Not when I was so close. “Excuse me,” said the bartender, his voice shaking, “are you here for someone?” He gulped. “Because I can assure you I do not harbor—” The Hawk pointed a gloved finger at Anji. “I’m here for the girl.” Anji ignored the confused glance Jom and Tela shared. She palmed her dagger’s handle, kicking the chair aside. “C’mon then,” she said, her words jumbled. She spared a glance at the others, now shrinking in unison toward the back wall. Cowards. The Hawk stepped closer—too close. Anji nearly had the blade singing out of its sheath— Then the blinding pain came, darkness hurrying after. Chapter 2 Her feet were freezing. Anji shifted, eyes shut tight, trying to twitch the covers over her toes. The Matron had left the window open again—resigning her to curl under her sheet like a mouse in its den. She groaned and flipped to her other side. Still cold. Another piercing gust of wind tore through the window and she put out a hand. Her other hand followed with a metallic clink. She opened her eyes. No bare stone above her head or candle left burning to push back the darkness. No murmur of the other girls waking for their shift. No sheet, no cot, no open window. Only tundra, and wide, empty sky. The expanse of Yem’s northern territory stretched out in wafting tufts of heather and sedge and tall, stringy grass. Pitted, moss-covered rocks littered the ground, which lay under a deep purple sky, pink on the jagged horizon. Anji tried to sit up and found her wrists locked together with iron manacles, her legs tied together with a length of thick rope. Another short span of rope connected her chains and the binds around her ankles. She twitched her head from side to side so quickly the headache from the night before came calling between her eyes like a knife wedged into her brow. A camp. This was a camp. A thin mare was tied to a stake beside a flapping gray canvas tent. A neat stack of pots and pans near a crackling fire, and behind the flames, writing in a leather-bound notebook— “You.” Only the word sounded more like ooo. Anji gagged. A bolt of rough fabric had been wrapped around the base of her skull and jammed between her teeth. Icy panic lanced through her stomach. “Good morning,” came the voice behind the mask, that sonorous rasp. “I’ll thank you to keep silent while we’re exposed. There are others hunting you.” “Mmmph phukooo viish!” Anji said, squirming in her bonds. She tried to scramble to her knees, but only slammed into the dirt. The Hawk sighed and tucked the notebook and pencil away. She filled one of the pots with water from a metal canteen and settled it on a rock near the fire. “You’re only tightening those knots. Lie back and be quiet. You’ll have water and something to eat in a moment.” Anji worked the gag, sawing at the cloth with her teeth. The dense fabric held, digging into her neck, cutting against her ears. She strained until her tongue ached, until saliva dripped down her chin, catching in the chill wind like ice forming on her skin. She let out a muffled scream, eyes shut tight. “Enough of that,” the voice sounded again, and now the woman was on her feet, stepping around the fire. She squatted down next to Anji, gloved hands out as though calming a wild animal. Anji recoiled, spitting through the gag, arms and legs flailing. She could feel the grip of the bindings digging into her ankles more with every turn, but she didn’t care. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She needed air. She had to get up and unbound and away—far away. She twisted and thrashed in the cold dirt, her throat raw from screeching through the cloth. Dust caked the side of her face, her nostrils, the corner of her eye. She had a hazy view of the Hawk kneeling down, then felt the iron-tight grip of a hand around her arm. The pain made Anji freeze. “I’ll remove the gag, so long as you’re quiet,” the Hawk said, her voice calm, “but you stay tied. Fair?” Of course it wasn’t fair, and if Anji had the use of her arms she’d skewer this bitch right here on the spot, let her blood cake through the permafrost. Then she’d steal the horse and the tent and head north until she reached Conifor—where she’d never be found again. She cursed herself and the throbbing pain behind her eyes, her aching face. Why had she stopped running? How could she have been so stupid? Anji whimpered, tears leaking out onto her cheeks to join the dribble of