never mess up again?

What followed was less of a pat-down and more of an archaeological excavation.

The guards seemed genuinely impressed by her arsenal, their expressions shifting from boredom to professional interest as her hidden weapons clattered to the stone floor like a deadly rain.

A dagger clattered to the floor from her sleeve—her favorite, with the carved bone handle worn smooth by years of use.

Two razor blades slid free from her hair, where they'd been woven into the braids like deadly accessories.

A smoke pellet rolled out of her hood, followed by what looked like a tiny crossbow bolt.

Her boots surrendered a lockpick set and what looked suspiciously like a shiv made from a spoon—prison rules died hard.

From her belt came throwing stars, a garrote wire, and a vial of something that made both guards take a hasty step backward.