Dust spent the rest of the morning walking aimlessly through the quieter parts of Lower Ashmark, the leather pouch heavy in his pocket. Twenty silver pieces felt like carrying a small fortune, but also like carrying a stone that grew heavier with each step.
Every face in the crowd seemed suspicious now. Every glance felt like recognition. Twice he ducked into doorways when he spotted men who might have been Garrett's, only to realize they were ordinary workers going about their business. The paranoia was eating at him, making his hands shake and his breathing shallow.
By midday, hunger forced him to take a risk. He found a small bakery on the edge of the dock district, run by an elderly woman who didn't ask questions. Two copper pieces bought him a meat pastry and a cup of weak ale—the first real meal he'd had since Seamus shared his lunch.
The food helped settle his nerves, but it also made him realize how exhausted he was. Three days of running, hiding, sleeping in doorways and abandoned buildings. His body was reaching its limits, and his mind felt foggy from stress and lack of proper rest.
He needed to think clearly, needed to make a plan. But first, he needed to know if Clara was safe.
The decision made, Dust began working his way toward her street. He moved carefully, taking a winding route through back alleys and side streets. The silver in his pocket clinked softly with each step, a reminder of possibilities and dangers both.
Clara's neighborhood was quiet in the afternoon heat. Most people were indoors, taking refuge from the sun or busy with daily chores. Dust approached her house from the back, through a narrow gap between buildings that gave him a view of her rear garden.
The small plot looked normal enough—a few struggling vegetables, some herb plants, a wooden tub for washing clothes. But as Dust watched, he noticed something that made his blood run cold.
Smoke was rising from the chimney.
Clara had told him her husband Henrik was too sick to get out of bed, too weak to tend a fire. And yesterday, when her house had been ransacked, there had been no smoke at all.
Someone else was inside.
Dust crept closer, using the garden wall for cover. Through the small rear window, he could see movement inside the house—shadows passing back and forth. He strained to hear voices but could make out nothing clearly.
Then the back door opened, and Dust pressed himself flat against the wall.
"—told you, she doesn't know where he is," a familiar voice was saying. Clara, but her tone was strained, frightened.
"And I told you, that's not good enough." The second voice was deeper, rougher. One of Garrett's men. "The boss wants answers, and he's getting tired of waiting."
Dust risked a quick look around the corner. Through the open doorway, he could see into Clara's main room. The old woman was sitting in a chair—not by choice, judging by the way the large man stood behind her. A second man paced near the front window, occasionally peering out at the street.
"The boy helped me once," Clara was saying, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know anything about him beyond that. I swear on my husband's life."
"Your husband's life isn't worth much these days," the pacing man said with cruel amusement. "Old Henrik's been coughing up blood for weeks, hasn't he? Shame if something happened to make his condition... worse."
Clara's sharp intake of breath was audible even from Dust's hiding spot. "Please. He's dying already. Don't—"
"Then tell us where to find the boy."
"I don't know!"
The sound of a hand striking flesh echoed from inside the house. Clara cried out, a small, wounded sound that hit Dust like a physical blow.
He found himself moving before conscious thought could stop him. Not toward the door—that would be suicide—but toward the small pile of stones Clara used to border her garden. His hand closed around one about the size of his fist.
The pacing man was still visible through the window, his back turned as he continued his patrol. Dust took careful aim and threw.
The stone struck the window with a sharp crack, spider-webbing the glass but not breaking it completely. Inside the house, both men spun toward the sound.
"What was that?"
"Check it out."
Dust was already moving, racing along the side of the house toward the front. As he reached the corner, the back door slammed open and heavy footsteps pounded across the garden.
"Nothing out here!"
"Must have been a bird. Come on, we're wasting time."
Dust waited, counting heartbeats, until he heard the back door close again. Then he crept to the front window and peered inside.
The men had returned to their positions, but now they seemed more alert, more suspicious. Clara sat in her chair, one hand pressed to her reddened cheek, but her eyes held a spark of something that might have been hope.
She had heard the distraction. She knew someone was out there.
"Last chance, old woman," the larger man said. "Where is he?"
"I told you—"
"Check the bedroom," the man interrupted, nodding toward the door that led to the back of the house. "Maybe Henrik knows something his wife doesn't."
"No!" Clara struggled to rise from her chair, but the man behind her pushed her down roughly. "He can barely breathe. Please don't—"
But the second man was already heading toward the bedroom door. In moments, he would find Henrik—sick, helpless, unable to defend himself or his wife.
Dust looked down at the leather pouch in his hands. Twenty silver pieces. Enough to end this, to save Clara and her husband from whatever Garrett's men had planned.
But also enough to ensure his own doom. Because Garrett had made it clear this wasn't just about money anymore. It was about respect, about making an example.
Still, what choice did he have?
Before he could lose his nerve, Dust walked around to the front door and knocked.
The voices inside went silent. Then, after a moment, footsteps approached the door.
"Who is it?"
Dust took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the silver in his pocket, the weight of the choice he was making. "Someone who wants to make things right."
The door opened slowly, revealing the face of the man who had been pacing by the window. His eyes widened in recognition and surprise.
"Well, well," he said, his hand moving instinctively toward the knife at his belt. "Look what the cat dragged in."
Behind him, Dust could see Clara's frightened face, and beyond that, the second man returning from the bedroom doorway. They had him outnumbered, outmuscled, and trapped.
But he had something they wanted more than violence.
"I hear Marcus Garrett is looking for me," Dust said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Maybe it's time we had a talk."