Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Haru’s favorite time of day on Geldstraat had always been this: past midnight, but before two bells. Perfect to sneak home unnoticed.

The window shutters of the mansions lining the street stood sealed, fending off the suffused glow of the moon and lamps alike and the Ketterdam-typical clammy weather. Most people either had already departed to the realm of dreams or they were still spending their leisure time somewhere else—too late to hurry toward any place, too soon to bid their company for the evening goodnight.

No one could see her. No one could hear her. Each time she did it, she felt like a spy.

The heels of her boots clicked on the cobblestone and plunged into the occasional puddle. Air heavy with post-storm haze and the burnt smoke of the oil lamps prickled against the back of her throat, but the pang of cold humidity on her cheeks only made the grin on her lips spread wider.

She rounded the corner that led inwards and left Geldcanal behind.

A road large enough to fit two wagons traveling in opposite directions opened before her, and at its end, the void space past the line of buildings gave way to the square of what was, functionally, the heart of Ketterdam’s trades: a squared, imposing building known as the Exchange. She slowed down her stride. She’d always wanted to see how the Exchange behaved at night… but she knew better than to try her luck. Many rumored that the city’s gangs favored the spot for their shady business—as if the Exchange could ever exist without money, favors, information, or violence being traded. She could hear her father’s voice complaining about security and just how lazy the stadwatch had gotten over the years.

Haru took another sharp turn to the right, through one of the side alleys that ran along Geldcanal parallel to the main street, until the pinnacles of the Church of Barter peeked over the other rooftops. People loved to say that the Church would look like a spread hand if one were to look at it from above, and Haru wondered: how would they know? Were they all spiders able to climb Ketterdam’s roofs to gain such a sight?

The picture of the city’s most well-respected merchants all crawling up the stony walls and mossy shingles made her giggle. It was so easy to do so when she didn’t have to be around her fiancé.

Sugimura had taken her out for dinner, and she was supposed to spend the whole evening in his company at the Opera House—it had been nothing but a stroke of luck that she wasn’t. Someone had approached Sugimura during the break after Act I, and the pinch on Sugimura’s face had become a scowl discreetly early into the conversation. Haru had pretended to sip on her cocktail and polish her binoculars, but her ears had been sharper than ever. Someone named Oyamada had been apprehended by the stadwatch, and timely intervention was required.

Sugimura had turned to her, mouth twisted by displeasure and annoyance, and announced his leave. She’d had little doubt about how much more her fiancé would’ve preferred spending the time with his arm latched around her waist, but she’d only batted her lashes, commenting on how her father would’ve hated for Sugimura’s position to become difficult. He’d snorted and whined, but he’d had no choice, and while his night might have just taken an unwanted turn, Haru’s had seen the best possible outcome.

Goosebumps itched on her skin. She threw a glance around her. Somewhere that she couldn’t pinpoint, the hooves of a horse stomped on the ground, and boots followed. She halted, trying to assess if the noise was getting closer or farther. She’d ensured to linger for the whole of Act II before quietly taking her leave, so it made no sense for anyone to be following her. But she couldn’t help her stomach from knotting up at the thought.

The noise vanished. Stillness stitched back together, a blanket all over the area. She heaved a sigh, and the puff of breath condensed in front of her nose before dispersing into the night.

She strode past the west side of the Church, and the squared form of the Okumura mansion’s kitchen entry came into view, a bulky wooden door that their servants used to come and go every day, working their invisible magic to ensure the house was kept up to her father’s demands.

Haru stopped in front of the door and checked her surroundings. Nothing.

She knocked on the frame, waited three seconds, knocked three times, had a one-second pause, and then the final knock. From the other side, metal rasped against wood, and the lock squeaked as the door opened on the kitchen’s basin and storage room.

Hikari stepped out of the shadows and urged her to get inside. The lock clicked shut, and tension the size of a boulder rolled off Haru’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Hika-chan.”

The girl shook her head and rushed to adjust a strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Don’t even mention it, Miss Okumura.” She took a step back and bowed lightly with her chin, although her eyes shot up to glimpse at her face. “If I may ask… did something happen? You’ve returned early.”

“Mr. Sugimura had sudden business to attend to.”

Hikari looked at her as if she were unsure whether to express disbelief or relief. Haru chuckled to ease the air between them. She untangled her curls from her beret and helped the maid help her out of her thick winter coat.

