Yara leaned back in her chair, boots resting on the edge of her desk as she took a slow pull from her tankard.
"I still don't trust him," she said casually. "But I'll take your word for it."
Amela looked up from the map.
"Really?"
"No."
Yara smirked.
"But I trust your judgment more than my first impressions."
She took another drink.
"Just promise me something."
"What?"
Yara dropped her boots to the floor and reached into a desk drawer.
After a moment, she slid a small device across the wood.
Compact.
Matte black.
A faint blue seam pulsed along its edge.
"It's a ChronoComm," Yara said. "If you're ever in trouble—real trouble—you call me."
Amela picked it up.
It was lighter than she expected.
She turned it over in her hands, examining the smooth casing before slipping it into her pocket.
"Okay."
Yara nodded.
"Good."
For a moment, neither spoke.
The distant sounds of the harbor drifted through the window.
Then something hit Amela.
Her entire body locked up.
A sharp gasp tore from her throat.
Her hand flew to her chest.
Not pain.
Something worse.
Like suddenly standing too close to a fire.
"What's wrong?"
The chair scraped loudly as Yara shot to her feet.
Amela couldn't answer.
The feeling kept growing.
Spreading.
Dozens of presences.
Dozens of souls.
All changing at once.
She stumbled toward the window.
"Amela?"
The girl reached the glass and looked down.
The breath left her lungs.
Doran stood at the center of the dock.
Surrounded.
Every soul around him burned crimson.
Not angry.
Not hurt.
Wrong.
Violent.
Like blood poured into a flame.
"They're all red," Amela whispered.
Yara was beside her instantly.
"What?"
Her eyes swept the harbor.
"What are you talking about?"
Amela swallowed.
"Their souls."
Her voice shook.
"They're all red."
Yara looked back toward the docks.
Workers moved below.
Ships rocked gently against their moorings.
Nothing seemed out of place.
Then she looked at Amela.
Really looked.
The fear on the girl's face wasn't confusion.
It was certainty.
"You can see their—"
Yara stopped.
Shook her head once.
Not important.
Not right now.
"Stay here."
The captain crossed the room in three long strides and pulled a rifle from the rack beside her desk.
Her hands moved automatically.
Checking the charge.
Checking the chamber.
Years of habit.
"Hide under the desk."
She was already moving toward the door.
"Do not come out until I tell you it's safe."
Amela nodded immediately.
No argument.
No questions.
Yara cracked the door open.
Listened.
Then slipped into the corridor.
Like a blade leaving its sheath.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Elsewhere
Martin watched from the edge of the chaos as Doran slowly began to lose ground.
For every clean strike Doran landed, the crowd answered with three ugly ones—fists, boots, elbows, whatever they could throw into him. Their bodies didn't react the way bodies should. They didn't recoil from pain. They didn't hesitate when bones broke. They simply kept coming.
THUMP.
THUMP.
"It's like they don't feel pain!" Doran growled as a sword flashed past his shoulder. "It's like it just feeds them!"
He caught sight of Martin beyond the mob.
The vice-captain stood calmly beside the shadowed figure.
The thing wore Martin's shape almost perfectly. Same posture. Same stillness. Like a reflection that had stepped free from its mirror.
Was this the plan from the start?
The thought vanished as another attacker rushed him.
Doran ducked beneath a wild swing, seized the man's wrist, and twisted.
Bone gave way with a wet crack.
Before the scream could leave the man's throat, Doran shoved him forward into another attacker and pivoted around the collision, boots skidding across the damp planks.
A fist crashed into his ribs.
Air burst from his lungs.
Another blow followed immediately—a club swung by a dockworker who had been tying knots only moments earlier.
THONK.
The impact rang through Doran's bracer and rattled his teeth.
He knocked the weapon aside and drove a knee into the man's stomach.
The attacker folded in half—
Laughing.
High.
Wet.
The sound bubbled through the foam gathering at his lips.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Martin's heartbeat accelerated.
The sound was no longer merely audible.
