Silas kept the lantern wick pinched dark long enough to pretend the cabin wasn't a crime scene.
The Crown ship rocked on a lazy swell, every sway sloshing the tin washbasin he'd dragged onto the desk, dark blood lapping its rim so softly it sounded like breathing.
Brine sat heavy in his nose, layered under iron and the bitter sting of whatever poison Jed had lacquered onto his dagger. He could taste the bitterness in the back of his throat, like chewed aspirin. His mind tried to hand him a joke—loot in hand, blood on the desk—but it landed flat.
He palmed the lantern's flint wheel and paused. In the dim he could imagine he was just seasick, not kneeling beside a man he had killed. The smell refused to let him pretend: copper, bile, the ghost of cheap perfume clinging to Jed's collar. He forced himself to own it. If I want Seattle again, this is the tax. Then he struck the flint.
Harsh yellow light bloomed and wiped the illusions away. The cabin snapped into sharp edges: ragged spray of blood stippling the wall, wet footprints trailing to the porthole, his own hands slick and red up to the wrists. Nausea hit like a wave; he breathed through it and let it break.
Seattle flickered behind his eyes—rage, betrayal, two guards bleeding out in an alley, his heartbeat drumming in his ears. Tonight had been different. Fear, not fury. He hadn't wanted to die on a stranger's bunk. If the choices were victim or aggressor, he knew which funeral he preferred to skip.
He moved fast but not sloppy. Rag across dagger, working until the bright edge gleamed and the red streaks turned brown. He'd wedged the washbasin under the gash in Jed's ribs to catch the congealing sludge. Fingers trembling despite the work rhythm.
He cranked the porthole latch wide, dumped the basin in a clean arc, and counted the splash against the hull to steady himself. One. Two. Three.
He wiped his palms on the rag, then forced his gaze to the sigil interface hovering at the edge of sight.
Storage opened on a sparse grid—one square haloed around the hush-money bill Evan Royce's guards had shoved at him, the only piece of Seattle he still owned. Thirty Void Coins pulsed in the corner; the counter had jumped when Jed fell.
He blinked the menu away and the Void's leftovers came into focus above the corpse: a white-edged card and a green orb of light hovering just off Jed's chest, visible to him like someone had pinned UI to the air. Thin timer rings circled both, already shaving away seconds.
Timer rings. Great. Either this is mine for about a minute or it winks out and I get nothing. I'm not leaving Void junk floating over a corpse to see which way it goes.
He snatched the card first, mentally hooking it toward his sigil. It snapped into an empty slot on the Storage grid with a clean, mechanical click—Dagger Mastery — Common (White). The Seed followed, dropping into a corner square and spinning in uncommon green.
He could almost feel the magnetic pull of jamming the card straight into his nerves, but that was a problem for when his hands weren't shaking.
He prodded the Seed mentally.
[Bloom the seed: Catalyst required.]
No hint about the catalyst, no description of what to look for. A puzzle to solve later, or a landmine. I'll see.
The lantern flame guttered when the hull creaked. He turned the wick down to a low burn, kept his movements small to avoid wake-up noise in the corridor. Shoulders hunched, he wiped the floorboards in widening circles until the boards shone slick and raw. Every time his breath went ragged he pinched the bridge of his nose and counted back from five.
Jed's corpse was still warm when Silas rolled him into the sailcloth. Rope fibers scratched his palms as he cinched the bundle, the knot biting down like a tourniquet. Jed's arms didn't want to fold; joints caught and popped. Silas forced the limbs in with a grunt and told himself he was packing freight, not a man—a lie with splinters.
He eased into the corridor, bare feet silent on planks, and raided the locker by the stairs. An empty crate sat there, stencil stamped in black: FLAX — DO NOT STACK. It was too perfect.
He dragged it back inside, shoulder muscles complaining, and tipped it on its side. Folding Jed took two tries; knees cracked like cheap furniture. The crate swallowed the bundle with a dull thump. He hammered the lid down with the butt of his dagger. Every strike made the lantern flame jump and his heart jolt.
The label felt like a joke the Void would appreciate. "Kill nine assassins, the tenth is free," he muttered, the brittle humor keeping panic under glass instead of letting it spill.
His sleeve still reeked of the poison, a bitter varnish soaked into the cloth. He didn't dare scrub it; better to smell like danger than like bleach. He rinsed his hands anyway, nails scraping skin until the knuckles flared red.