“You needn’t worry about any of that, Hika-chan. I’m well and I’m safe, and this is what matters.” She handed Hikari both the lilac hat and the white bundle of wool. “Just make sure these don’t appear in the wardrobe too early tonight, if you please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Haru gave her a warm smile and unbuttoned her boots. It was no easy feat, with the long burgundy gown of her dress getting in the way, but the heels were too noisy for her liking. Her father had requested to be left alone in his study before she left, and she couldn’t risk treading up to her room in those. Her feet touched the icy stone floor, and she curled her fingertips. She picked up the boots and winked at Hikari, raising her index finger to her lips with complicity. She also pinched her gown to prevent the fabric from shuffling too loudly. With slow steps, she traversed the empty kitchen and poked her head into the main corridor.

On the right end of it stood the entry door, a piece of enforced wood painted with gold and red laurels. The locks were only partially closed, as if someone expected to use them again at some point. A robe dangled from the courtesy hanger in the entryway, a long garment the color of sand with soft lines that made up for an undefined shape. It showcased the traditional clothing style of Shu Han, even though none of the people working in the mansion were Shu. Haru frowned. Was her father seeing guests? This late?

Her gaze moved to the left, following the corridor toward the glass-paneled doors leading to the back garden that hosted the boathouse and her plant nursery. Its black-and-white floor tiles sported traces of dirt that his father wouldn’t normally allow.

Some chattering came muffled from over there.

Haru pushed herself flat against the kitchen wall. Her heart thumped against her ribs, throat constricted like vines had crept all around it. She waited for any sign that the people outside would come in, but whatever business they had inside the mansion, they seemed intent on keeping it in the garden.

Haru seized the chance without thinking twice.

She crossed the hall and tiptoed past the music room, toward the main staircase. She hopped over the squeakiest planks, and at the second-floor landing, she took the first turn right to her room. She lowered the handle and, sustaining the door’s weight to avoid scraping against the floor, she slipped inside.

A single stripe of blue moonlight cut through all the black that cloaked the room, where the thickest layer of curtains hadn’t been closed properly. Haru left the boots against the nearest wall and inched further, her hands stretched out, searching for potential obstacles. The carpet tickled against her soles, and she brushed her fingers over the velvet cushion on top of the bench at the foot of her bed—she had to be about halfway through the room. She kept staggering toward the only creak of light and reached for the curtains. Just a little wider opening would do.

She rested her ear against the gelid glass of the balcony window, but the discussion going on below did not become any clearer than what it had been in the corridor.

She chewed on her lower lip. The wisest course of action would’ve been to strip her clothes and go to bed, pretending she did not sneak away from the Opera at the first chance she got. But it was odd for her father to receive guests outside his study if it wasn’t a house party. It could be important. It could be shady. It could be both. What if it would eventually involve her, too? Father never made her aware of any decision he took, any commitment or deal—that’s how she’d found herself engaged with Sugimura.

Haru pursed her lips tightly. She might lack the power to intervene, but she would take some advance notice over silence and secrets at any time.

As carefully as she did with the door, she turned the window’s knob and pulled it open without protest. Cold mist stung her face, and she wished she hadn’t left her coat with Hikari. She crouched behind an array of pots nearly as tall as the banister, all of them hosting the plants that had grown too big for the nursery but weren’t ready to be planted in the garden: no more crops, not yet trees.

Voices came from right under the balcony—men’s voices.

“Are you sure?” her father said. “I would never doubt your word, but she doesn’t seem… in her best shape, let’s say.”

“Oh, absolutely,” another man replied. His voice carried a strong rasp, and he sounded way older than her father. “You see, Mr. Okumura, Yui might not quite look like it, but I assure you, she’s one of my most talented Grisha.” He chuckled lowly, even if it sounded more like a cough. “Life hasn’t been too kind to her health; however, that’s never affected her powers. She will perform any task for us tonight, I have no doubt—if anything, she might even gain some of her energies back if the test goes well, won’t she? What do you say, Yui?”

That tone made Haru shiver. The question was far from genuine, spoken in the way men do when they don’t really expect a woman to confute them. Her fingers clenched with frustration, but she kept quiet.

Indeed, Yui agreed with a polite yet tired response.

“Yes, of course.”

“Wonderful!”

Haru attempted a peek past the big pot. Her father led a small group of people across the garden, holding out a lantern. He stopped near the shed where the mansion’s indentures stored the tools reserved for the heavier, dirtier tasks associated with tending to the greenery—those not deemed appropriate for a lady to concern herself with.

After him, there was a man who must’ve been at least in his seventies, with wavy gray hair kept in a low ponytail at his nape. He wore a long robe the same color as the night, with fabric circling his waist in the guise of a belt. The style of the Shu. So, he must’ve been the owner of the cardigan-like cloth Haru had seen hanging in the entryway. He was smoking from a pipe with an air of importance, the practiced gestures of someone accustomed to crowds. That attitude struck something in Haru’s memory that she couldn’t quite grasp. She’d already seen this man, but the place and occasion of the meeting escaped her.

