Daughters of Defiance

By Sydney Hamilton

A plague to cure.

A pirate to trust.

A Pantheon to kill.

In a bid to garner support for a revolution, Tallmadge has to trust new racketeers, fend off a new disease only affecting the magic-harnessing Wielders, and face a war between the gods that will chang

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sydney Hamilton
• Release date: Nov 18, 2025
• ISBN: 9798218710217

Book preview

Daughters of Defiance

Daughters of Defiance

Sydney Hamilton

For Hind, and every other child who's lost their life in Gaza.

Copyright © 2025 by Sydney Hamilton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Printing, 2025

1

A Real Good Enemy

1

Tallmadge

Tallmadge had never negotiated with a pirate before. The art of negotiation, of walking the line of compromise, being a diplomat, was never well suited to her either. It was a job better suited for Cul—

She winced at the name, the memories manifesting as a sharp stab in her side. Tallmadge swallowed thickly, reminding herself to keep going. Those words, and Soulas left back in their hideout, were the only things she could call her own in the coastal city of Crasmere.

So different from Adaon, where concrete and granite ruled. Lines were drawn, and they were known as Crown, Majority, or Scrap. Crasmere couldn’t afford the same customs when a hurricane came, or a tsunami swept away every home, whether gilded mansion or shack. In Crasmere, the ocean reigned supreme, and the entire city bowed to it.

Bowing made Tallmadge antsy. As did waiting in this crowded tavern, looking out for Rackham to make his promised appearance. She glanced over her shoulder, carving nervous circles into the table with chewed-down fingernails, ensuring Biyu still held their station. They stood in a shadowed corner, a shawl draped across her shoulders to hide the unnatural yellow glow that pulsed around her, twisting a dagger through their deft, inked, fingers, tattooed with black and greyscale insects. The spirit shifter raised a hard angled brow.

Where is Rackham? The man was fifteen minutes late. And every second that went by encouraged two possibilities: one— he wasn’t going to show up— two— someone would recognize her from the dozens of Wanted posters plastered around the entirety of the West and decide to claim their bounty.

Mads is making sure that won’t happen.

The chair across from her scraped against the knotted wood ground, a tall, lean figure collapsing into the seat. Clothed in turquoise and silver, with golden locks splayed across his forehead, and eyes that danced with mischief and knowledge. Tallmadge’s eyes darted to the gold signet band on his pinky finger; a trident carved over filed down metal, replacing whichever family signet had been there before.

Jacks Rackham. The man who, essentially, ran the trade in Crasmere. And, if Madison's intel from Washington was correct, could help her forge alliances with the other West city-states. If he couldn’t, then risking their lives in Crasmere, showing her face out in the open was all for bunk.

He nodded, and Tallmadge jumped at the demure movement. I— did you just—

Did he just read my mind?

A coy smile curled his upper lip, eerily familiar like a memory she couldn’t tackle down in the foggy timeline of her past. He nodded again.

You’re a— the damning word caught in the back of her throat, and her own power rushed to her hands at the call. She smothered the shadows with a clenched fist and stubborn shake of her head.

Wielder.

Rackham raised a sharp brow up, glancing around the room. Tavern goers milled about, too enthralled with whatever liquid their tankards held to pay the parley any mind. He shrugged.

Tallmadge tapped her fingers to her chin, leaning in. You don’t talk much do you?

He furrowed his brows, eyes darkening in confusion. Loud chatter smothered the room. Her words were probably lost in the uproar. Tallmadge opened her mouth to speak again. Rackham’s hand shot out, snatching her wrist, shaking his head vehemently.

Tallmadge yanked her hand back, heart speeding up to a gallop. Tallmadge’s shadows hissed and chittered in her ear, dancing on the edge of adrenaline that came from a fight that was about to start.

Rackham tapped his ears, then shook his head.

I don’t understand.

Rackham fidgeted for a moment, before reaching into his coat pocket. Tallmadge reached over her shoulder for an absent Soulas’ hilt, her instincts screaming WEAPON before his hand reappeared with a notebook and pen. He shook his head, spread his hands and pushed downwards, as if to say calm down.

He flipped to a random page, scribbled a single word, before sliding it across the tabletop to Tallmadge. She drew it close with her fingertips and glanced down.

Deaf.