Seven days on the mission clock. Minutes bleeding away here with soap and water.
He paced the cabin twice, wrist bones counting each sway of the ship, the boards creaking like reprimands. Every sound from the hull felt like someone coming. The forced-execution clause hovered in his head like a second guillotine blade. If his cover cracked or he failed to reach Stoneveil, the Citadel would finish what Jed failed.
He backed into the shadowed corner, spine against the wall, eyes on the porthole where the horizon would eventually go gray. Sleep wasn't on the menu. Survival was.
He rehearsed the story until it felt like he'd lived it twice: castaway tried to poison him on Varis's orders; the auditor turned it back on him. Crate labeled FLAX holds the evidence; Crown cover protects the man who found it. He memorized the weight of the crate's secret, the metallic ding of the coins, the quiet hum of the unspent Dagger Mastery card waiting in Storage. The Toxin Seed sat there too, a green question mark with no catalyst.
He let his thoughts crawl where they wanted as he wiped the lantern glass clean. What does fear smell like? he wondered. Tonight it was copper and old perfume and the chemical tang of Jed's dagger. His stomach rolled; he swallowed it down.
He remembered the parking lot in Seattle, how the rage had narrowed the world to a tunnel with Evan and his two guards at the end. This was wider, uglier. More variables. Poison, covers, coin counters.
He wasn't angry. He was cold, and he hated that more than the blood on his wrists. Aggressor to avoid being a victim—that math still held—but it felt like borrowing time against interest he didn't understand.
If he wanted to reach Seattle again, this was the cost. He could live with paying. He wasn't sure what would be left after the receipts.
He turned the lantern wick down further until the flame sat like a single pupil in a brass eye. The crate squatted in the corner, its stenciled warning turned into a private joke. His knuckles were bruised from hammering. He let his head thump lightly against the wall and closed his eyes for a blink, not sleep, just a pause.
He refused to let fear steer him; he'd move on intent, not panic.
He would wake up before dawn, open the door, and lie with a clerk's face until his tongue bled. He would keep the poison stink on his sleeve because it was proof of what he'd survived.
The ship rocked again. The lantern flame shivered; a few missed droplets glistened dark on the desk. Silas held his breath, counted the drip, counted the beat of the lantern flame.
He imagined the crate sinking, the label peeling, the sailcloth unraveling in cold black water. Then he imagined the guillotine clause in the contract, the Citadel's invisible blade descending if he tripped. He preferred the crate sinking. He preferred choosing his executioner.
Come morning he would give the captain that same choice. For now he stayed in the corner, knees up, back against the planks, lantern low and relentless, waiting for dawn to demand his next lie.
Grey light bled into the corridor by the time Silas cracked his door. Salt spray needled his cheeks; ropes along the rail glistened with dew. Crew whispers rode the wind—half-formed accusations about the missing castaway.
He planted himself at the rail, shoulders squared, fingers tapping the spine of his Arlen Mora assignment folio to bleed off adrenaline—the same packet of Stoneveil reports he'd been mining for patterns by lantern light.
Captain Idran came first, back straight, hands clasped behind him, jaw muscle ticking. First Mate Brell ghosted beside him, arms folded, the scar along her brow whitening as she tightened her stance. Gulls wheeled overhead, screaming like gossiping jurors.
Idran's voice stayed low. "Master Mora. Jed Roone never reported for first bell. This hall's got two doors. If he vanished below decks, I start with yours."
Silas kept his expression bland, let the words hit without flinching even as his pulse spiked. He used the excuse he had rehearsed in the dark.
"He didn't run. He slipped in to poison the Crown's auditor. I stopped him. The crate marked 'Flax — Do Not Stack' holds the body and the proof. You can clean it before lunch."
He didn't mention the poison stink on his sleeve. He refused to wipe it away.
Brell's eyes narrowed. "Could be bait." She always returned to pirate ploys.
Silas held her gaze. "Then call it bait that bit. Your choice is simple: ferry the auditor to the dock, or explain to the capital why he vanished at sea."
He invoked "Crown" like a guillotine blade, kept his tone clerk-calm, not swaggering. He wrapped the forced-execution clause inside his voice—the Void Citadel would trigger his execution if Regent Varis wasn't dead in seven days, and he had to reach Stoneveil and ensure Varis was killed.