spit lining her jaw. The tears etched frozen lines on her skin as the wind began to rise with the sun. “Idiot girl,” the Hawk muttered, and Anji heard the scratch of steel on leather. The bird mask loomed overhead. “I’m going to cut you loose, but if you scream or try hopping off I swear to the Nine I’ll slit your moronic throat myself.” Anji stared, chest heaving, and blinked at the mask. The Hawk, and if she’s here, that means… She glanced about the darkened hills, searching for signs of movement before the Hawk gave her a rough shake, maneuvering Anji so the mask filled her whole vision. The black metal gleamed in its contours, covering the woman’s entire face save for the ridge of her wrinkled jaw. The dagger’s burnished steel reflected the fire’s light. “Deal?” Anji nodded. Felt a tug at the base of her skull, then a release of tension in her arms and shoulders as the shorter rope was cut. The gag fell away and Anji worked her mouth, spitting fi bers. The Hawk reared back on her heels and sheathed the dagger once more. “There,” she said. “Never liked gags much anyway. Cruel things.” She surveyed Anji, then stood and padded to her previous spot near the fire. Anji heaved herself up. The manacles were connected by three fat links, heavy and coal-black. They clinked together as she inched toward the rim of firelight. A blast of wind scratched at the tattered remnants of her hair, at the scabby cuts where her dagger had slipped. With the icy gale scraping at the sides of her face, she wished she’d kept it long. The Hawk resumed her seat behind the fire and stirred at the pot, her mask reflecting the flickering flames. Anji shuffled a bit closer to the light. The warmth spread out like welcoming arms, and she edged nearer, sniffing up a trail of cold snot. She’d never felt more pathetic. A long silence settled on them, and Anji watched through the remnants of her drunken haze as the woman stirred in slow circles, the spoon’s metal tip never scraping against the bottom. “How did you find me?” Her voice sounded empty on the air, devoured by all this open space. The Hawk didn’t respond. She merely kept stirring, her mask giving nothing away. “I can’t believe they sent the Menagerie after me.” “You murdered a king.” “A shit king,” said Anji, but the Hawk said nothing. The fire crackled, the woman stirred at the pot. “Where are the others?” “Out there somewhere,” said the Hawk. Anji stared across the yawning tundra. The hills and boulders stared back, still and silent. Here she sat, hands bound, without a sword, opposite one of the Menagerie: the most hardened warriors in the world. A cadre of bounty hunters in service to Rolandrian, and by extension the Senate, the judicial arm of the ruling monarchy Anji had just squashed. Her hands began to shake at the thought of masked figures stalking her through the wilderness like a pack of hungry wolves. The Hawk divided the pot’s lumpy contents into two metal cups and offered one to Anji. “Should help with the pain and swelling.” Anji glanced at the cup. “Poison is not my trade, girl,” the Hawk said, her arm still outstretched. “Though you had your fill in that tavern.” Anji reached her bound hands awkwardly to the lump on her brow, still tender, still throbbing. Her fingers came away dry. That was something at least. She twisted in her bonds, looking to her belt for her father’s dagger. “It’s in my tent,” the Hawk said, “along with your other possessions. You’ve no use for them anymore.” She gestured with the cup. “Eat,” she said, voice firm. “You’ll need the strength.” “Those things are mine,” said Anji. “Give them back to me right now or I’ll—” The Hawk scoffed. “Or you’ll what? Thump me to death?” “You don’t know anything. I have training. I could have handled myself back there, I just needed another—” “What you needed was to stay sober when you knew someone would eventually find you. You’re the most wanted criminal in Yem, and you decided to stop for a few drinks and a card game?” The Hawk sniffed. