"I smile because the pain feels more alive, I fight because the grave keeps calling mine, I write because the silence won't pretend, I stay because at the end of the day the day gotta end.
— Psalm of Rakai
The deck still smelled of brine and pitch when she stepped into it.
Not loud. Not timid either. Just… there. The kind of entrance that didn't need to shout because the air bent on its own.
She said her name like it belonged on every tongue: Serwyn.
Cain's head lifted. Not like he meant to. Not like a captain inspecting crew. More like a man caught in a sudden draft of heat. His gaze stalled on her face, then slid lower, lingered where it shouldn't, then snapped back like nothing happened. But I saw it. Everyone did.
She asked—not begged, not pleaded—if she could work here. The words weren't polished. They weren't meant to be. It was the way her lips shaped them, soft, deliberate, as if asking was a game she'd already won.
Cain's mouth curled, the kind of smile that looked like it hurt him to wear. He didn't answer straight. His eyes did the talking, a glimmer that said he was already stripping her of choice. I swear, for a moment, he almost asked her to be his maid. His second wife, even. The thought clung to him like a fever.
I couldn't help myself. I cut in.
"Your wife," I reminded him.
That stopped him cold. His jaw set. His nostrils flared. A shadow crossed his face—memory, ugly and fast. He remembered the last maid. The screams. The blood. His wife's rage. I saw the shiver run down his spine, quick as a blade.
He muttered it under his breath, low but sharp enough for me to catch:
"That woman will be the death of me."
Then he shook it off, turned the weight on me. "Scram."
Just like that—like I was a fly in his wine.
To her, though, he softened. Pulled a pouch from his coat, counted twenty silvers, dropped them into her palm like an offering.
"Today, you just watch. See how the others work."
Her fingers closed over the coins, eyes flickering with something I couldn't read. Amusement maybe. Or pity. Or triumph.
Cain turned away, barked an order to the crew, as if nothing had happened.
But my stomach burned. My fists clenched at my sides.
If he had his way, he'd take her as his second wife. He said it plain, careless, like it was a joke. It wasn't.
And me? I could only stand there, furious, while she smiled with twenty silvers warm in her hand.
---
The public chair wasn't just a seat. It was a relic. Ancient wood carved with patterns that had outlived the kings who commissioned them. Steel bones, stone base. Looked like it had been ripped from a ruined temple and dragged here by mistake. And yet—someone had dropped a foam pad on it. Cheap. Ugly. Comfortable. I leaned back like I owned the thing.
Curriculum. That was the word I told myself. I wasn't born to teach, but if the kids had to learn, they'd learn my way.
First, weft. Symbols. Runes in sand. No Aetherium ink yet, so useless in practice, but worth burning into their heads. Muscle memory before magic.
Then, circles. That's where the work gets cruel. Exam day—small board, little space. No compass, no ruler. Just your raw hand. The straighter your curve, the more functions you could cram in. One slip, one crooked line, half your magic was gone. Accuracy wasn't neatness. Accuracy was power.
After that, theory—Compendium, alchemy, even if no examiner would dare let brats brew. Still, terms stick. Words buy you time. Time buys you survival. And when they had a little brain left, I'd slip them some tricks—psychic tics, ways to bait, ways to gaslight, ways to get inside the mind of anyone stupid enough to look down on them. That's worth more than any rune.
An empty carriage rattled by. I lifted a hand. Too slow. Gone. Story of my life.
My shirt hung loose, baggy, knotted at the hem so it looked like design, not mistake. Blue trousers, pressed neat, ironed sharp. Chain at my neck, silver ring catching stray sun, piercing on my ear. My mustache was growing stubborn, scratching the edge of my lip. I'd shave it later—or not. Depends on how the mood hit. Men passing gave me looks like I was either insane or advertising cheap fashion. Women lingered, eyes soft. Let them.
The green board across the square had a map pinned, corners curling. I walked over.
To the South: Mireport. Gut-stinking docks.
West: Blackmere. My swamp. My curse. Marshland where water drowned more villages than wars ever could. You learned to wade, or you died.
East: Jade Coast. Exotic trades, silk-smugglers. Lantern Quay its jewel—lanterns burning even in daylight, names whispered even in far ports. Lantern Quay was the place everyone meant when they said Jade Coast.
Between jade and south lied the Beggars kiss
North: Ossuary Crown, with its university, the brain of this whole mad body. Beyond that, Ironreach, iron towers biting the sky.