After him treaded Yui, who glanced left and right as if expecting someone or something to leap out from behind the bushes or the boathouse that faced Geldcanal. Her long, dark hair flashed with specks of deep blue as it swirled past her shoulders, following her movement.

One guard closed the procession, carrying another lantern, while the other kept post under Haru’s balcony, right in the way of the glass-paneled doors leading back into the hall.

Her father had Yui stop in front of the shed’s door. He raised the lantern closer to her face; he studied her, and so did Haru, squinting: she had the oval face and sharp eyes of the Shu, but her expression betrayed exhaustion. Her father seemed doubtful, but eventually, he gestured for the guard to venture inside the shed, and he came out with a few vials and handed one to Yui.

“Alright, Yui,” said the older man in his raspy voice. “This will be just like your everyday work. The fluid inside this vial is a solution made of two different liquids—you have to separate them.”

Yui bowed and raised her free hand. With the light of two lanterns cast on her, she wiggled her fingers as if she were picking up the very threads of what constituted the fluid, and she combed through them, dividing two that were stuck together. She must’ve been a Fabrikator, the type of Grisha who could manipulate matter. They were fairly common as indentured workers in Ketterdam. The old man by her father’s side must have been the owner of her contract.

As soon as she finished, she dropped her hand again and offered the vial for inspection. Haru’s father tipped his head to the side, nodding.

“Perfect separation. Like oil and water. With most Grisha, the two liquids would just begin mixing again once the magic stops working. You’re a man of your word, Sensei.”

Sensei?

Haru frowned. Was this person a medik, or maybe a scholar?

The older man burst into stilted laughter. He took a long drag from his pipe and let out a puff of smoke. “After all these years, you still won’t trust me!”

Years. So she had good reasons to assume she’d already seen this person at some point. He must’ve been one of Father’s business partners, or maybe a client.

“A good merchant knows no trust,” her father replied, but he offered his hand for the other to shake. “The deal is the deal.”

“The deal is the deal.” His tone betrayed a hint of humor, as if the formula that sealed any transaction between businessmen wasn’t something he was used to. Definitely a client, then. “I can have her perform some more tests, and then we may go on with the major trial.”

Her father nodded and sent the guard back inside the shed.

The two asked Yui to fuse materials, extract powder from stones, and summon drops from liquids. She did everything they asked with no bigger response than a bow of her chin, even though her posture became stiffer and stiffer as she went on. Haru failed to remember whether Grisha ever tired from overusing their powers, but despite every assurance from “Sensei,” who silently watched her perform with occasional drags from his pipe, Yui did seem to suffer from some type of fatigue.

Why do all this, though?

A tremble shook Haru’s back, and she massaged her hands, breathing warmth over the fingertips. A steamy infusion of echinacea was due tomorrow morning if she didn’t want to risk getting sick.

Her father raised his hand and ordered the Grisha to stop. “That’s good enough. Now the parem.”

Parem?

Haru narrowed her eyes.

Her father searched inside the inner pocket of his black tailcoat—the fit of merchants—and produced a small paper envelope. He handed it to Yui.

“Swallow the contents of the packet.”

“What is it?” Her voice quivered with effort and, Haru was sure, fear.

“Nothing that will harm you,” the older man replied, circling her shoulders with his arm. “We’re going to ask you to perform the same simple tasks you just did to judge the substance’s effects. Then, after you’re done, we go back to the atelier, where you can rest as much as you need. I’ll have your boy pick up your shift tomorrow.”

Atelier—so, he was an artist or an artisan of sorts; a tailor, or maybe a painter. Haru plowed through the field of her memory, but nothing bloomed. She had no time for it, though: the Grisha’s jaw set, and her fists clenched. Eventually, she nodded. With shaking hands, Yui lifted the envelope and opened the flap. She took a breath, tipped her head back, and swallowed it.

“Is it just jurda?”

The question brimmed with hope. Haru hoped it, too. Much like coffee, jurda was a natural stimulant, even though she favored the earthy flavor of roasted beans to the nose-wrinkling bitterness that chewing on jurda leaves and blossoms unleashed.

“What does it taste like?” her father asked.

“Sweeter than jurda—” Yui inhaled sharply. She turned her face toward the sky, then toward the house. With a gulp, Haru retreated behind the pot. She swallowed and counted down the seconds, waiting for Yui to call her out. Her mouth was dry. Her lungs ached.

Instead, the Grisha sighed. The older man clenched his hold around her shoulders, shaking her a little.

“How do you feel?”

She didn’t say a word, only gave him a bright smile, not far from the ones Haru had seen on drunk people. Her father and his comrade exchanged a long gaze.

“Yui…” the stranger exhaled a puff of smoke with condescension. He offered her another vial. “Can you separate these liquids just like you did before?”

