[POV: Jessa]
The bedroll was empty.
Jessa knelt beside it in the fading light, her knees pressing into the rough floorboards of the Tannery. The wool blanket was still bunched at one end, thin pillow creased where Taren's head had rested a few days ago. She could see the shape of him—the way he curled on his side when the coughing got bad, one arm tucked under his ribs.
She didn't touch it. She just stared.
He was right here. Coughing, but alive.
The oil lamp on the workbench flickered, throwing shadows across the low ceiling. Hides hung from the beams overhead, pale and slick, curing in the chemical vats that lined the far wall. The air was thick with it—lye and wet leather and something older underneath, something that never washed out.
Now he's in a cell under the Plaza. And I don't know if he's still breathing.
She breathed through her mouth, but the smell still reached her. Sharp. Familiar.
Mother used to smell like this. After the mines.
The memory hit like a fist.
Her mother's hands. Cracked and bleeding, scrubbing ore dust from her father's shirt in a basin of grey water. The dust never came out, no matter how long she worked. It settled into the fabric, into the skin, into the lungs.
Jessa was twelve. Taren was eight.
Their father lay on a bedroll just like this one, blanket pulled to his chest, pillow stained with the blood he coughed up every morning. The sound was wet now—not the dry rasp from before, but something thicker. Something drowning.
"Save the masks for the foremen," Mother had said, hands shaking as she wrung the shirt over the basin. "We're not worth the cost."
The Regent's office knew the dust was deadly. Every miner knew. You could see it in the way they moved—slower every year, chests caving in, lips turning grey. But the foremen got masks, and the workers got reassigned or replaced.
Father died three days later. Drowned in his own lungs while Jessa held his hand and Taren pressed against her side, too young to understand but old enough to feel it.
Six months after that, Mother started coughing.
Jessa's fingers brushed the blanket. The wool was rough. Cold.
Taren's smell was fading. He'd been gone too long.
She remembered the last time she'd touched her mother's hand—thin and papery, veins standing out under the skin. The cough had stolen everything else: her voice, her strength, the easy laugh that used to fill their cramped room.
But she'd kept the ribbon.
A faded blue thing, frayed at the edges, threaded through her hair even when she couldn't lift her head from the pillow. It was the only pretty thing she'd ever owned. Jessa remembered thinking that—the only pretty thing—while she watched her mother's chest rise and fall, each breath shallower than the last.
When it stopped, Jessa sat for a long time. Taren was crying, his face pressed into her shoulder, his whole body shaking. She didn't cry. She couldn't.
Instead, she reached out and untied the ribbon from her mother's hair.
It came loose in her hands, soft and light, the color of a summer sky they never saw through Stoneveil's smog.
Then she tore it in two.
"Half for you," she said to Taren, pressing the shorter piece into his palm. "Half for me."
He looked up at her, eyes red and swollen, and she made him a promise.
"We stay together."
Jessa stood. Her legs ached from kneeling, but she ignored it. She crossed to the door and looked out into the darkening street.
Stoneveil was quiet. Too quiet. You could feel it in the way people walked—heads down, shoulders tight, moving like they expected the bells to ring at any moment.
She checked her knife. It was tucked into her boot, the handle wrapped in a strip of faded blue cloth. Her half.
Taren had his in a pocket, she knew. Or he used to. She didn't know if the guards had taken it when they dragged him away.
We stayed together. We stayed together.
And then a pink paper came down from the Regent's complex, and they took him.
She thought about the clerk. Arlen Mora. The one with the soft voice and the scared eyes and the signature on Taren's transfer order.
Crown clerks count the dead. They don't save them.
But this one said he wanted to help. Said he knew about Sparkweave—a name that should have gotten him killed the moment it left his lips. Said he could get Taren out.
Everyone who knows about Sparkweave is either an ally or a corpse.
Which one are you, Arlen Mora?
Jessa grabbed her bag and threw it over her shoulder.
She took one step toward the door—then stopped.
The empty bedroll caught her eye. The blanket. The pillow. The space where Taren should be.
I could run.
The thought hit her, sharp and seductive. She knew the back routes to the harbor. Knew which smugglers owed her favors, which captains didn't ask questions. She could be on a boat by dawn, sailing deeper into the East Sea where the Crown's reach was weak.
But Taren is still in the Pit.
And Sparkweave is counting on me. He trusted me with this. With the clerk.
Corin is waiting at the Anchor. If I don't bring Mora, they'll think I turned.
She looked at the bedroll again. The space where her brother should be.
She couldn't leave without him. She couldn't get him without help.
The clerk signed the order—but he'd also looked her in the eye and promised to get Taren out. She'd seen something in his face. Not pity. Not guilt. Something colder. More practical.
He's calculating, she'd thought then. He's running the numbers.
Maybe that was good. Maybe calculators didn't lie—they just added up the cost.
If you're lying, Arlen Mora, I will make you regret every stroke of your quill.