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. How you managed to kill Rolandrian and escape is beyond me. I expected some fight out of you.” Anji ground her teeth and raised the manacles. “Take these off and give my knife back then. You could die impressed.” The Hawk exhaled a long breath. “Eat.” The cup’s warmth was ebbing, so Anji took a sip. Hot broth, salty and coarse, filled her mouth. Complex flavor hit her in waves—sage, cumin, and purple carrots swam in the salty broth along with brined chunks of white meat. She tried remembering the last time she’d tasted something so satisfying and came up short. They’d been given mostly brown bread and oats in the castle laundry, the occasional piece of fruit on a holiday. She gulped the rest down fast enough to singe the back of her mouth and ran her finger along the inside of the cup. “This is fucking delicious,” she said, sucking the last of the broth off her finger. “You eat this good on the road?” The Hawk’s mask revealed nothing, but the woman behind it said, “I see no point degrading my meals for a degrading task.” Something in that smelled of an insult, but Anji didn’t care right then. The Hawk was right: new energy sparked at the edge of her dulled senses. The aches in her limbs seemed a far-off thing now, the spot where the Hawk had struck her still throbbing, but less so. She was about to ask for more when the woman sat straight and flipped her mask off. Anji blinked. The Hawk was ancient. Not a day younger than sixty. Specks of gold flecked her leaf-green eyes, the skin around them wrinkled. A thin, shiny scar ran in a curving line from her bushy left brow to the center of a sallow cheek. Anji wouldn’t have called her beautiful, but there was something about the face—something alluring, as if time couldn’t quite fully harden what edges had once been soft. Her long, liver-spotted face shone in the firelight, gray wisps of hair whipping in the wind. Anji frowned, self-conscious of staring. She picked up a pebble and rolled it between her fingers. “I thought the Menagerie never removed their masks?” And then, though she felt childish for asking, “Are they really maxial? What does yours do?” The Hawk sipped at her cup. “Mostly it itches,” she said. “Besides, no use standing on ceremony.” Anji’s eyes narrowed. “And why is that?” Something whistled through the air to Anji’s left, and before she had a chance to register what it really was, the woman across the fire held up a long, glass-tipped arrow. Anji flinched back, mouth open, as the Hawk rose soundlessly to her feet. She pointed the arrow’s tip toward its origin. “Lynx!” A scuffling sound came from behind a massive boulder lying on a rise toward the horizon. Anji strained her eyes and watched a figure slide out from behind the rock, a small, curved bow held in one gloved hand. The figure wore a mask much like the Hawk’s, but made of worked green stone. It covered his entire face, but where the Hawk’s mask was all curves, this one was boxy and angular. The face of a snarling cat, with squat points for ears. The figure traipsed across the rock-strewn ground, stowing the black bow on a clip at his waist. He wore black leathers like the Hawk’s, though his seemed to be in better repair. The Lynx. The Menagerie’s sharpshooter and scout. Anji recalled a sweltering day with her mother at the Linura docks, waiting for her father to arrive and moor their little boat for the night. As they sat amid the bustling harbor, her mother reading a thick book and nursing a thin cigar, a ship adorned in Rolandrian’s house colors had sidled up to the dock, attracting a murmuring crowd. The Lynx had strode down the ship’s gangplank with a tattered prisoner in tow, tall and lean, wide shouldered, and masked like he was now. The crowd had parted like wind-blown branches as he walked silently away from the ship, whispering and jostling for a closer look—some had even given the odd cheer. Anji had been as swept up as everyone else, waiting to see if any other Menagerie members would appear, but her mother had only glared at the man’s back as he’d met with gathered Senate officials and guards at the top of the ramp leading into the city. Before Anji could see anything more, her mother had led her to the dock’s far end, away from the noise and excitement. The man before her now was certainly tall, but much larger around the waist than Anji remembered. He walked closer to the fire, the campfire and lightening sky revealing gray tufts of thinning hair around the top of the mask. “Hawk?” The Lynx chortled. “Look at you! Back at it. Bear will be tickled to hear it. She’s been moping about you for months. I kept telling her you just needed some time. Heals everything, I always say—” “Lynx—” “What are you doing all the way up here? Why aren’t you masked?” He