Yui only flicked her wrist, and the contents of the vial rose out of containment and into the air, floating like a cloud… except it moved more like a blob of liquid substance. It split into two components, each of which collapsed into small drops and disappeared into the soil.

Haru blinked, breath short. That was no Fabrikator magic. Those were the powers of a Tidemaker. Fabrikators weren’t supposed to be able to alter consistencies or manipulate liquids.

“Excellent!” her father boasted, clapping his hands.

Yui replied with a toothy, eerie smile. She lifted her hands into the air as if commanding something to rise with them, and following her request, the grass of the garden grew taller and thicker, way past the usual mowing level. Some of the rose bushes bloomed even if they were months off season, and even the leaves surrounding Haru’s cover spread wider and greener. She smacked a hand against her mouth before she could scream.

“Mr. Okumura.” The old man had taken some steps back, and his stance gave away just how troubled he was by what he was seeing. “The missive wasn’t lying. If words get out…”

“It won’t.” Her father personally ventured into the shed and came out with something in his hand: a small, round object. He shoved it into Yui’s hands, even though he had to fight to gain her attention back.

“Turn it into gold,” he demanded.

Yui studied what she’d received—it looked like the broken ring of a chain. Dirty metal, valueless. She closed her eyes and clenched the ring into her fist, and when she opened her fingers again, it shone under the lantern.

“Unbelievable,” her father breathed in awe, the same greedy mutter he reserved for his biggest deals. “We’re done for tonight. Let’s send a joint report immediately. He has to know.”

“So soon? Wouldn’t it be better to test the parem on other Grisha, too?”

“We will, in due time. For now, we need to plan our next steps.” He snapped his fingers, signaling for the guard still keeping post by the hall’s doors to come closer. The man wore the checkered red and black jacket pins of the Okumura family’s corps. “Escort our guest out and ensure he gets back home safely. Sensei, can I have the Grisha for a while longer?”

Yui looked between them, frightened. “No!” It was the first time Haru heard her raise her voice. Turning to her contractor, she pleaded, “Please, Sensei, I need to see him, I want to—”

“You can see him tomorrow,” the old man dismissed her, then, addressing Haru’s father, “Just make sure she actually returns, am I clear? Her son isn’t quite on the same level yet, and I need her for a very delicate task for my upcoming exhibition.”

“By all means,” her father said and nodded to the two guards again.

“No,” Yui repeated, calmer this time. Colder.

She raised her hands, and the guards screamed in pain after something Haru couldn’t see. The guest’s pipe clattered on the pebbles.

“What in the world?!” he shouted. “She fused their legs to the ground!”

“Was the dose too strong?”

“Damn it—Yui!”

The night echoed with feet stomping on the ground and the glass-paneled doors shutting close. Her father and his partner rushed to it, but they could only bang against the wood. Yui must’ve blocked the lock. The two patrols kept shouting for help and begging for mercy.

Haru crawled back through the balcony and retreated inside her room. Her heart was a drum that blocked every other noise out with its beating.

She stormed to her herb cabinet and opened the drawer with her stash of chamomile.

Chapter Text

Bits of rope, tied to the metal railing of Zentsbridge in elaborate knots, flapped in the gusts coming from the harbors—the sailors’ prayers for a safe return. In the dark of the night, with the black waters of Beurskanal sloshing underneath, they sounded more like ominous whispers, something that didn’t bode well.

But to each their own. Ren Amamiya did not believe in fate, doom, or any other form of immutable divine providence.

He’d had his fair share of bad hands dealt to him by life—the most recent of which, he was still recovering from—but someone, someday in a past that only felt too far, had told him about hearts and arrows, aim and landing, and it’d stuck with him ever since. So he clung to this conviction: people’s own willpower was always going to serve them better than any blind devotion to some higher entity.

He raised the hood of his cape and left Zentsbridge behind with barely any squeak. Ketterdam was full of ghost stories; he’d rather be one than believe in one. Goro Akechi’s Phantom, ready to strike—at what, however, he had no clue. Goro had been suspiciously secretive about this job, an omen that Ren was much more willing to acknowledge. Everything about tonight smelled like the waste buckets of the fish market nearing the end of the day.

And his task, of course, was to ensure everyone came out alive.

He hopped between pockets of darkness carved out by the light cones of the street lamps and mentally counted his knives, his most trusted partners for slitting throats in silence and making people beg for their lives as they spilled secrets from their mouths. Arsène, Loki, Yoshitsune: lower back, left thigh, right forearm. Kaguya, Ganesha, Byakko: right thigh, chest, left wrist. With a smirk, he tipped the sheath hanging from his belt where Satanael—his bulkier knife—swung in plain sight to fool his enemies into thinking that was the only weapon Ren carried.