Jessa pulled her hood up.
The knife stayed in her boot, the ribbon tight around the handle. She stepped out of the Tannery into the fog.
The street was empty. The bells hadn't rung yet.
She walked toward the city—toward the Regent's complex, toward the frightened clerk who might save her brother or get them all killed.
If he's lying—if he's just another Crown rat in a clerk's coat—
She didn't finish the thought.
But if he's telling the truth...
Hope was too dangerous. She'd buried hope with her parents, wrapped it in a faded blue ribbon and locked it away.
But she couldn't bury Taren. Not yet.
The promise echoed in the dark.
We stay together.
[POV: Silas]
The Rusty Anchor didn't advertise.
Silas found it wedged between two rotting warehouses at the end of a dock that smelled like salt and dead fish. The sign creaked overhead—an iron anchor, rust bleeding down its face. No bouncer. No light in the windows. The kind of place that only existed if you already knew where it was.
Jessa was waiting outside. Hood up, hands in her pockets.
She didn't greet him. Just turned and walked inside.
Warm welcome.
Silas followed. The door groaned as he pushed it open.
The main room was low-ceilinged and lantern-lit, thick with smoke and the smell of cheap ale. A bar ran along one wall—three men nursing drinks, each with a knife visible at the hip. A back booth held a fourth figure, hunched over something in his lap.
Hand crossbow. Concealed, but not well enough.
Nobody looked at them. Conversations didn't pause. Drinks kept lifting. That was worse than staring.
Three knives at the bar. One concealed crossbow at the back booth.
If I wanted to kill everyone here, I'd start with the crossbow. But I'm not here to kill. I'm here to negotiate. Different rules.
Jessa led him through the room, past the bar, into a back hallway that smelled like old wine and mildew. She stopped at a cellar door—iron-banded wood, hinges black with rust.
She didn't open it.
"This part is between you and them," she said.
"You're not coming?"
"I vouch for you. That's all I do." Her eyes were flat. "What happens in there is on you."
She grabbed his arm before he could reach for the door. Her grip was stronger than he expected.
"Don't forget our deal," she said. "My brother comes out. That's my price for bringing you here."
Silas met her gaze. "Noted."
She's making sure I remember who I owe.
Fair enough. I made the promise. Now I have to sell it to the people downstairs.
He opened the door and descended into the dark.
The cellar was low-ceilinged, damp, and lantern-lit.
Barrels and crates lined the walls, stacked high enough to block the corners. The air smelled of salt, old fish, and something sharper underneath—oil. Weapon oil.
A table sat at the center of the room. One chair occupied.
The man in the chair didn't look up when Silas entered.
He was older than expected. Scarred forearms, bare to the elbow. One eye milky white—chemical burn, old. The other: sharp, blue, utterly cynical. He was cleaning a repeater crossbow with the ease of long practice.
Looks like Crown issue. Probably stolen.
The way he handled the weapon said he'd used it. Often.
Two others flanked the table. One was a mercenary—younger, bigger, hands resting on sword hilt. Worn armor, watchful eyes, the looseness of a man who knew how to move fast.
The other was a woman. Young. Lean and wiry, built like a runner. Same sharp blue eye as the scarred man—similar jawline, too. A light blade at her hip and a messenger satchel across her chest. She didn't have the mercenary's looseness; she had something else. Stillness. Watchful.
Related. Has to be. Same eyes, same jaw.
The scarred man set down a cleaning cloth. Still didn't look up.
"The clerk who signs death warrants," he said, voice like grinding stones, "wants to play rebel."
He set the crossbow aside. Looked up for the first time.
"Convince me you're not a trap."
He wants me to beg. Explain. Justify.
I'm not going to do any of that.
Silas didn't sit. Didn't reach for anything. He kept his hands visible, his voice level.
"The Stillstone shipment," he said. "Leaves the Plaza at noon Friday. I'll get the Secondary Inspection order signed. The convoy gate stays open for exactly twelve minutes while the audit team verifies."
The scarred man's hand stopped on the table.
"Skeleton crew," Silas continued. "One warden—Kael."
Silence.
The scarred man looked at him differently now. Not as a threat. As something worse.
"Where did you get this?"
"I'm an auditor," Silas said. "I audit."
I just made myself useful. Now I need to make myself necessary.
A figure stepped out of the shadows at the back of the cellar.
Silas noticed him immediately: grey at the temples, lines around the eyes that didn't come from laughing. He moved like a man who'd learned stillness was cheaper than speed—no wasted motion, no tension in the shoulders.
This had to be him. The kind of man who could lead a resistance in a city where the Regent uses the guillotine to terrorize everyone.
Sparkweave—or someone pretending to be.
This one's dangerous. Not because he's fast. Because he might already be three moves ahead.
The man crossed to the table. The scarred mercenary didn't move—didn't even flinch. Whatever hierarchy existed in this cellar, the newcomer was at the top of it.