took another step, his mask tilted toward Anji. “Who’s that you’ve got?” The Hawk flicked her green eyes to Anji and back to the Lynx. “Nobody. Where are the others?” The Lynx stopped within twenty strides of their camp, towering head and shoulders above the Hawk. He waved a hand southward. “Still on their way, I expect. I was headed to Olangar for a separate job when I got the notice to change assignment. Didn’t Bear fill you in?” He began walking toward the Hawk, but she held up a hand. The Lynx stopped, but his posture stiffened. “Why are you—” “You haven’t seen us, Lynx,” said the Hawk. “Go back to your horse, back to the others, and report the northern territory clear.” A muffled chuckle issued from behind the Lynx’s mask. “Come on, Hawk, what is this?” He shifted toward Anji, then pointed at her. “Hang on. Is that her? The one who killed—” The Lynx sputtered, the arrow perched in the Hawk’s slender fingers moments before now jutting from his neck. Even in the dim light, Anji could see blood pooling where his leathers met at the collarbone. The Lynx fell to one knee, desperate gulps issuing from behind his grotesque mask. He jerked a hand to his neck, feeling at the mess of flesh and bone, of smooth wood, the glistening point of the arrow sticking out under the base of his skull, and fell to the ground, spasming once before lying still. The Hawk marched to where the man lay like a crumpled sheet and squatted for a moment. She tore away the Lynx’s mask and shoved it under one arm. Then she untied his boots, wrenched them off, and carried them back to the circle of firelight before tossing them on the ground at Anji’s feet. “Try those on,” she said, settling back to her place at the fire. She picked up her cup, frowning at the leftover contents. Anji gaped at the woman, her tongue going cold in the rising wind. She closed her mouth, opened it to say something, then closed it again. “You look like a fish, working your maw like that,” the Hawk said, flipping her thin gray hair out of her face. She took a final gulp out of her cup and flicked the remnants over the fire. “What—why did you do that? You threw that arrow?” Anji said, finding her voice once more. “You just—you—Nine, you didn’t even have a bow!” The Hawk narrowed her eyes, her head tilted just to the side. “How observant of you. They should have written that on the sheets: ‘Miracle girl, understands what people don’t have in their hands.’ ” Then she shoved the Lynx’s mask into a satchel Anji hadn’t yet seen. It was silk of such a deep blue it seemed out of place among the Hawk’s other things. The fabric shimmered like liquid, and Anji felt the sudden urge to reach out and touch it. It might have been a trick of the light, but Anji couldn’t quite see where it opened, and by the time the Hawk had twisted the sack and tucked its strap under the bulging contents, she couldn’t be sure she’d seen it open at all. A gust of wind tore at the flames, and as though it were a cue, the Hawk stood and began kicking the fire out with one boot. Anji gaped at her. “Why was he so surprised to see you?” “None of your concern.” “I thought the Menagerie all worked together?” said Anji. “You’re—you’re friends, aren’t you? Why did you kill him? It sounded like he—” “Leave it, girl,” said the Hawk. “I’m not here to answer questions or fulfill your childhood fantasies.” “But you let him see your face,” Anji stammered. “I thought—” “I’ll not hide my face from the dead.” A weight dropped into Anji’s stomach, like a rock plunging into an icy river. She scratched at the back of her hand with one jagged nail. “The dead…” she trailed off, her voice quivering. The Hawk shot her a scathing look and cleared her throat. “You’re to be tortured and executed. Publicly, I imagine. And I’m on my way to the biggest payday of my life.” She spared a glance for the man lying dead on the moss-covered ground not twenty feet from the fire. “I’ll not let you or anyone else stand in my way.” A lump welled up at the back of Anji’s throat. She’d come all this way, braved the elements wearing nothing but laundress homespun and her father’s old coat, only to be dragged back in chains? Rolandrian had been a terrible king; everyone knew it—everyone talked about it, in the castle, on the streets. As a girl, she’d stayed up many nights listening to her parents talking about him when they’d thought she was asleep. The image of the two of