It pressed against the air itself.
Each pulse carried weight.
A command disguised as rhythm.
And the dockworkers answered.
Spines straightened.
Shoulders rolled.
Movements sharpened.
They weren't becoming smarter.
They weren't becoming more skilled.
Just faster.
Stronger.
More.
A sailor with a rust-hooked hand lunged forward and snapped at Doran's arm with bared teeth.
Metal screeched as teeth scraped across his bracer.
The sailor snarled and bit again.
Doran buried an elbow in the side of his face.
Bone cracked.
The man dropped, blood pouring from his nose, yet the grin never left him.
Doran caught him around the waist before he hit the ground.
Turned.
Planted his feet.
And threw.
The sailor sailed over his shoulder and crashed into a cluster of dockworkers.
Bodies tangled together.
A crate exploded into splinters.
Nails shrieked across the dock.
Men fell laughing, choking, clawing over one another as they tried to stand.
Still trying to reach him.
Doran never looked back.
A dagger flashed toward his throat.
He leaned away just enough for the blade to scrape across his collar plate.
Sparks kissed his chin.
His hand shot out.
He caught the attacker's wrist, stepped inside the strike, and drove the heel of his palm into the man's sternum.
The man flew backward into the crowd.
Another immediately took his place.
Then—
A dockhand charged from behind Doran.
A short blade glinted overhead as he barreled forward, foam hanging from his lips. There was no hesitation in him. No fear.
Only a rabid, ecstatic joy.
CRACK.
The rifle shot punched through his chest.
The impact snapped him backward, body jerking like a puppet on tangled strings.
For a moment, he stumbled.
Then he kept coming.
The grin never left his face.
If anything, it widened.
Blood stained his teeth pink.
Above the docks, Captain Yara stood braced against the ship's rail, rifle snug against her shoulder. Her cheek rested against the stock with practiced familiarity, as though the weapon had grown there.
Her expression didn't change.
"I was aiming for your spine," she muttered.
CRACK.
The second shot hit lower.
The dockhand folded at the waist and collapsed to the planks.
Even then, he didn't stop.
He clawed forward through his own blood, fingers scraping against the wood, nails splitting as he dragged himself onward. A laugh bubbled from his throat the entire time.
Desperate.
Adoring.
Like he was trying to impress someone.
Yara's mouth tightened.
"What in the hell…"
Then the heartbeat struck.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
The pulse rolled through her chest and wrapped around her ribs.
Not sound.
Pressure.
A presence.
Something forcing its way inside.
Anger exploded through her.
Hot.
Immediate.
Wrong.
Her finger tightened on the trigger.
Shoot Martin.
The thought arrived fully formed.
Shoot the crowd.
Shoot the ship.
Shoot everything.
Yara's jaw clenched.
Hard.
She forced air into her lungs.
Held it.
Released it slowly.
The rage shifted.
Resisted.
Then settled deeper.
Not gone.
Never gone.
Waiting.
Like tar sinking beneath the surface of water.
"What the hell was that?" she whispered.
Her hands trembled around the rifle.
Not from fear.
From temptation.
The violence felt good.
Clean.
Simple.
A solution to every problem she had ever carried.
Below, Doran looked up.
Only for an instant.
A single glance across the chaos.
But it was enough.
He didn't see the rifle.
Didn't see the bodies.
Didn't see the blood staining the dock.
He saw her.
And he saw the change.
His jaw tightened.
"Damn it."
The words were quiet.
Yet somehow they reached her through the noise.
Through the screaming.
Through the gunfire.
Through the beating heart.
Yara swallowed hard.
Her hands continued to shake.
Not because she wanted to fight the feeling.
Because she didn't.
Because a part of her wanted to surrender.
To let the anger strip everything else away.
To become something sharp and efficient.
Something that never had to regret what came afterward.
The heartbeat surged again.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
It marched through her chest like a war drum.
Yara dug her nails into the rifle stock.
Pain flared through her fingers.
Bright.
Grounding.
Hers.