"One spark," the man said. His voice was low, rough, like he didn't use it often. "That's all a fire needs. We are not here to be legends. We are here to make corrupt regents bleed."
He looked at Silas. Eyes like a scale, measuring.
"Why does a Crown rat turn on the master?"
Silas met his gaze. Didn't blink.
"Because I backed the wrong Duke," he said. "The Crown sent me here to rot. I don't owe them a scrip. I don't owe Calder anything. All I owe is myself."
The man studied him for a long moment. The lantern flickered. Somewhere above, the floorboards creaked—someone walking through the tavern, oblivious to what was happening below.
"You're either the best liar I've met, or the angriest," he said. "But I don't need to know which."
Sparkweave held his gaze for a long moment.
"Either way, you're useful."
Sparkweave nodded once.
"Corin. Stand down."
The scarred man—Corin—leaned back in his chair. He didn't smile. But the crossbow stayed on the table.
Now I have a name.
Corin glanced at the young woman. "Outside. This isn't your meeting."
She didn't move.
"Ren—" He stopped himself. Caught Silas's eye. Softened his voice, barely. "Just outside. I'll call if it goes wrong."
She didn't argue. But she held Silas's gaze for a long moment—measuring him the same way Corin had—before slipping through a side door.
Ren. Short for something. Definitely related. She watches like he does.
Sparkweave turned back to Silas. "The girl made a deal with you. Her brother for access to us."
"Her brother for my intel," Silas said. "She vouched for me. That's her price."
"And yours?"
Silas didn't hesitate. "I want to be there when Calder dies."
Sparkweave studied him again. Longer this time.
"The Regent's getting worse," Sparkweave said. "Three more heads this week than last. Quotas up, patience down. If we don't move soon, there won't be anyone left to move with."
He crossed his arms. "We can arrange that. If the gate opens."
"You get the convoy gate open at noon. Corin's people cause chaos. We extract the prisoners—including the girl's brother."
"And me?"
"You get safe passage after." A thin smile, almost invisible was on Sparkweave's face. "We don't leave our assets behind."
Asset, Silas thought. Not ally. Not friend. Asset.
Good. I can work with that.
Sparkweave gave a single nod, his eyes steady. No handshake. No contract. The deal was in the silence, and what happened next was on both of them.
Silas turned to leave.
Behind him, the thunk of a knife embedding in wood.
He didn't flinch. Didn't turn.
"If that gate doesn't open, Mora..." Corin's voice carried across the cellar. "We leave you for the birds."
Silas said nothing. He walked up the stairs.
The cellar door groaned shut behind him.
Jessa was waiting by the door. Her face was unreadable.
"Well?"
"Noon Friday," Silas said. "We're on."
She studied him for a moment—looking for something, he didn't know what. Then she nodded once and turned toward the exit.
They walked out together. The fog took them before they reached the end of the dock.
Two dangerous men, one plan, and a gate that stays open for twelve minutes.
If this goes wrong, everyone in that cellar dies. Including me.
Good thing I don't plan to double-cross them.
[POV: Jessa]
They'd split at the docks—Mora heading back toward the Crown complex, Jessa toward the Tannery. She didn't take the direct route. She cut through the fish market, past the loading docks, around the back of the old customs house. Counter-surveillance. But tonight, she wasn't just being careful.
She was thinking.
Taren. Friday. One day.
She'd known it was coming. From the moment the Hawks had kicked in their door and dragged him out by the hair, she'd known. Stoneveil didn't take prisoners to ask questions. It took them to make examples.
But knowing wasn't the same as hearing the plan out loud.
Noon. The gate opens. Corin's people cause chaos. We get Taren out.
It sounded simple. It never was.
She thought about the clerk. Mora. The man who signed death warrants for a living. The man who had just promised to open a door that could free her brother—or get them all killed.
She pictured him walking back to the Crown complex—head down, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. He looked like what he was: a bureaucrat out past his bedtime.
But he didn't flinch in that cellar. Not once.
Sparkweave had tested him. Corin had threatened him. And Mora had just... stood there. Reciting numbers. Making deals. Like he did this every day.
Either he's the best liar I've ever met, or he's something else entirely.
She didn't know which was worse.
She reached the edge of the Tannery district. The chemical haze hung over the buildings like a shroud. Somewhere inside, a thin cot waited. She wouldn't sleep.
She lingered at the corner for a moment, staring into the fog where he'd disappeared.
If this goes wrong...
Her hand drifted to the knife at her belt. The hilt was worn smooth from years of use.
If this goes wrong, I will gut him myself.
She slipped into the Tannery's side entrance. The smell of lye burned her nostrils.
Tomorrow, her brother would live or die. And the Crown clerk who held the key was walking back to his warm bed in the enemy's house.
She didn't sleep that night. She sharpened her knife instead. The rhythmic scrape of steel on stone counted down the hours until dawn.