Below it all: the Sunk Districts. Dungeon Hollows. Flooded, sun-starved, crawling with old runes and things that should've stayed buried.
And cut across, from north to south: the Godless Mile. An ancient road, market-stall after stall. Miracles for sale like trinkets, gods treated like jokes. The longest scar in the city.
I stared too long. It stared back.
"Paper, sir?"
The boy's stand smelled of ink and smoke. Paper stacked, cigars lined in neat rows.
"Black-and-white or colored?" he asked, holding out the sheets.
"Colored, of course," I said. Took one.
The first headline screamed.
Breaking News — A New Age of Coin?
Registry Houses announce a ratification. Contract-currency. Not metal, not mint. Oath and law. Each note sealed with Aetherium ink, a promise bound in breath. No forgery. No counterfeits. Living money.
Officials said it was the future. Stallkeepers muttered it was a leash. Rumors whispered the first batch carried hidden runes—chains you never signed for.
"Money was once a weight in your palm," an old dockhand said. "Now it's a leash round your throat."
I smirked. Interesting. Turned the page. Fashion. University standards raised. Murder rates up in Lantern Quay. Good reading for a quiet day.
I folded it under my arm.
"Anything else?"
I started to say no. Then I saw him—shadow moving toward the bench under the tree, coat swaying like a curtain. I changed my mind.
"One Scottish," I said, pointing to the cigars. Pause. His boots touched the edge of the shade. "And a tobacco."
The boy's eyebrows flicked. He boxed them both, slid a lighter across the counter too. Not matches. Brass lighter, scratched, heavy.
I dropped sixteen silvers and one gold into his hand. Too much for what I took, and we both knew it. But it wasn't about price. In this city, you don't smoke alone. You buy for the man beside you. Custom. Courtesy. Warning.
"All the same it's custom to light one for your neighbor,
smoke in the air keeps the peace,
leave them cold and you curse the street."
There was saying "Pass the smoke or stay broke — neighbors don't starve together."
I carried them back. Sat. Crossed my leg slow. The silver writing on my shoe caught the light: Levi Delhi. Across from me, his leg crossed too, black leather flashing a single word in pale thread: Messiah.
I didn't look at him. Didn't need to. I slid the tobacco across the space between us. No look. He took it. His hand was precise, smooth, the kind of motion that came from someone used to being watched.
I thumbed the lighter.
One strike.
Flame bloomed.
Lit my Scottish first, let the smoke hang just long enough to say this is how it's done.
Tilted the fire toward him without even turning.
Two cigars lit in the same breath — smoke rising like we'd just summoned something.
We sat.
Let the world do the rest.
People noticed. They always notice pictures, never details. Two men in shade. Cigars lit. Papers open. One upside down the other trying to make sense of it.Smoke curling like snakes through the air.
Then the tree blessed us.
Yellow leaves fell, slow as scripture being read aloud.
Each one wet from the morning, landing soft, splashing like quiet applause.
The sun caught them mid-fall — every flash a coin of gold, spent just to mark the moment.
They hit the puddles and turned to mush,
but not before they crowned the scene,
not before they turned the whole block holy.
It felt like the world itself leaned in,
decorating the silence with glitter that disappeared as soon as it touched the ground.
No crowd. No cameras.
Just two men glazed in light and smoke.
An audience of nobody, watching everything.
His jawline was cut clean, sharp enough to make statues jealous. A light mustache, neat. Skin light brown—not tan, not sun-burnt, but the kind that said what nobody here said out loud: Black. Pink lips caught the light each time he dragged on the cigar, soft against the shadow of his coat. Long black coat, black trousers, black belt with silver buckle, silver chain wrapped loose around his wrist. Suit beneath, sleek and heavy with presence and of course a nice suitcase.
Our legs crossed, heels grinding down as if pressing the whole world underfoot. Levi Delhi. Messiah. Silver script and stitched prophecy, side by side in the dust.
Hazel eyes flicked from my paper's edge, searching, hoping. For his. For a spark. Instead I met only the shadow of his hat. He didn't give me the courtesy.
The phone rang. A public payphone, shrill and metallic. He stood, slow, like it had called only him. Walked with calm steps. Lifted the receiver. Voice low, too far to catch.
When he turned to leave, the light shifted. I saw it. The fade. Sharp, deliberate, barbered clean. And the tattoo, black ink burning against brown skin at the side to the back of his neck:
NOT LIKE US.
It hit like a blade of memory. Kendrick's face flashed, his defiance, the same script burned into him in different ways.
