The morning fog hadn't lifted yet, hanging low over the rooftops of the Wyrmsreach slums like a blanket no one asked for. It clung to everything, the stone paths, the rusting lanterns, the cracked wood of the stalls and homes. Everything felt slower, heavier. The people of this town new this feeling all to well.
From the main road, bootsteps echoed, heavy and deliberate. Like a hammer driving into rotting planks. Captain Gorran Slade was on the hunt.
He was a broad man, not just in size but in presence. His long, coal colored coat swept behind him like the tail of a hound. His boots were polished, though the streets would eat their shine by the hour's end. The steel plated pauldron on his left shoulder clinked with every step, etched with the old Marine symbol, the only part of the uniform he still wore with pride. As well as a cutlass and pistol dangling from his belt.
Two of his enforcers trailed close behind, mismatched and grimy, both with the hollow look of men who had long since traded honor for coin.
Slade stopped in front of a crooked, patch blanket covered stall tucked beside a warped stone wall with a sign bolted into the wall. On the sign 'Boochie's Blue Cheese.' could be seen written in what looks to be finger paint.
The old man was inside, rearranging a display of skewered cheese and dried meats on a shaky table. The food wasn't fresh, but it was the kind of thing the slum kids could afford to dream about. Boochie hummed while he worked, soft and tuneless, just to fill the silence. His hands stilled as the shadow fell over him.
"…Captain Slade," he said, not turning around. "Didn't expect to see you this early."
Slade said nothing at first. He took a slow step forward, letting the sound of his boots do the talking.
"Morning fog's nice," he said eventually, voice low and raspy. "Covers the scent of the shit in this place. Almost makes it tolerable."
Boochie turned around now, wiping his hands on a worn towel. "What brings you to the bottom of the ladder today?"
Slade let out a soft chuckle.
"You know why I'm here."
He looked around the stall. The canvas walls, the patched crates, the worn down stool in the corner.
"He was seen here. The white haired brat. The Urchin of Talon Island. That little rat with the sticky fingers and smart mouth."
Boochie didn't blink. "Lots of white haired kids rown ere. Island's poor malnourishment does strange things."
Slade's smirk faded. He turned to his men. "Search it."
They moved fast, one ripping down the canvas flap, the other kicking over a crate with a hollow crash. A jar exploded on the ground, sending sharp glass through the air. A stool was snapped in half, splinters skittering across the stone floor.
Boochie didn't flinch. He just stood there, arms crossed, tired eyes following them as they destroy his business. He's been through this before.
One of the goons paused and pulled something from beneath a basket. A piece of white cloth, stained faintly with blood. A makeshift bandage.
He handed it to Slade.
Slade held it up between two fingers, inspecting it. Then he stepped forward and pressed the cloth into Boochie's chest.
"Tell me where he is," Slade said, voice tightening. "Or next time I come back here, it won't be just your stall I tear down."
Boochie met his eyes. He didn't speak for a long time.
Then, quietly he responded "Even if I knew… I wouldn't tell you."
Slade didn't move. Just stood there, the cloth still pressed against Boochie's chest.
"You think he'll save you?" Slade asked. "That little rat's a thief. Nothing more. And the people he pissed off? They don't care who gets hurt along the way."
He finally dropped the cloth to the ground, letting it fall between them like a gauntlet.
"Consider this your warning, Boochie."
He turned to the alley, raising his voice so it would carry to the shuttered windows and shadowed doorways.
"Listen up, worms! That boy you call Riven? He's wanted. He's marked. And anyone caught helping him will share his fate."
He let that linger in the cold, still air before turning to leave.
One of his thugs looked at Boochie, almost apologetically, before following. In seconds, the sound of boots faded into the maze of the slums.
The silence left behind was heavier than before.
Boochie let out a long breath he didn't know he was holding. He turned, slowly, and began picking up what was left of his stall. His hands shook a little now. The shards of glass cut into his palms as he cleaned, but he didn't stop.
As he bent down to retrieve the broken stool, he found himself staring at the piece of bandage Slade had dropped.
"Damn it, kid…" he whispered. "What have you gotten yourself into."
He sat, finally, on a wooden crate, and held his head in his hands.
-----------------------------------------------
Riven sat on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, legs dangling over the alleyway.. He'd stashed the rest of the merchant's pouch the gems, and most of the belli, deep in one of his hideouts. All that remained in his pocket now was a piece of bread wrapped in paper, and the strange key.
He tore off a corner with his teeth, his eyes scanning the horizon. Smoke rose in the distance, maybe a cooking fire or maybe something worse. On Talon Island, you couldn't always tell.
The fog had started to lift...
That's when he heard it. A rough voice, carried from below.
"They say Slade's got his dogs out. He's hunting for him."
"You mean the Urchin? White hair, cocky little bastard?"
"Yeah. Price on his head now. Fat Flint screaming for blood."
Riven froze. His hand tightened around the bread without realizing it. He leaned forward, quietly, peering down between the gaps in the rooftop boards.
Two women stood near the water barrels, whispering in low voices. One was washing clothes, but her hands had stilled in the soapy water.
"He hit a big target this time," one said. "The merchant's furious. They say he stole nearly a hundred grand in belli."
The other one shook her head. "He's just a kid."
"Doesn't matter. Slade doesn't care if he's seventeen or seventy. You cross the wrong people, you get the boot... or the blade."
Their words crawled under Riven's skin like ants.
He leaned back, heart thudding in his chest. A hundred thousand was enough to make him a problem, not just to the Marines, but to the island's rats and snitches too. That kind of money could pay off a whole family's debt, maybe even buy passage off the island.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling up in his chest.
"oh fuck..." he muttered. "Should've laid low. Should've just taken the coins and dipped."
But he hadn't. He'd gotten cocky. He'd laughed under Boochie's tent like a goblin. Now everyone was talking. Now he was prey.
A sharp whistle echoed from the streets below, the kind of signal Slade's men used when patrolling. Riven flattened himself to the rooftop, pressing his body against the cold, damp wood.
Footsteps clanked through the alley. A pause. Then a voice. "He was spotted near here last night. The cheese vendor covered for him again."
Riven gritted his teeth. Boochie.
He wanted to move. Get to Boochie's, check in, warn him to back off. But if Slade already suspected him, he could be watching the tent.
He turned away from the edge and slipped across the rooftop, moving fast and quiet.
They'd come for him. They always did. The Marines, the pirates, the scum in between. But this time… this time it felt real. It felt bigger.
He reached a hidden crawlspace near an old forge, one of his safer hideouts. He slid inside. It was dark, and musty. He sat against the wall, breathing hard, trying to slow his heartbeat.
From his coat, he pulled out the strange key.
Gold, slightly rusted, with swirls etched deep into the teeth. Ancient-looking. Not something a fat merchant would carry unless it meant something. Unless it opened something important.
He turned it over in his hand, the weight of it heavier now.
"I didn't just steal a fortune," he whispered to himself. "I stole a secret."