Oh, Tallmadge whispered, sliding the notebook back to Rackham.

Was it an accident? she thought.

Rackham wrote something else.

Born that way.

As soon as she nodded, he tore the pages out of the notebook and shoved them into the pitcher of water between them, stirring until the paper flaked and dissolved.

Rackham pointed at Tallmadge, then to his mouth, before swiveling his fingers back to her.

Tell you?

He dipped his chin, at the same time curling his hand into a fist and mimicking a nodding motion. He wrote something else; what do you want?

Tallmadge grimaced. Her mind— it confused her, and she couldn’t imagine the noise that came from it. When she thought of Dorn everything went black. She heard her own curses, her own swearing to ruin him.

She heard the rattle of Culper’s last breath.

And then it all came together with searing clarity.

I want Dorn dead.

At this thought, Rackham laughed, scribbling something else in his notebook.

You and half the West, spitfire. Don’t waste my time.

He crumpled the paper and stood, turning to leave.

I was in Adaon, she blurted desperately, reaching out for a snatch at his synthetic coat.

Her need must have been palpable, because Rackham winced and raised a hand as if to fend her emotions off, but turned back to her, and re-lowered himself into his seat. He gestured for her to go on.

Tallmadge squeezed her eyes shut, and could relive the moment as easily as breathing.

Dorn on the other end of Soulas, gun pointed at Madison. The Warden, dead. So was Chancellor Hewlett.

Hatred burned through her.

And so did shame.

She had been so close.

She replayed the memory to put herself to sleep at night, like a child with a lullaby. She coddled hate close to her heart. Every future she could dream up ended with Dorn dead.

But they all ended with Madison dead too.

Fleeing the mansion. Stumbling into the Scrap, tripping over the bodies. There had been so many. Fumbling her way into her home, looking at the bodies, looking at Asha missing her arm.

And Nico…

Gods, she had never heard pain manifested into a sound like it was when Madison heard his little brother was dead. Like the entirety of Adaon’s agony had torn loose from his chest and into the air.

Tallmadge surprised herself when she broke free of the memory with a sob, and a cold hard feeling in her throat that had settled in place of the necklace Madison had given her so long ago. The one she couldn’t bear to wear anymore, buried back in Adaon, under a tree that had survived the massacres in the greenhouses.

My home is gone.

My brother—

Rackham tensed. He scrawled: Dorn killed your brother?

Tallmadge nodded. My twin.

Rackham’s eyes darkened, his sharp jaw clenching. He set pen to paper. Mine too.

He sighed, eyes fixed on the words. Then, he shook his head hard and looked back up at her, his eyes glinting like jade.

There are rebel groups scattered among the West. Plenty of them have anger. Plenty of them want someone dead. So, what makes you different, spitfire?

Tallmadge took a deep breath. I know Dorn’s weakness. I’ve had first hand experience confronting him. I—

She paused, the cacophony of cheers after a Scrap Fight win ringing in her ears, hollowing out her chest with melancholy. People, the Scrap, wanted her to win.

I could unite people, once.

Rackham cocked his head to the side, cradling his chin in his ringed hand. You're a symbol?

Tallmadge winced and retreated into herself. The power that had come from the fighting ring, that had come from being Centurion, had been razed with the Scrap District. She’d failed. It wasn’t a title she was worthy of any longer.

Rackham narrowed his eyes, his interest in her receding like the tide against the cliffs outside.

We have a dragon? she offered.

Rackham dropped his hand to the table, newfound curiosity sparking in his eyes. He waved for her to go on.

We can’t be the only ones who see the suspicious circumstances, the Chancellor and Warden dying within minutes of one another, while Dorn remains nearly unharmed? We can exploit that suspicion, I was there, Rackham, I—

She remembered the desperate wave of shadows she tried to save the Warden with. Dorn outsmarted Madison, threatening to shoot her, distracting him while he took the killshot. She remembered the snap of the Warden’s neck as the bullet opened a bloody hole between his eyes.

Several of us are Wielders.

Rackham’s lips curled in the faintest smile. He quickly scribbled down, what abilities?

Tallmadge thought of Asha's healing ability, the way she had transferred energy to regenerate burned muscle tissue and stall bleeding. The way Biyu’s gift had been described to her, golden spirits of creatures, mythical and real, and her ability to don those creature’s gifts like costumes. Baen’s lightning, the smell of charged ozone that filled the air before he struck, the purple-white sparks that danced along his skin and behind his eyes. She thought of her own shadows, writhing just beneath the surface.