The man walked on. Smoke thinned behind him. Leaves kept falling, glittered gold in the wet light.The payphone slammed down and he walked away, coat cutting through the air like a blade. The silver suitcase swung at his side, sharp edges glinting with each step.
I watched him go. Step after step, steady into the crowd. And then—just like that—it was gone. The case. His hand swung empty. No stumble, no shift. Just vanished, clean as if the city had edited it out.
Like watching a mission end in some broken game. Objective complete. Assets despawned.
I sat there, newspaper still upside down, smoke fading into nothing. My hazel eyes burned at the space he'd left, like staring long enough would bring him back.
Didn't.
I checked my watch. Too late.
"Only one space left!" the town crier bellowed down the street, voice breaking over the square.
I stood. Walked. The carriage rattled as I climbed aboard. I flicked a gold at the driver, the coin flashing like a tiny sun before it landed in his hand.
"Keep the change."
The wheels rattled rough under me, metal biting wood, wood biting cobble. The gold I'd tossed still weighed in the driver's palm — I'd seen his eyes flash once, then hide it, like he knew better than to question luck when it landed heavy.
Inside, the air smelled of leather, dust, and milk.
She sat across. Brown hair with a streak of blonde curled across her forehead, catching what little light cut through the carriage slats. Bust heavy, straining against her dress as she nursed. The girl in her arms was small, fragile, eyes shut tight. Lips pressed, soft and pink, against her mother's breast. A lock of blond hair curled at the child's crown, catching sweat, sticking like straw.
I stared too long. Looked away. Looked back. Couldn't help it.
Why blond? My mind spat the question like a bad joke. I bit down on the smirk that came with it. Some things you never say out loud.
She shifted, adjusted the cloth around her chest with the kind of calm that said she didn't give a damn about who watched. That calm rattled me more than the wheels did.
I opened the paper again. Last page.
Governor Ortmeran's second wife, Alisa — birthday today.
My eyes slid from the ink back to the woman. Tilt of her chin. Curve of her cheek. Something scratched at memory. A photograph, burned into my head. One of Alisa's maids.
The carriage hit a stone. The baby whimpered, turned her head. The mother hushed her, hand cradling the girl's skull like it was glass. The baby's fist unfurled once, reached for nothing, then curled again.
The sound of wheels and hooves drowned everything else. My hazel eyes stayed fixed, not on the paper, not on the baby, but on her face. That familiarity clawed deeper the longer I looked.
I closed the paper.
Wait.
___
The sea always called louder after work. The mop water had dried in streaks, the deck still slick, smelling of salt and soap. I leaned against the rail, stared at the horizon. Mist clung low, gray and gold where the sun broke it.
Home. That's what it looked like. Even when it wasn't.
"What are you thinking about?" Serwyn's voice, soft at my shoulder.
"Home," I said. Just that.
She followed my gaze. Beggar's Kiss lay in the distance, its crooked spires jagged against the sky, its markets like open wounds stitched into the shore.
Then the sound shifted. Boots. Leather on wet wood.
A man walked onto the deck, all in black. Coat long, steps deliberate. He carried an iron box, rectangular, heavy enough to drag his shoulder down, but he didn't falter.
The crew shifted as he passed. Not out of courtesy. Out of fear. No one wanted to brush against something that expensive, something that sharp. One man made the crown split like the Red sea. Those the manage to get a look into his eyes said it was pink , it was red.
Cain himself came down from the master's deck. Cain didn't move for anyone. But he moved for him. Took the box into his own arms. Stared into the man's face.
The stranger didn't blink. Just reached inside his coat, pulled free a bundle thick with notes. Contract-currency. The new living money, bound in Aetherium ink. Too much of it.
Cain's jaw locked. His eyes flicked, calculating. Shock hidden under his skin but not enough. He took the bundle anyway.
"HOW FAR?" Cain's voice dropped low. Too low. I swore I saw his hand shivered
No one breathed.
The man in black didn't answer. He didn't have to. His silence filled the deck heavier than words.
I watched. Detective eyes, pulling pieces. His coat's hem, dry despite the sea spray. His shoes—leather stitched bold, the brand shining faint in the light. Messiah. Cain's hand trembled once, just once, when he gripped the iron box tighter. The crew looked away, pretending not to see.
I turned back to the sea. Let the sound of the tide smother the weight of what I'd just witnessed.
"Home," I said again, this time to myself.
The waves didn't answer. But they listened.