them hunched together over stacks of paper at the oak table under their only window still burned in her mind. The king of Yem had been responsible for every horrid thing happening in the world, so Anji had snuffed him out like a candle. She’d done the country and its people a favor, and in return she’d receive only torture and death. But that couldn’t be. Yem wasn’t some backwater country like Dorodad, with no governance or order. Her parents, her aunt Belle, they’d taught her that much at least. Even the worst criminals were given their fair trial, just like everyone else. “There’ll be a trial though, right?” Anji said, holding on to the hope like a drowning girl to a piece of driftwood. The Hawk’s mask wagged. “No trial.” “But the Senate—they have to—” “Linura is your home,” said the Hawk. “You worked in the castle. Did you not notice the Senate were no longer in charge?” “I wasn’t exactly invited to their assemblies,” said Anji. “Besides, servants aren’t allowed outside the castle.” The Hawk’s mouth twisted. “Well, if you had ventured out, you would know the Sun Wardens hold near-total control of the Senate, and, by extension, Yem. With Rolandrian gone they’ve likely firmed up their grip.” “Those psychos in the yellow robes?” “All who worked in any sector of government will be under their influence,” said the Hawk. “Whether they know it or not.” The news hit Anji like a rogue wave. When she’d been living on Linura’s streets, the Sun Wardens had been nothing more than old men shouting on street corners about their new religion. How had they gained so much power in only six years? Anji thought about the last time she’d seen one of them, standing on a crate with a thick book in hand, brandishing it like a sword to a jeering group of onlookers in a muddy alley where she would beg for food. They would be the ones administering her punishment—and all without a word of defense from her. The Sun Wardens in their yellow cloaks cutting into me like a pig. “I’ll just run,” she said, “I—I’ll run the first chance I get. You’re old. You’re old and you’re horrible and you can’t keep me here like this. It isn’t right. You don’t understand. He needed to die, or else—” “Run if it makes you feel better,” said the Hawk. She pointed at the cup still in Anji’s limp hands. “I poisoned you. A week with no antidote and you’ll be in more agony than any torture the Sun Wardens can drum up.” Anji stared. “You said poison wasn’t your trade!” The Hawk lifted one bony shoulder. “I lied,” she said, giving the fire one more kick. “I’ll administer the antidote as we travel.” “You—” Anji sputtered, “you’re not supposed to lie! It’s in your rules.” Then another thought occurred to her, one that presented Anji the tiniest, faintest glimmer of hope. “I’m also not allowed to see your face. How do I know you’re even really the Hawk? You could have killed her and taken her mask. Why should I believe a single word you’ve said?” “Believe what you wish,” said the Hawk. “It won’t make you any less poisoned.” She jerked her head to the limp form of the Lynx lying in the dirt. “And you can ask him who I really am.” Anji bit her lip, trying to ignore the cold chill running up her back. Hawk or no, the woman had killed the Lynx like he was a fly on the wall, and he’d at least had a sword. Anji was manacled, hungover, unarmed, and though she’d rather eat horse shit than admit it to herself, likely poisoned. The thought made her skin crawl. Some black toxin seeping into her stomach, her veins, like a parasite she couldn’t shake off. Pictures flashed through her mind—Rolandrian dead on the floor, her escape from Linura Castle, the old man’s cart, her frantic race toward Conifor. She’d been so close. It really is all over then. The Hawk coughed hard into her fist once, twice. She gathered her mask from the ground, set the pots in a neat stack, and laid the spoon inside. Without looking at Anji, she opened the entrance to her tent and said, “There’s a blanket on the horse. Use it if you like, but you sleep outside.” Buy the Book Anji Kills A King Evan Leikam The Rising Tide, Book 1 Buy Book Anji Kills A King Evan Leikam The Rising Tide, Book 1 The Rising Tide, Book 1 Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Excerpted from Anji Kills A King, copyright © 2025 by Evan Leikam. The post Read <i>Anji Kills A King</i> by Evan Leikam: Prologue and Chapters 1-2 appeared first on Reactor.