There was only one way to uncover the exact number of blades strapped on him at any moment: to become their target.

Ren hastened his pace. Past the last row of houses and shops, the street gave way to the queen of Ketterdam’s squares, where the Exchange stood in all its arrogant glory. Torches lit its outer walls, plastered and painted with the same pink as the sky right before dawn—because business begins early. Three words had been carved into the rock above the eastern entrance’s arch: Enjent, Voorhent, Almhent—Industry, Integrity, Prosperity.

He snorted under his breath. Merchants—all pious men devoted to Ghezen—loved to sell their trade as something noble. Sacred, even. Liars. They were thieves just as much as Ren, Goro, and all the other Crows and criminals lurking in the Barrel. If gangs conned tourists with gambling and bliss, merchers did with stock prices and promises of great profits. But when it came down to settling disputes, severing alliances, and conquering the upper hand, Ren couldn’t honestly say the methods were any different—just what hours they relied on. Even the place was the same.

The Exchange might be the heart of Ketterdam’s trades by day, the kingdom of merchants, investors, and hungry financiers. But at night, its proprietor shifted. It became a neutral ground for the gangs to solve conflicts.

Or to blow them out of proportion. Which was Ren’s best bet for the night.

Goro’s group kept post right under the eastern arch, killing time before the big showdown.

“Three ships!” Ryuji was saying, shoving his index, middle, and ring finger into Takeishi’s face. A heavy lead pipe swung by his side, following his movement forward. “Right from the Shu, chillin’ in First Harbor, all their nice cannons out. Stuffed full of gold, lemme tell ya.”

Takeishi shoved him back with a snort, brass knuckles catching under the light, but still responded to Ryuji’s boast with a low whistle. “Bet it made a nice view.”

“More like a nice loot,” replied Ryuji. “Imagine how it woulda felt to put your hands on all that… half the Merchant Council was there, flockin’ like pigeons with bread crumbs.”

Hifumi joined them with a humming sound. The weighted chain she carried coiled on her belt rattled with a metallic klink. “Well, the Council was waiting for the Shu to pay their debts.”

Goro shrugged. He tugged at the hem of his gloves, feigning indifference, but his eyes locked with Ren’s. They sparkled under the low lights, less ruby and more bloody.

“That would make for a very poor leverage. After all, the bigger the debt, the friendlier the negotiations.” His gaze did not leave Ren, who, however, deserted the stealthy staring contest as another movement caught in his vision: Mishima joined in on the conversation, his fingers mindlessly brushing the barrel of his revolver.

“What if the Shu are done being friendly?” he muttered.

Ryuji butted in, hooked. “You think they’re behind the murder of that trade ambassador at the Stadhall?”

Ren stepped into the light. “No one knows who’s behind the murder of that trade ambassador.”

Everyone but Goro gulped. Mishima and Ryuji flinched. He gave them all his best grin.

“Dude…” Ryuji groaned. “It’s not us you’re s’posed to spook.”

Hifumi studied him with her head tilted. “Are you perhaps implying you have investigated the scene? What have you found?”

Ren shrugged. In truth, Goro had had him crack into the building after hours, but the case turned out to be as cold as a winter night. One moment, a Zemeni trade ambassador entered the washroom of the Stadhall in broad daylight, with stadwatch crawling all over the place, and one moment later, he was found sprawled on the bathroom tiles, a knife stabbed into his back. No one came in, no one came out. The room had no other entrance, no windows, or even vents. Unless this mysterious killer could somehow squeeze themselves into a puddle and slither through the plumbing, it made less than zero sense.

Between that incident and the mystery behind Shu Han’s treasure-filled ships sitting in First Harbor, instinct told Ren something was going on. But everyone’s minds were directed elsewhere for tonight.

Goro halted the conversation with one raised palm and stopped to listen for signs of men from the Black Tips nearing the Exchange. He gestured for Ryuji and Takeishi to discard all their weapons. They were about to enter a parley, and street law dictated that each gang’s lieutenant needed to be seconded by two of his foot soldiers, all of them unarmed—in this case, Goro with Ryuji and Takeishi, and Tsukasa with two of his men.

“C’mon,” Mishima flexed his fingers toward Ryuji. “Gimme those.”

With a sigh, Ryuji detached the lead pipe from his belt and unhooked his shotgun from the holster. “I feel less like myself without ‘em, yanno?”

“Shut up, Sakamoto,” grumbled Takeishi. “You’re taking forever.” Brass knuckles had left the back of his hand, and Hifumi’s fingers now expertly cradled the cutlass usually attached to his hip.

Ryuji handed both his weapons to Mishima, who recoiled at the unexpected weight, and glowered at Takeishi. “You shut up, you big piece of—”

“All of you idiots shut up,” Goro hissed. His voice went from pleasant, conversational, to harsh and deep. Ren always perked up when he heard that switch. “It’s almost midnight, and we’re to meet with Tsukasa. Stay alert.”