"No," she hissed.
The pulse answered.
THUMP.
Yara bared her teeth.
"No."
Another pulse.
Another wave of heat.
Another invitation.
She squeezed the stock harder.
"No. No, no—"
Elsewhere
High above the dockyard, where the air thinned and the screams below softened into something almost musical, Neyta floated with her hands clasped behind her back.
Her long coat drifted in the wind, black fabric trailing behind her like a bruise painted across the sky.
Beside her, Theryn lounged in empty air.
His armored arm hung lazily at his side, green light pulsing through the grooves beneath the dull metal plating.
Below them, the pier churned.
A tiny war.
Small enough to fit beneath a fingertip.
Neyta watched in silence.
Her violet eyes followed Doran as he moved through the crowd.
He gave ground.
Took blows.
Redirected attacks.
Endured.
But he wasn't fighting.
Not really.
A faint click of irritation escaped her tongue.
"Why is he holding back?"
Theryn glanced downward.
Neyta continued before he could answer.
"I expected more."
A man was thrown through a crate.
Another crashed into the water.
Doran remained surrounded, still restraining himself from unnecessary violence.
"How boring."
Theryn yawned.
His grin spread slowly across his face, thin and crooked.
"It's every mortal's weakness."
Neyta didn't look at him.
"They always find something to protect."
Below, Doran intercepted a blade meant for a dockworker.
Rather than counterattacking, he twisted the strike aside and drove it harmlessly into the wood.
The attacker immediately tried to stab him again.
Neyta frowned.
"Ridiculous."
"Maybe."
Theryn stretched lazily.
"Or maybe he's just stupid."
A laugh escaped him.
"Death seems to like those."
Neyta's gaze remained fixed on Doran.
"I don't understand it."
The words came quieter this time.
Almost thoughtful.
"Why is Death so enthralled with him?"
Theryn tilted his head.
Green light caught in his eyes.
"Maybe because he's stubborn."
He shrugged.
"Maybe because he's entertaining."
Neyta considered that.
Then shook her head.
"No."
Something about the answer sounded certain.
"That's not it."
Her eyes narrowed.
Far below, Doran caught another attacker and hurled him into the crowd.
Still holding back.
Still refusing.
Still choosing.
A faint curve touched her lips.
Not a smile.
A conclusion.
"Or perhaps," she murmured, "Death is afraid of him."
Theryn's grin widened.
Now that was interesting.
Neyta drifted lower.
Only slightly.
The runes stitched into her coat shimmered in response, brightening as if they had heard something they liked.
"Let's find out."
Her voice barely disturbed the air.
The air answered anyway.
A pressure gathered around her.
Neyta slid a ring from her finger.
A simple band.
Violet gemstone.
Perfectly ordinary.
She let it fall.
The ring spun as it descended.
Purple.
Black.
Purple again.
Sunlight flashed across its surface in sickly little glimmers.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Then—
Clink.
The sound was absurdly small.
Barely audible.
A piece of metal striking wood.
Nothing more.
Yet the world answered.
The dock shuddered.
The sea trembled.
Time stretched.
Sound warped.
Reality itself seemed to hesitate.
Far below, Doran felt the echo pass through his chest.
Everything slowed.
Not stopped.
Slowed.
Like the universe had suddenly remembered something it wished it hadn't.
TH—
UMP.
The planks beneath his boots felt hollow.
Like drumskin stretched over something vast.
Something waiting.
TH—
UMP.
Heat crawled up his spine.
Ancient.
Familiar.
Old heat.
A dockhand slammed a crate lid into Doran's forearm.
Jagged nails screeched across steel and leather as the man threw his full weight behind the blow.
Foam dripped from his mouth.
His eyes were white.
Empty.
Human only in shape.
Doran's arm trembled.
Not from pain.
Not from effort.
From restraint.
From the effort of stopping himself.
Of measuring every strike.
Of choosing how much force was enough.
Of deciding, over and over again, not to kill.
TH—
UMP.
The heartbeat rolled through him.