Rackham simply responded with: Are all of you Wielders?

Tallmadge shook her head. Hamilton, with his bow and quick wit, was nothing short of a marvel. But just thinking of him caused resentment to bubble in her chest. For the last few weeks, he’d been as useful as dead weight. Then there was Madison, with his keenness for throwing knives, his unwavering loyalty, the infuriating liveliness he got to keep while—

She scrubbed the rest of the memory from her thoughts, because the ghost of her brother haunting the halls of her head wracked her with a migraine’s sensitivity, and caught herself as Rackham scoffed.

You get the idea.

Rackham took the pen. United you stand, he signed with a sarcastic flourish.

Tallmadge’s brows dipped as she glared, and Rackham’s face pinched in confusion before he blinked it away.

What?

Rackham waved her question off. He scribbled one last thing: tomorrow, sun-up, pier 17

Tallmadge straightened, leaning against the sharp edge of the table. Seriously? she blurted.

Who should I bring? What should I bring?

Rackham traded the pen between hands before writing his answer: Anything and anyone you’ll need in Ravendaalen.

Ravendaalen, Tallmadge turned the region’s name over in between layers of faint memories of her studies. An emerald isle of lush, rolling hills and the birthplace of Wielding.

She could find allies to bring back to Amren.

She could figure out why she was the way that she was, she thought, looking down at the circle of shadows that undulated in her calloused palm.

Tallmadge set her jaw, finding Biyu’s eyes from across the room. The vigilante raised their brows, their expression stone.

Tallmadge’s spark of hope had a wick to catch on.

Sun up, tomorrow, Pier 17.

Tallmadge beamed. The vigilante cocked their head to the side, but she still smiled back, light catching on her sharp canines like the pearl details in the walls.

Thank you, Tallmadge whispered, clasping her hands and pressing them to her mouth. Thank you so much.

Don’t thank me yet, spitfire. I’ll see you at dawn.

Rackham nodded his farewell, and brushed up and out of his chair as freely as he’d come. Tallmadge watched him leave. Once he disappeared from the tavern, she waved Biyu over.

Biyu hadn’t even settled in the chair when Tallmadge loudly whispered, Sun-up, tomorrow, at Pier 17. That’s what he said. Tallmadge’s voice rolled with the giddiness of a child opening gifts on Pantheon day. We’ll tell the Sons tonight, get your bags packed.

You’re efficient. Biyu’s mouth quirked in amusement.

Efficient, vengeful, the difference was in the eye of the beholder. She had sworn that Dorn would burn. But fire could only last so long before it burnt itself out, leaving nothing behind but a hollow husk to be blown away by wind.

Tallmadge clapped the table and started to stand, hand fastened on the back of her seat for leverage. Let’s go. Things have started to look up for us.

And then the gunfire started.

Tallmadge dropped to the ground as screams tore the room open, chairs spilling onto the floor accompanied by drinks. Biyu pounced to join her under the table just heartbeats later.

We are here on behalf of Chancellor Dorn. Don’t resist, and you will not be harmed, a horrifically cool voice called.

Simcoe.

Tallmadge fumbled for grip on the ledge of the table, peeking over as the white-clad Warden lightly stepped over the wreckage of bullet casings and shrapnel that her Archangels had created. A lightning-storm of black veins writhed across her lips in a cruel looking scar. Tallmadge grimaced and ducked back under the table.

Biyu’s eyes widened in question. Her golden irises glowed momentarily while her tattoos undulated, the creatures on her skin coming to life— ready to imbue her with the abilities of the creatures embroidered with ink along her bare arms and neck.

Tallmadge shook her head. I want to see what she wants, first.

I’m here to apprehend Arya Dorn, and any one who associates themselves with her, Simcoe said, resting a lax hand on a pistol fastened on her hip. Glass crunched under her traipsing footsteps

Tallmadge and Biyu tracked Simcoe’s footsteps from beneath the table as she prowled the perimeter of the room.

Make this easy for me, please. Simcoe’s lips curled in a monstrous imitation of a charming smile.

