Dust woke to the sound of church bells tolling the morning hour. Six chimes echoed across Lower Ashmark, their bronze voices calling the faithful to early prayer. But there was another sound underneath the bells—footsteps, deliberate and searching, growing closer to his hiding spot.
He pressed himself deeper into the doorway's shadows, hardly daring to breathe. Through a crack in the wooden door behind him, he could see two men in rough clothes walking slowly down the narrow street. They weren't hurrying, weren't calling out. They were hunting.
"—check every doorway," one of them was saying. "Garrett wants him found today."
"Kid's got to eat sometime," the other replied. "Can't hide forever."
They paused directly in front of Dust's hiding place. He could see their boots through the gap under the door—worn leather, reinforced with metal studs. Working boots. Fighting boots.
"This one?" The first man's voice was right outside.
Dust's heart hammered so loud he was sure they'd hear it. His hand found the loose stone he'd noticed the night before, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary. It wouldn't do much good against two grown men, but at least he wouldn't go down without trying.
"Nah, look at the dust on the handle. No one's opened this door in weeks."
The footsteps moved on, fading into the distance. Dust remained frozen for several more minutes before finally allowing himself to breathe normally. That had been close—too close.
When he was certain the men were gone, he crept out of the doorway and into the gray morning light. His stomach immediately reminded him of its empty state, cramping with hunger. He'd eaten nothing since Seamus's shared lunch yesterday, and his body was starting to feel the effects. His hands shook slightly as he gathered his possessions, and dark spots danced at the edges of his vision when he stood too quickly.
But going to the market meant risking capture. Every merchant stall, every familiar face could be a trap.
Instead, Dust made his way toward the harbor district by a circuitous route, sticking to alleys and side streets he rarely used. The Sea Witch would still be there, preparing for departure. Maybe he could find work with another ship's crew, earn enough for a meal without showing his face in Garrett's territory.
The docks were busy despite the early hour. Sailors moved with purpose, loading cargo and checking rigging. The smell of salt air mixed with tar and fish, creating the distinctive perfume of the waterfront. Dust breathed it in deeply, finding something oddly comforting about the harsh, honest smell.
He was watching a crew load barrels onto a merchant vessel when a familiar voice made him turn.
"Thought I might find you here."
Captain Aldrich stood behind him, looking every inch the seasoned sailor in his weathered coat and practical boots. But his storm-gray eyes held concern as they took in Dust's appearance.
"You look terrible, lad."
"Good morning to you too," Dust replied, trying for humor but hearing how weak his voice sounded.
Aldrich stepped closer, lowering his voice. "There are men asking questions about you. Rough sorts with coin to spend and no patience for polite answers. You've stirred up something bigger than yourself, haven't you?"
Dust nodded reluctantly. There was no point in lying—not to someone offering him a way out.
"The offer still stands," Aldrich said quietly. "We sail with tonight's tide. Whatever trouble you're in, it can't follow you across the ocean."
"I know." Dust looked out at the harbor, watching gulls wheel and dive for scraps. "And I appreciate it. More than you know."
"But?"
"But I can't just leave. Not yet."
Aldrich was quiet for a moment, studying Dust's face. "This about the old woman? The one you helped?"
"How did you—"
"Word travels fast on the docks. Someone saw you with her that night, put the pieces together." Aldrich's expression softened slightly. "Noble of you, lad. Stupid, but noble."
"She's in trouble because of me."
"She's in trouble because she borrowed money from a snake like Marcus Garrett. That's not your fault."
"Isn't it?" Dust turned to face the captain fully. "If I hadn't interfered—"
"Then those men would have hurt her that very night instead of waiting three days. You bought her time, nothing more." Aldrich's voice was gentle but firm. "You can't save everyone, son. Sometimes the best you can do is save yourself."
The words stung because they carried the weight of truth. Dust had learned that lesson repeatedly during his years on the streets. Help the wrong person and you'd end up hungry. Trust too easily and you'd wake up robbed. Care too much and you'd get your heart broken.
But knowing a truth and accepting it were different things entirely.
"I have to try," Dust said finally.
Aldrich sighed, a sound like wind through ship's rigging. "Aye, I suppose you do. That's the burden of having a conscience—it doesn't let you take the easy path."
They stood in comfortable silence, watching the harbor come to life around them. Sailors called to each other in a dozen different languages. Merchants haggled over prices while dock workers hauled cargo with practiced efficiency. It was a world of movement and possibility, where a person could reinvent themselves with every port.
"Tell me something," Aldrich said eventually. "What's your plan? How exactly do you intend to help this woman?"
Dust had been avoiding that question all morning. The honest answer was that he had no plan at all, just a growing certainty that he couldn't abandon Clara to face Garrett's anger alone.
"I don't know yet," he admitted.
"Mm." Aldrich reached into his coat and pulled out a small leather pouch, weighing it thoughtfully in his palm. "Twenty silver pieces," he said quietly. "Enough to clear most debts in Lower Ashmark."
Dust stared at the pouch, hardly believing what he was hearing. "Captain, I can't—"
"You can't what? Accept help when it's offered?" Aldrich pressed the pouch into Dust's hands before he could protest further. "Consider it an advance on wages you'll never earn, for a berth you'll never occupy."
The weight of the coins was almost overwhelming—more money than Dust had ever held at once. But even as hope flared in his chest, reality crashed back down.
"Garrett won't just take the money and let this go," he said slowly. "He made it clear this is about more than what Clara owes. It's about respect, about not letting people think they can cross him."
"Then what will you do?"
Dust looked down at the silver in his hands, then out at the ships preparing to carry their crews to distant shores. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine it—paying Clara's debt, buying passage on the Sea Witch, leaving Lower Ashmark behind forever.
But he knew Marcus Garrett too well for such simple hopes.
"I don't know," he said again. "But I'll figure something out."
Aldrich clapped him on the shoulder with a hand that had hauled rope and weathered storms. "That's what I thought you'd say. For what it's worth, lad, I think you're making a mistake. But I also think you're making it for the right reasons."
The captain turned to go, then paused. "The Sea Witch leaves with the evening tide. If you change your mind—if you find a way to clear your conscience and save your skin both—you'll find a place waiting for you."
As Aldrich walked away, disappearing into the crowd of sailors and merchants, Dust clutched the leather pouch and tried to think. Twenty silver pieces. Enough to pay Clara's debt with money to spare. But Garrett wanted more than payment—he wanted an example made, a lesson taught.
The morning sun climbed higher, warming the docks and burning off the harbor mist. Around Dust, the business of the port continued its eternal rhythm. Ships arrived and departed. Cargo was loaded and unloaded. People came and went, following the currents of commerce and opportunity.
But Dust remained still, weighing silver coins against impossible choices, trying to find a solution that didn't exist.