Ren looked at the Exchange, that stupid rectangular courtyard surrounded by warehouses and shipping offices that could dictate the course of a person’s life. It truly was no different from the cards shuffling and wheels spinning in the gambling houses of East Stave—only here, people bet on the trade voyages that passed through Ketterdam’s Harbors. Where the early bells directed the offices’ activity, now, with twelve bells approaching, that same activity simply moved elsewhere with the favor of the night.

He clicked his tongue. It was the Black Tips they were up against. Yamauchi was a slimy bastard, and Tsukasa, his lieutenant, was no better. No way he wasn’t going to play dirty.

“I don’t like this,” he said. “Tsukasa’s scheming.”

Goro cocked one eyebrow. “I am well aware.”

Ren shot him a glare as a means to say, Then what the hell are we here for, to which Goro only shook his head.

“Sojiro Sakura’s orders.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“You know,” Ryuji butted in, “the Phantom kinda has a point. I mean, no offense, but it’s you we’re talkin’ abo—”

The bells from the nearby Church of Barter chimed twelve clear tolls. Silence filled the group like water flooding fields.

“Enough with the chatter,” declared Goro. “It’s time for business. No mourners…”

“No funerals,” they all murmured in reply, as a chorus. To each their own. Ren wasn’t superstitious, but he didn’t mind this ritual specifically.

Ryuji and Takeishi headed toward the entrance, while Goro stayed back, gaze pinned on Ren. He only mouthed one word, ‘Tsukasa,’ and his chin nudged up, pointing toward the banister running on the Exchange’s rooftop, where two guards patrolled the perimeter each night. The gangs had bribed them to ensure there would be no interference in tonight’s parley, but if Goro was warning him…

Ren’s stomach dropped. Did Tsukasa out-bribe them? Why hadn’t Goro said anything before?

But the Prince of the Crows was already walking to the place he was supposed to be, taking on the role he crafted for himself. Ren rolled his eyes. Making each mission harder than the previous. No one would’ve died tonight, not on his watch. Goro would’ve gotten words from him later.

He rounded the corner to the side of the Exchange that faced one of Ketterdam’s many canals. In front of him was but a long line of windowless warehouses. He scanned the walls until a drainpipe came into sight. He stalked closer, already mentally calculating the route to the roof, but the subtle sting of oil pricked his nose.

Scrunching his face, he hovered the back of his hand on the surface. It came back slick with something slimy. Huffing out his annoyance, he followed the wall further down, up to a stone cornice bearing a statue of Kerch’s three flying fish, a symbol of prosperity. He raised on his tiptoes and felt the surface with his fingertips: covered in glass shards. A smirk played on his lips.

Someone's thrown me a welcome party.

That someone was a fool. Whoever spent but a single day in Ren’s company knew that such cheap tricks could only make the Phantom laugh, at best.

He uncoiled a rope from his belt and attached the end to a grappling hook. He made the hook spin and nested its claws into the gutter running along the rooftop. So much for keeping him away from the drainpipe, huh? His blood bubbled with excitement—Ren always loved a good challenge.

He gripped the rope and began the ascent. Through the rubber soles of his Fabrikator-made slippers, the feedback of the bricks was almost like going barefoot, coarse like when he used to do this as a kid, learning the high wire. One small ridge after the other, he reached the second floor and hoisted himself on the ledge of one of the outer balconies. One rusty lock stood between him and the other side of the window. Ren clicked his tongue with disappointment. Just who were these merchers thinking they were keeping out with this thing?

He produced one lockpick from the sleeve of his turtleneck and spun it between his fingers, crouched in front of the windows. The lock came apart with a soft click.

The office erupted with chalkboards and maps detailing trade routes, and piles upon piles of paperwork buried the few desks still standing in the chaos. Ren grimaced at all that dust and inquired for anything slightly more interesting or valuable than bureaucracy, but there was nothing. Time to move the plan forward.

He cracked the door’s lock too and crossed over a corridor leading to one of the inner rows of balconies that overlooked the courtyard of the Exchange. During the day, any random patron would’ve heard callers announcing new voyages, the return of an expedition everyone had placed their money on, or the loss of a ship with all its cargo. A black flag would’ve been raised in that case, runners would’ve gotten words out for the entire city to hear, and the prices of goods and services would’ve—naturally—soared accordingly. Oh, such was the nature of honest-to-Ghezen business!

Ren clenched his fists and calmed his breath. He was getting distracted. He pulled himself onto the railing and leapt to the nearby balcony, then the next, then the one right after.

