Kino woke in the crooked shack to the smell of damp straw and rot. For a moment, he thought he was still on the island, hearing Rose humming in the kitchen, Cisco calling him to the garden, Kaiji swearing at a fish that slipped the hook. But the air was thick with smoke, refuse, and the sour stench of fish rotting in the sun. His stomach tightened. Kilsa leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, grinning like a cat that had caught a bird. "Move it, islander. Sleeping too long in a place like this gets you robbed—or worse." Kino swung his legs over the edge of the pallet, shivering, and rubbed the stiffness from his back. He remembered the long, cold nights on the ship, and the isolation of the island seemed almost comforting in comparison. "I… I don't even know where to go," he admitted. "You go where I say," Kilsa replied, shrugging. "Or stay here and hope rats don't eat you first." Kino swallowed, thinking of Rose's warm hands, Cisco's sharp commands, Kaiji's laugh. Here, there was none of that—only fear, hunger, and the smell of the canals.
Kilsa led him through the slums, weaving across narrow alleys and rickety wooden bridges spanning black, stagnant water. The canals were the veins of the city, carrying people, goods, and secrets. Small boats drifted aimlessly, children splashed into the water for coins, and merchants shouted over smoke and rot. Kino stumbled over a loose plank. "How do you even know where to step?" he asked. Kilsa's grin widened. "You learn quick, or you drown," he said, tipping a plank with his foot. "Every alley, every bridge, every canal has a trick. Guards don't follow the rules. Thieves don't follow the law. You need to follow your feet." Kino watched a group of boys dive into the water after a dropped coin, splashing, laughing, cursing. He felt a pang—these children reminded him of himself, but they had no Rose, no Cisco, no Kaiji. They had only each other, and even that was fleeting. He wanted to help, but Kilsa tugged him back. "Hands in your pockets. You're not a hero here."
As they walked, the church's influence became visible in subtle, unnerving ways. A beggar crossed himself toward a carved feather on a door before asking for scraps. A thief muttered a quick, silent prayer as he snatched a pouch. Even merchants whispered thanks to passing robed attendants holding powders and small bottles. Kino tried to make sense of it. On the island, the gods he knew—Esdion, Kirin—were alive in storms and tides. They were straightforward in their presence, merciful or violent. Here, power hid in shadow, in silence, in whispered reverence. "They own this place," Kilsa said casually. "Not with swords. With food. With healing. With fear. Everyone owes them something, whether they like it or not." Kino's stomach clenched. On the island, kindness had a face. Here, it was a currency, and he had none.
He saw the slum's life in its brutal, unfiltered detail: a man dragged into a canal for stealing bread, children diving for coins despite the stench and filth, merchants quietly paying priests without a word exchanged. Kino felt a mix of awe and disgust. The city was alive, chaotic, harsh, and unforgiving. He wanted to look away, but curiosity drew him closer. "Why does it have to be like this?" he asked Kilsa quietly. "Because it is," Kilsa shrugged, eyes scanning the alley. "Either you bend or it breaks you. Watch and learn." Kino clenched his fists, tasting salt—not from the sea this time, but from his own frustration. On the island, life had been small, but it had rules. Here, the rules were invisible and deadly.
By dusk, lanterns flickered across the canals, throwing wavering shadows on the walls. Kino's eyes caught movement—a girl moving through the alleys like a shadow herself. She was his age, but her shoulders, her posture, her eyes held a weight far beyond youth. Her scarf hid her face, but a flash of blue-striped tattoo appeared as she adjusted it, curling over her shoulder. She didn't notice Kino—or didn't care. Something in her stillness silenced the noise of the pier. Kino rose, following her at a distance, heart pounding. She passed through alleys and bridges until she disappeared into the hollow church.
Inside, the cavernous chamber was empty except for the altar and the burning feather sculpture. The Black Priest stood in robes of shadow. The girl walked to him silently, drew a small golden box from her cloak, and placed it before him. The priest's pale fingers hovered over it, pressed down, and a brief nod passed between them. She pulled her scarf tighter and left without a sound. Kino pressed himself against the shadows. The trembling of her hands, the careful hiding of her tattoo, and the quiet reverence she showed made Kino realize she spoke only through her actions—to the priest alone.
Back in the crooked shack that night, Kino lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The canals moaned outside, the city breathed around him, and the image of the girl lingered in his mind: strong, silent, scarred, yet alive. He remembered Esdion's calm seas, Kirin's thunder, Rose's warm hands. None of it existed here. Sleep came slowly, but the burning feather, the golden box, and the girl's hidden tattoo haunted him. He thought: If she can survive here, maybe I can too. But I will have to learn everything the hard way. Somewhere deep, Kino understood he would follow the canals, the shadows, and even the silent girl, because the city had already claimed him—whether he wanted it to or not.