Idran's jaw flexed. He glanced at Brell, at the fog thinning toward Harbor Teeth. "You expect me to dock with a fresh corpse aboard? Harbor patrol will hang us."
"Pick your executioner, Captain." Silas leaned in just enough to make it personal. "Harbor patrol for a dead castaway, or a Crown summons for a missing auditor."
Silence stretched. Gulls screamed overhead. Brell's scar twitched; she didn't blink.
Idran broke first with a curt nod. "Fine. But once you're ashore, we're strangers."
Relief and dread arrived together. No more questions on deck. No ally once he stepped off. As Idran turned away, Silas felt the rail under his palms go slick with sweat. He forced a breath out, unclenched his fingers. He had bought passage at the price of isolation.
Crew eyes followed him; every whisper felt like a rope tightening. He checked the folio strap, adjusted the new dagger up his sleeve, the metal still stinking of whatever poison Jed favored. The vial in his satchel leaked the same sharp scent. He had been afraid to light a lantern to see a corpse; now he was wearing a dead man's tools like bonus loot.
At least I smell the part, he thought.
He braced for the gangplank to drop. The crate stayed hidden. The captain stalked to the quarterdeck. Silas silently promised the "Flax" secret would sink with the ship, not with him.
The gangplank slammed onto the dock and rain hit like thrown gravel. Harbor Teeth rose like a maw—reefs slick with algae guarding the piers, wooden platforms clinging to black rock. A slow, heavy bell tolled inland; lower towers answered one by one, the sound rolling through the wet planks like distant surf.
Dockworkers froze at the first volley, then abandoned cargo mid-stack, sprinting for the stone stairs that snaked up toward the city. "Executions!" someone shouted, the words rippling faster than the rain.
Brine, fish guts, and the bite of storm metal punched his nose. He hated how the smell mapped to Seattle—fresh blood in alleys, wet trash. The Citadel's timer ticked louder than the weather.
Day two, give or take, he guessed. Six days left to kill a regent and keep my own neck.
Silas tightened his grip on the stillstone folio until his knuckles ached. He patted his coin pouch—dug from the identity-issued satchel while packing—and tapped the dagger in his sleeve, then the second blade at his belt taken off Jed. He tugged the satchel strap tighter, crest visible on the folio to sell the Crown veneer.
He stepped into the flow of cloaks, letting the crowd carry him toward the stairs while his eyes did separate work—count guard posts, note which sailors peeled into shadow, mark where harbor patrols clustered near ramps. Rain slicked the wood; his boots squeaked. Harbor patrol spears angled inward at choke points; shields were lacquered with a Crown crest darkened by water. No gaps to slip through—not yet.
Bells overlapped until they sounded like an argument between steel and storm gongs. A dockhand clipped his shoulder, muttered "Watch it, clerk," then bolted uphill. Silas didn't rise to it; he mirrored the harried pace, kept his head low.
The steps, slick with rain and fish oil, forced everyone into single file. A patrolman's gaze snagged on the crest, then slid off. Crown paper still bought an inch of space. He used that inch to breathe.
Above, gulls wheeled, drawn by guts and spectacle, their cries dovetailing with the bells. As he climbed, the smell shifted: brine gave way to wet iron from the bells' rusted mouths and fried eel from market fires losing a war to the rain.
The slow toll kept coming, each strike stretching nerves thinner, and the crowd jostled harder as if getting closer might make it end sooner. Elbows dug his ribs. Someone cursed him in a dialect he didn't clock. He smiled blandly and gave half a step—cover over pride. A woman with a basket of clothes abandoned it, sprinting uphill; a boy dropped a crate of shellfish and never looked back.
Varis uses the blade like weather—make a city flinch on command. And I'm walking into his show.
He wondered if any of them knew whose head was next, or if that ignorance was the point.
Silas kept his face neutral, let the tension sit under his skin. Any slip—misplacing his folio, saying one wrong sentence to the wrong guard—could blow his cover before he reached the plaza.
At the top of the stairs, he paused long enough to clock Harbor Teeth behind him—reefs like fangs, ship shrinking as Idran cast off into sheets of rain. The Flax crate would drown with the ship if luck held; if not, it was still Crown business, not his name. Harbor patrol lined the lower docks, spears tilted, eyes up.
He turned his back on them and let himself be pulled into the plaza. Bells pounded, rain slicked every stone. His cover held for now, but Stoneveil's atmosphere already gnawed at his nerves.