Not one patron stood. Not out of defiance, or spite, but because Crasmere was not Adaon. It was a barter city, and Tallmadge had done nothing to make herself valuable enough for these tavern patrons to notice.

Tallmadge rested her head against the table leg, cursing the fact that she had left Soulas at the hideout. She only had her shadows, and Biyu had a single knife and her spirit-shifting. They were no match for Simcoe. She needed back up.

No? No one knows where I can find her? Simcoe’s voice cracked. Okay then!

She dragged a woman wearing a scarlet sailing coat up by the back of her collar, shoving a pistol into the fleshy part of her neck. Cries of protest from her companions were smothered by an Archangel’s gun barrel waving in their direction. The woman’s throat flexed, her eyes flitting with disassociation.

I will ask—one— more time, Simcoe gritted out, cocking back the loading device. Where can I find Arya Dorn?

The woman pushed her neck into the gun’s barrel. I don’t know who you’re talking about.

Simcoe curled her finger over the trigger. Someone was going to die tonight. Might as well buy some time. Tallmadge tapped Biyu’s palm. Get the others, she mouthed. Biyu dipped their chin, perching on the balls of their feet.

Tallmadge took a deep breath, flexed her hands, and stood, hatred burning on her tongue. I’m right here, Anna.

Simcoe tossed the woman in scarlet to the ground, smiled and stepped forward. A couple of patrons grabbed her and retreated behind an overturned table.

Biyu scrambled to the back of the bar and threw herself out the door before Simcoe could gun her down Simcoe growled at the swinging back door.

She looked to one of her Archangels and jerked her head with an order. Go.

The Archangel charged after Biyu, but even the Republic's most elite soldiers couldn't catch the shifter with a speed of a cheetah.

What do you want, Anna? Tallmadge's hands twitched, wanting so badly to hold the cool sand of shadow in the hollow of her palms.

Simcoe twirled her pistol on her finger. I want you to come back to Adaon with me. You’re causing unnecessary problems.

Tallmadge looked at the tavern patrons hidden behind upturned chairs and under tables. The woman in scarlet propped herself up on her elbows, dark eyes flicking between the standoff.

Tallmadge jutted her chin out. I don’t know what you’re talking about, she said, stalling.

Simcoe’s eye twitched. Don’t play dumb.

Tallmadge bared her teeth, sucking in an exaggerated, embarrassed breath. I really— she shrugged and put her fists on her hips, I don’t know. I just wreak havoc in so many places, I guess you’re gonna have to narrow it down.

The Archangels swelled inward, and Simcoe raised her hand, holding them at bay.

She flexed her hands and shoved her gun into her waistband. Tallmadge let out a tense sigh of relief.

But Simcoe started her tirade with a snarl, A trail of bodies led me to you, Arya. A MediaCorp executive, Etherwall’s Commander, one of PubSerCorp’s energy wranglers.

Tallmadge remembered them all. She’d added them to her ledger of vengeance, of people to eliminate for the sake of the state she wanted to see achieved in her lifetime.

The tragedy director staging acts of generosity from Scouts and soldiers towards paid actors pretending to be Scrap while the real District starved, the Commander who signed off on sending her soldiers to destroy the Scrap, the energy wrangler who used prison slave labor to keep PubSerCorp’s complexes powered, Tallmadge recalled aloud.

Memory won’t absolve you.

Oh, but theirs could have. Tallmadge’s heart slammed against her chest, pumping adrenaline through her system at this standoff. Her eyes burned like she was under the hot Scrap Fight spotlights. I always gave them a chance to walk. They just had to answer two questions.

Simcoe’s eyes narrowed, betraying a flicker of curiosity. Her gun was still in her waistband.

Tallmadge tried to meet the eyes of as many people hiding behind broken furniture as she could. I asked them if they were sorry. And then, when in desperation they said yes, yes, of course they’re sorry, I asked them— she snapped her vision back to Simcoe. —what were they sorry for.

The energy in the room flexed and shuddered, alchemizing from fear into a solidated, hot, wrath.

Simcoe bared her teeth. In service to their Republic, no one will ever have anything to apologize for. Her hands went to her waist, this time pulling out a long, spiked baton. Her hackles raised, eyes slitted like a predator.

Tallmadge scoffed in disgust, shaking her head. Anna, we both remember who lost the last time we fought.

