The morning sun cast long shadows across Ghazra's twisted streets, but its warmth never reached the depths of the Outer Island's alleys. Here, where the cobblestones gave way to rotting planks and the air hung thick with the stench of low tide, the light seemed to die before it could touch the ground.
Kael pressed his back against the salt-stained wall of a leaning tenement, watching the crowd flow past like dirty water through a broken drain. Fishmongers hawked their wares with voices hoarse from years of shouting over the gulls. Beggars with missing limbs and hollow eyes clawed at the ankles of anyone who looked like they might have a bronze piece to spare. Children—too thin, too old in their eyes—darted between the legs of adults, quick fingers seeking unguarded purses.
Above it all, dominating the skyline like a great black serpent, stretched the Bridge. Even from here, nearly two miles away, its massive stone arches seemed to press down on the Outer Island with the weight of centuries. Beyond it, barely visible through the perpetual mist that clung to the water between the islands, rose the gleaming spires of the Inner Island. Torchlight flickered in windows that cost more than most people here would see in a lifetime.
That was where the real power lived. Not just nobles with their pretty titles and soft hands, but the ones who pulled the strings behind the government's facade. Everyone knew the Six Families controlled everything that mattered—trade routes, military appointments, even which laws got enforced and which got forgotten. The Council of Ministers might wear the official robes and make the public speeches, but when the Ashfords or the Blackwaters spoke, ministers listened.
Kael had learned that lesson early. His mother had been a seamstress, skilled enough to do piecework for some of the minor nobility. She'd made the mistake of overhearing something she shouldn't have—or maybe she'd just been in the wrong place when someone needed a scapegoat. Either way, the soldiers had come for her when Kael was six years old. They'd worn the government's colors, but he'd glimpsed the Ravencrest seal on their captain's glove.
"Official business," they'd said. She was gone by morning, and no one would tell him where.
Nineteen now, Kael had the kind of hard-won wisdom that came from thirteen years of surviving on streets that chewed up the weak and spat out the bones. His green eyes had lost their boyish brightness, replaced by a calculating coldness that made even hardened criminals think twice before crossing him. His black hair hung unkempt around a face that might have been handsome once, before the scars and the constant hunger had carved it into something sharper.
His hands told the story of those years—knuckles that had been broken and re-broken, palms crisscrossed with the white lines of old knife wounds, fingers that had learned to be quick with a blade and quicker with a stranglehold. They were hands made for violence, for taking what others wouldn't give freely.
"Still dreaming about the other side?"
Tarrin's voice cut through his brooding. His friend—if that's what you called someone who'd watched your back for five years while you watched his—materialized from the crowd with the easy stride of someone who belonged in these twisted streets. Tarrin was shorter than Kael, broader in the shoulders, with sandy hair that never seemed to stay combed and a crooked grin that could charm coins from a beggar's bowl or distract a mark long enough for Kael to get behind them.
The purple bruise spreading across his left cheek was new, as were the split knuckles on his right hand. Business had been rough lately.
"Still pretending you don't?" Kael shot back, but there was no heat in it. This was an old dance between them.
Tarrin laughed, a sound with sharp edges. "I stopped pretending years ago." He leaned against the wall beside Kael, both of them watching the Bridge like it was some impossible mountain they'd been told to climb. "Only difference is, I know what it costs now."
The cost was everything. Passage to the Inner Island required papers—real ones, not the forgeries you could buy in the markets that would get you killed at the first checkpoint. Papers meant connections. Connections meant money. More money than anyone in Dockside had ever seen.
But there were other ways. Dangerous ways. Ways that involved crossing people you shouldn't cross and doing things you couldn't take back.
"Ghislan's got work," Tarrin said, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. Even here, in the maze of alleys that made up their territory, you didn't speak the boss's name too loudly.
Kael nodded. Work meant pain for someone else and coins for them. It was honest, in its way—more honest than the pretty lies the nobles told themselves about law and order and justice.
They pushed off from the wall and started walking deeper into the labyrinth of Dockside. The buildings here leaned against each other like drunks, their timber frames warped by decades of salt air and neglect. Whole sections had collapsed over the years, leaving gaps like missing teeth in a beggar's smile. The survivors had patched themselves back together with whatever came to hand—driftwood, salvaged metal, canvas stretched tight and painted with tar to keep out the rain.
It never really worked. Everything in Dockside leaked.
The streets—if you could call the narrow passages between buildings streets—followed no pattern that made sense to outsiders. They twisted and doubled back on themselves, split without warning, or simply ended at walls that had been built across them when someone decided they needed the space more than they needed the path. Kael had grown up in this maze. He knew every shortcut, every dead end, every loose board that would give way under an unwary foot.
More importantly, he knew the people. The fishmonger who'd give you an extra handful of scraps if you promised not to mention the short weights on his scales. The fence who'd buy stolen goods without asking too many questions, as long as you didn't bring him anything that would draw attention from the wrong kind of people. The tavern keeper who watered his ale but served it strong enough to forget your troubles, at least for a few hours.
And he knew the ones who paid protection money to Ghislan's crew.
They made their first stop at Berin's fish stall, tucked into an alcove between two buildings that had been trying to fall down for as long as anyone could remember. The old man saw them coming and his shoulders sagged like he was carrying twice his weight in years.
"Morning, boys," he said, his voice carrying the wheeze of someone who'd breathed too much salt air and coal smoke. "Early today, aren't you?"
"Business doesn't keep regular hours," Kael replied. He kept his tone neutral, almost friendly. There was no need to be cruel about it. Berin paid up without making trouble, which made him smarter than most.