Down in the square, the Crows delegation was meeting the three Black Tips—five people all dressed in a mismatch of patterns and colors, flashy even in the dimmed light of the torches, true to the funkiest Barrel fashion. All but Goro, the only one wearing the double-breasted black coat of merchants. He waited with one hand on his hip and the other left dangling by his side. Innocuous enough, but Ren knew better. He’d seen him kill with those leather-clad fingers without leaving a trace.

Behind Goro, Ryuji and Takeishi fired fast rounds of conversation. Despite the warming weather, Ryuji’s limp was especially pronounced tonight, as the wind picked up from the sea, and he did his best to mask it. Ren knew better about that, too.

He took one last leap and landed on a balcony on the other side of the square, right above Tsukasa and his two seconds—Nakaoka and Ono. He’d found it weird when Goro insisted on bringing Takeishi with him for the parley, but seeing him now, making eye contact with that burly Nakaoka, Ren was glad he did.

He perched on the railing, still fidgeting with the lockpick, and studied the situation as it unfolded: Goro and Tsukasa made small talk—the weather, the Exchange’s stock prices, the suspicion that Crossroads had begun serving watered-down drinks as the rent had gone up—while their seconds patted each of them down to ensure no weapon had been carried to the meeting.

“You lil’ bastard,” Ryuji muttered as he tossed a small pocket knife out of Nakaoka’s sleeve and across the square.

“This one’s clear,” said Takeishi as he finished patting down Tsukasa. His cream-white suit was a punch in the face even that late at night, and the only two things worse than that were the purple shirt that verged on fuchsia peeking from underneath, and the blue rose blossom tucked inside his breast pocket that had seen way better days. He was gaudy and not especially smart, even if he loved to pretend the opposite.

By comparison, Goro stood out as a stain of charcoal on an otherwise colorful suit. He looked confident, in his element, but Ren suspected Tsukasa didn’t hold any respect for him, not yet. Goro was still to give him a reason to.

“I believe we’re through with the pleasantries,” he said. “I know why you’re here. Speak up and get it over with.”

The twitch of Tsukasa’s shoulders betrayed annoyance, but commendably, he did his best not to escalate the hostilities. “All we want is a scrap of Fifth Harbor. ‘S not fair you get to hog all the pigeons stepping off the boats.”

“Fifth Harbor is ours.” And by ours, Ren knew he’d truly meant mine. Fifth Harbor had always been Goro’s idea, his creation and his pride, the stepping stone that brought him up to be Sakura’s lieutenant. “We built it from the ground up, so it is only logical that we deserve the rights to gullible visitors looking for some fun.”

Tsukasa’s shoulders fell, and his entire posture shifted. He was starting to get pissed.

“Don’t gimme that crap, Princeling. The harbors are part of Ketterdam. All of ‘em. You don’t get to keep one for yourself.”

“Fifth Harbor is ours,” Goro repeated. “I am not here to negotiate, Tsukasa. I am here to request that you and your boss Yamauchi stop cutting into our traffic. Your gang went as far as intercepting a shipment of jurda that should have docked two nights ago, and you come here weeping about fairness? You’re pathetic.”

Tsukasa took a step forward. Ryuji and Takeishi tensed by Goro’s side, but the other lieutenant stopped with a sneer.

“Since when ol’ man Sakura wants war?”

“I am the one you’re talking to right now, not Sojiro Sakura. And I don’t advise ever starting a war against me, Tsukasa. You’ve been warned.”

“You talk big for someone who’s supposed to be in school right now. Do you think you’re invincible? Or you got what, magic tricks?”

Ren snickered under his breath. Even a broken clock strikes the right hour twice a day.

“I am but a simple man,” Goro conceded with only superficial calm. Under the surface, Ren knew there was energy sizzling, ready to annihilate everyone in his way.

Tsukasa exhaled a ragged laugh. “Well, guess what happens to simple men? They die.”

Ryuji and Takeishi stood at attention at that, even if nothing had happened yet. But Goro’s eyes flicked up, toward the roof, and that was Ren’s cue to hurry.

“What if I told ya,” Tsukasa went on, “that right now you have the rifles of two guards pointed at ya?”

“I’d say such a feat sounds a bit too expensive for the Black Tips’ coffers, Tsukasa.”

He was buying time. Ren scaled the balcony and then the drainpipe up to the roof, but he forewent the narrow walkway on top that the stadwatch used for their patrol in favor of the gables themselves—less practical but less exposed, too. He crawled on the tiles like a spider, half his mind scanning for the guards and the other half picking up the conversation still going on in the square.

“Took some doin’,” Tsukasa admitted. “City guards ain’t cheap, but it’ll be worth it for the prize.”

“Oh, I’m flattered.”