Heat followed.
Ancient.
Hungry.
The edges of the world seemed to draw inward.
The screaming.
The splintering wood.
The crashing waves.
All of it became distant.
Muted.
Unimportant.
Doran swung.
The dockhand's jaw snapped sideways with a wet crack.
Laughter turned into a choking gurgle.
The crate lid slipped free.
Doran caught it before it hit the ground.
And brought it down.
The wood exploded apart.
Splinters burst outward like shrapnel.
The dockhand collapsed in a heap, blood smeared across a grin that still hadn't faded.
For a moment, Doran stood still.
Breathing.
The broken remains of the crate hung from his hands.
Jagged wooden spikes protruded between his fingers.
Like claws.
TH—
UMP.
He looked at them.
The splinters.
The blood.
The sharp edges.
And something inside him loosened.
Not much.
Just enough.
Movement flashed at the edge of his vision.
Two dockworkers charged from opposite sides.
Blades raised.
Screaming.
Doran didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't choose.
His arms snapped forward.
The splinters left his hands in a blur.
The wooden shards punched through flesh.
Through throats.
Through screams.
Blood erupted into the air.
Hot.
Bright.
A red mist hanging over the dock.
The two men staggered.
Hands flying to their necks.
Trying to hold something inside that refused to stay there.
Then they fell.
The crowd surged around them.
Stepping over them.
Ignoring them.
Doran didn't.
He watched.
Blood splashed across his cheek.
Ran into the seams of his armor.
Soaked into his gloves.
Warm.
Sticky.
Familiar.
A droplet slid slowly down his jaw.
Doran blinked.
Once.
The heat in his spine climbed higher.
The heartbeat echoed through his chest.
And for the first time since the fighting began—
He smiled.
Not kindly.
Not happily.
The smile spread slowly across his face.
Sharp.
Predatory.
Like a wolf finally remembering it had teeth.
High above the dockyard, Neyta laughed.
Soft.
Delighted.
The sound carried no cruelty.
No malice.
Only satisfaction.
Like someone hearing a lock finally click open after years spent searching for the right key.
Below, the dock burned with violence.
And at its center stood Doran.
Smiling.
Neyta's violet eyes gleamed.
"All he needed was a little push."
The words came out almost reverent.
Her gaze never left him.
"The way he fights…" she murmured.
Doran hurled another attacker aside.
Blood painted the dock.
The smile on her lips widened.
"How fascinating."
She tilted her head slightly.
"I want to taste him."
Beside her, Theryn barked out a laugh.
The green grooves beneath his armored arm brightened, pulsing with lazy amusement.
"Careful."
His grin stretched wider.
"That's how greed starts."
Neyta ignored him.
Still watching.
Still studying.
Like a scholar observing a rare specimen.
Or a wolf watching another wolf bare its teeth.
Theryn's amusement deepened.
"Let greed blind you," he said, "and you'll trip over it."
His eyes flicked toward her.
"And if you're planning to take that last Kamikura seat, you'll have to kill me first."
Neyta finally looked away from Doran.
Her expression made it clear exactly how seriously she took that threat.
Not at all.
"As if."
The words drifted away on the wind.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Below them, screams echoed across the harbor.
Wood splintered.
Gunfire cracked.
The heartbeat continued.
Steady.
Hungry.
Neyta's gaze returned to the battle.
Then a thought seemed to occur to her.
A small one.
Dangerous in the way only her thoughts ever were.
A smile touched her lips.
"Let's make it interesting."
Theryn raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"A wager."
Now she looked at him.
"Whoever fails to kill him becomes the other's Soul-Bound servant."
For the first time, Theryn's grin paused.
Not gone.
Just still.
Considering.
Measuring.
Then it returned.
Sharper than before.
His eyes drifted downward to the dock.
To Doran.
To the man standing in the middle of a storm of bodies and blood.
"Now that's interesting."
The green light beneath his armor pulsed once.
Bright.
Hungry.
Theryn extended his hand.
"Deal."