The plaza bowl opened like a wound—basalt terraces slick with rain, bell towers blaring overlapping notes that bounced off stone and into bone. Steam rose from drains tinged pink; rain couldn't rinse all the blood. Stoneveil bleeds on schedule. Six days to end this cursed timetable or join it.
Canvas awnings sagged under water weight, dripping steady onto crowds clustering near the execution pit. The air tasted like wet iron and fried eel; rain carried boiled-linen tang and fear.
Silas adjusted his pace to look purposeful but not hurried. As he was about to reach the execution plaza, a voice cut through the din, bright and irritated.
"Of course the new clerk arrives during a blade drop. Perfect."
A woman barreled toward him, hood half-off, copper curls plastered to a heart-shaped face, rain beading on thick lashes. A Crown-gold ring flashed on her right index finger, laurel-wreathed guillotine picked out in red enamel; posture said she owned the lane and would shove anyone who tested it. Her jacket clung wet to strong shoulders and hips; she moved like she'd been born in streets like these.
She hooked his arm without asking, steering him through a gap between tarps.
"Kessa. Crown courier. I'm your handler. On the ledgers I report to you, Master Mora. On the streets, you follow me."
She didn't wait for agreement. Silas mirrored her stride, cataloged bell pitches as they wove. She dragged him past vendors, under ropes, across puddles that sucked at their boots.
She steers me like she's paid to shove clerks through storms. Fine. Let her cut the path while I learn about this place.
Every time a bell clanged, people flinched like whipped animals; Kessa never slowed.
"If we hustle, you only watch two heads drop instead of three," she quipped, half-laughing. Silas filed the timing: She treats executions like calendar slots—blade drops as recurring appointments.
They skirted the edge of a training yard carved out of the terrace wall, soldiers drilling in rain-slick lines. Steel tapped hilts for rhythm instead of shouting so orders stayed private. They trained bare-headed in the downpour; in a city that bled in the rain, you learned to fight wet or you died.
Evan's guards carried themselves like this—spines straight, eyes already bored of blood.
Every stance telegraphed blooded experience, the kind you only get by cutting real people.
These aren't parade guards. They've seen bodies drop.
He clocked them as elite by the way they pivoted in perfect sync despite the mud. One, standing a half-step ahead, moved like an instructor—chin lifted, gaze slicing through the line. A hawk crest was stamped into the center of the breastplate, wings worn by use; Silas filed it without knowing who claimed the bird.
The visor tilted toward Silas with a clinical stare, measuring tendons like the soldier was deciding where to cut first. His fingers tightened on the folio; he swallowed the urge to wisecrack and let rain hide the jump of his pulse.
"Eyes front, Mora. Listen so you can move, not daydream," Kessa murmured.
He grunted assent, let his fingers hover near the folio instead of gripping it again; he could feel its weight without clutching.
Steam curled around their ankles; rainwater sluiced down carved ledgers in the stone, turning dilute blood into rust-colored rivulets. The plaza Silas entered smelled like hot iron and torch pitch.
Before he could look around, Kessa shoved a new waxed folio into his hands. "Stillstone quotas. Shift clock-ins and tonnage. You carry this to every pit and cutting house; foremen sign for what they dig. You miss a line, Calder hangs me before he bothers with you."
Silas tucked it under his arm; the weight was familiar, almost comforting—a courier's lifeline and his license to walk into Stoneveil's ugliest corners asking questions.
Between the Arlen Mora assignment folio and Kessa's stillstone ledger, he finally had more than one layer of paper to hide behind.
Two packets now: one that says I belong here, one that lets me poke where Varis bleeds people. Paper armor, but it'll do until I find a heavier kind.
Kessa's tone shifted lower. "Stay in my shadow. Guillotine squads don't like wanderers."
He matched her stride, synchronized his breathing to her bootfalls, treated her as a moving shield. Bell peals rolled over them. Rain sheeted off the terraces in crooked rivulets; torches blurred in the mist.
At the terrace lip, Kessa cut across the final aisle toward the plaza center. The execution pit squatted ahead; the crowd parted for her Crown ring, as eyes glanced at her face in recognition. Silas stayed in her shadow, cover intact, nerves live.
Execution pit ahead; maybe a glimpse of Varis, maybe just more heads. Either way, the clock's still eating me.