The fishmonger's hands shook slightly as he reached into the strongbox hidden beneath his stall. Two silver pieces—a fortune for most people in Dockside, where a bronze coin could buy you a meal and twenty bronze made a silver. The math of poverty was simple and unforgiving.
"Trade's been slow," Berin said, like he said every week. "People don't have money for fish when bread costs what it does."
Kael pocketed the coins without comment. Everyone's trade was slow. Everyone was struggling to get by. Everyone had reasons why they couldn't pay what they owed. The trick was not to let those reasons become your problems.
"Next week, same time," Tarrin added with a nod that might have been sympathetic if you didn't know him better.
They moved on. Past the baker whose bread was more sawdust than flour. Past the ratcatcher whose business had never been better—where there were hungry people, there were always rats, and where there were rats, someone would pay to get rid of them. Past the woman who sold trinkets she claimed came from the Inner Island but which everyone knew she made herself from scraps of glass and metal.
Each stop followed the same pattern. A few words of greeting. The quiet transaction. The promise that they'd be back. No violence necessary, because everyone understood the math. Pay Ghislan's crew, and the other gangs would leave you alone. Pay Ghislan's crew, and when someone decided your shop would make a good target, there would be consequences for that someone. Pay Ghislan's crew, and maybe—just maybe—you'd live long enough to see your children grow up.
It wasn't a bad deal, all things considered. The alternative was chaos.
They'd almost finished their rounds when they came to Jorik's place. The fisherman had always been trouble—too proud, too stubborn, too stupid to understand how things worked in Dockside. His shack clung to the edge of the district like a barnacle, close enough to the water that high tide sometimes lapped at his doorstep.
Today, he was waiting for them.
Jorik stood in his doorway with his two sons flanked behind him, all three of them holding gutting knives like they meant something. The old man's face was set in hard lines, weathered by decades of hauling nets and fighting storms. His boys—neither one old enough to shave regularly—tried to match his expression, but Kael could see the fear in their eyes.
"Not today," Jorik said before either of them could speak. "Haven't caught enough to feed my family, let alone pay your blood money."
Kael sighed. This was why he hated the stubborn ones. They made everything more complicated than it needed to be.
"Everyone's struggling, Jorik," he said, keeping his voice reasonable. "That's why we all need to stick together. Pay what you owe, and maybe next week will be better."
"Better for who?" The fisherman's grip tightened on his knife. "Better for that fat bastard Ghislan, sitting in his tavern while honest men starve?"
Tarrin tensed beside him, hand drifting toward the club at his belt. Kael held up a finger—not yet.
"Ghislan keeps the peace," Kael said. "Without him, how long do you think you'd last? How long before the Razor Boys decided they wanted your nets? Or the Tidewaters decided your sons would look good pressed into service on their smuggling runs?"
Fear flickered across the younger boy's face. Good. He was smart enough to understand the reality of their situation.
But Jorik just spat in the mud at Kael's feet. "Peace. You call this peace?"
That was when his eldest boy—maybe sixteen, with his father's stubborn jaw and twice his stupidity—decided to be a hero. He lunged forward with his gutting knife, aiming for Kael's ribs.
Kael saw it coming from a mile away. He sidestepped the clumsy thrust, caught the boy's wrist, and twisted. The knife fell into the mud with a wet splash. The boy screamed as something in his wrist popped.
Tarrin was already moving, his club catching the younger son across the temple and dropping him like a sack of grain. Jorik roared and came at them both, but Kael was ready. He slammed his shoulder into the older man's chest, driving him back against the doorframe of his shack.
"You want to know what peace looks like?" Kael hissed, his forearm pressed against Jorik's throat. "Peace looks like your boys growing up with all their fingers. Peace looks like your nets not getting cut in the night. Peace looks like no one deciding your wife would fetch a good price in the flesh markets on Cutthroat Island."
Jorik's eyes went wide. Cutthroat Island was one of the smaller outposts, a haven for slavers and worse. Everyone knew what happened to people who ended up there.
"You think the government cares if you live or die?" Kael continued. "You think those nobles on the Inner Island lose sleep over whether you can feed your family? We're the only ones who give a damn, and this is how you repay us."
He let the fisherman drop. Jorik clutched his throat, gasping, while his eldest son cradled his broken wrist and the younger one groaned in the mud.
"Three silver," Kael said. "For the trouble."
Jorik's hand shook as he reached into his pocket. The coins were tarnished and warm from his body heat. Kael examined them for a moment—real silver, not the tin-plated fakes some people tried to pass off—then nodded.
"Same time next week," Tarrin said cheerfully, as if nothing had happened. "Maybe catch some extra fish between now and then."
They left the family in the mud and walked away. Behind them, Kael could hear the woman's voice—Jorik's wife, probably—as she came out to tend to her husband and sons. She'd understand, even if they didn't. She'd make sure they paid on time from now on.
They left the family in the mud and walked away. Behind them, Kael could hear the woman's voice—Jorik's wife, probably—as she came out to tend to her husband and sons. She'd understand, even if they didn't. She'd make sure they paid on time from now on.
The rest of their rounds passed without incident. A few more silver pieces, a handful of bronze, and the usual promises that business would be better next week. By the time they finished, the sun was high overhead and their coin purse had grown satisfyingly heavy.
It was honest work, in its way. Brutal, sometimes, but honest. They provided a service—protection, order, the promise that tomorrow would be much like today. In a place like Dockside, where chaos lurked around every corner, that was worth paying for.
Even if the payment sometimes had to be collected at knife-point.
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