I have five Archangels with me. Simcoe tilted her head. What do you have? Some shadows? I stopped being scared of those when I was five.

Your scar is healing nicely. Tallmadge nodded to the barely healed area of Simcoe’s face, lines of black writhing with the shadows she’d clawed under Simcoe’s skin. Tallmadge could still recall the fight in that abandoned theater, the catwalk creaking under their weight, the blood in her mouth, Simcoe’s animalistic cries when Tallmadge raked her nails down the side of her cheek.

Simcoe gnashed her teeth. Oh, I ought to just kill you now and drag your corpse back to Dorn’s feet.

Tallmadge clicked her tongue. Ooh, I can take your eye this time.

Simcoe moved blindingly fast, racing across the tavern, planting her hands onto Tallmadge’s shoulders and shoving her to the ground. Her head cracked against a table, and she let out a mild groan of pain, clutching the edge to keep herself upright.

Tallmadge winced through the pain that pulsed from the back of her skull through the center of her brain. Saints, Simcoe— The rest of her words died with a pneumonic wheeze when Simcoe shoved her elbow into the sensitive hollow of her throat.

Simcoe thrust her face close to Tallmadge’s, brown eyes like magma. Don’t call on the Saints, Arya. They don’t help vermin.

Tallmadge held Simcoe’s gaze. No matter how angry the girl got, she was at her core a childhood bully. She wouldn’t kill her. Injure, cripple, maim, sure. But she’d be bored if she killed Tallmadge.

Your insults have gotten worse since grade school, Tallmadge uttered, a delirious laugh bubbling up from the back of her mouth when Simcoe backhanded her. Her lip split, and copper beaded on the tip of her tongue.

Simcoe had no rebuttal, though, and hauled Tallmadge up by the collar of her coat. You have no friends now, Arya. They’ve left you. So, we’re going to take you back to Adaon, you’re going to be a good little pet, and obey.

The smell of ozone washed through the room.

A wicked grin pulled at the edges of Tallmadge’s lips.

Tallmadge cleared her throat. Not in my vocabulary.

Purple and white flashed across her vision, fire and ice seizing her all at once, and then everything went dark.

2

Madison

The blood-red smile of Madison’s Lerinian knife gleamed in the shadow of the alley.

He watched his mark, a bounty hunter perched on top of some splintery, wooden crates, sharpen a shortsword under a familiar Wanted poster. It was a shoddy, but recognizable, printing of Tallmadge’s face, with a hefty, life-changing reward typed out on the bottom.

The mark was unaware of Madison’s presence, but scarred, his shiny head littered with slug-shaped, angry red marks instead of hair. He was armored from chin to toe in a dark material that had the aramid texture of kevlar. He was looking down at his blade, shielding his eyes from Madison’s line of fire.

Headshots with knives were near impossible to make fatal. He couldn’t get enough momentum from afar to strike past the shield of a skull into the slippery, delicate folds of brain matter.

Madison sucked in a breath, the grit of Crasmere’s air tangible as a salty film on the surface of his teeth, and tried to formulate a plan.

Armed, armored, and obviously experienced in winning fights. The mark probably stood no taller than Madison, but as opposed to his own lean muscle, this bounty hunter was all bulk. Madison had the element of surprise, but not much else.

He exhaled sharply, careful not to make an audible hiss, and prepared to pounce. He’d spring before the bounty hunter had a chance to register what was happening and drive the knife into his unguarded ear.

Easy.

He rolled his weight onto the fronts of his feet, flipped the knife in his hands, and charged out of the shadows. As the toe of his boot hit the cobblestone street the bounty hunter’s scar-mottled head snapped up, eyes darkening as he processed the creature lunging for him like a jungle predator.

Then he crumpled to the ground.

Madison tried to skid to a confused stop, but momentum slammed him into a cold, medieval wall, pain crackling up and down the side of his body. Of his face, shoulder, and ribs. His hand had spasmed open at the impact, knife skittering behind him. He choked on a groan, trying to peel himself off the stone wall.

The salt in the atmosphere settled into the already-swollen welt that bubbled up between Madison’s cheek and jawbone, stinging the broken skin. He raised a hand to it anyway to test the wound. It smarted at his touch.

With a dazed groan he turned to snag his knife off of the ground, still slick with storm water,