“We both know the Crows ain’t lasting one week without their stupid Prince. I take you out, Fifth Harbor’ll be ours, and Sojiro Sakura won’t have a gang no more.”

“That sounds like an awfully sound plan, coming from you.”

“Piece of shit,” Tsukasa hissed. “I can’t wait to have you crawlin’ at my feet.”

“Well then—shoot your shot,” Goro taunted, with the tone of someone who could have the other person crawling at his feet.

“Crow—” Ryuji tried to intervene.

“No, let him. Come on, Tsukasa, what’s the holdup? Give that order.”

Ren was going to end this boy. His job should’ve been to stall, not to push Tsukasa into shooting his brains out! He was going to have Ann kickstart Goro’s heart again, only for Ren to murder him a second time. And there was no sign of the fucking guards—

“Fire!” Tsukasa shouted.

The ring of a gunshot pierced through Ren’s ears. Down in the courtyard, Takeishi cried out in pain and collapsed to the ground. A puff of smoke dissolved from the origin point. Found you. He climbed onto the very top of the rooftop and sprinted on a razor’s edge like it was a tightrope tensed under his feet.

Ryuji dropped to his knees and took a look at the bullet wound. “What the fuck, man? You just blew the whole deal!”

Tsukasa’s laughter staggered out of his mouth. “And you’re going to tell who? Ain’t no way you’re gonna walk out alive.” His demeanor puffed out, but his voice sounded off, like he was trying to keep a broken vase from showing the cracks. As if, suddenly, there was nothing to mock the Crows for.

“Are you faring well, Tsukasa?” Goro asked in his honey-sweet voice. And just like that, Ren realized this had probably been part of his vision all along.

“‘S fine!”

But he was shaking too much to truly be.

Goro hummed under his breath. “Things aren’t shaping up to be quite like what you’ve imagined, I assume.”

“Crow,” Ryuji cried, “Takeishi’s bleeding bad—”

“Good.”

“He needs a medik!”

“What he needs,” Goro spat, “is to crawl his way out of here like the creep he is and be thankful I didn’t have Fukurai put a bullet through his skull.” He chuckled lowly, turning all his attention back to Tsukasa. “Yuichi Fukurai and Taizo Naguri—the two guards on duty tonight. The ones you emptied the Black Tips’ coffers to bribe.”

“How—”

“Oh, I am glad that you asked,” he said like he was speaking in public for all to hear, including the guards hidden on the roof. “You see, Yuichi Fukurai loves a good sum of money. After all, who doesn’t? But he also has much bigger problems—let’s call them urges. Something that would turn even your stomach, Tsukasa. Isn’t that right, Fukurai-san?”

A second gunshot landed near Tsukasa, who yelped and took a few steps back. Another cloud of smoke rose from Fukurai’s hiding spot, but if Goro already had him in his pocket, then Ren’s task was to take out the other guard. He sped over the gables toward the watchtower. That was his best bet.

“Just shoot him, Fukurai!” Tsukasa cried. “Through the head, boom and it’s over!”

Goro snorted with disdain. It was always a spectacle, this side of him. “By all means, Fukurai. Just don’t you dare to assume your secret would die with me. Shoot me now, and I assure you there will be messengers sprinting all over Ketterdam eager to spill the beans to your girlfriend and your captain.”

No shot came.

“How?!” Tsukasa was seething. Ren grinned. Goro loved teaching people lessons—Tsukasa was just having the misfortune of being both the subject and receiver of tonight’s lecture. “You outbid me? Are you nuts?”

“Don’t insult me, Tsukasa. Unlike you, I am no fool. My currency just carries more sway.”

Ren huffed out a proud puff. It’s me, I’m the currency. He had to sweat a lot to track down the primary source, but what Chihaya Mifune told him—about Fukurai’s ‘dirty little secret’—was worth a goldmine.

“I trade in information, the things men do when they think no one is looking. Money isn’t worth a dime if there’s shame on the table.”

Ren’s lungs ached. He was so close. He only hoped Goro could buy him some more time. The watchtower stood in front of him, Naguri on top. Panting, he licked sweat away from his upper lip and climbed.

“What about the second guard, you may ask,” Goro kept taunting. “Taizo Naguri… I guess he’s just trying to figure out what to do. Shoot me? Shoot Fukurai?” He took a calculated pause, and Ren could picture the exact curve his lips took as he smirked. “Or maybe, I have him in my pocket, as well. Maybe he’s getting ready to blow your brains out, Tsukasa.”

“Naguri!” he shouted.

Naguri kept his post in a corner, his rifle ready to answer. Ren inched behind his back and hovered the edge of Arsène’s blade over his throat.

“Shhh,” he whispered in Naguri’s ear. He inclined the dagger so that the faintest rivulet of blood trickled down the man’s bobbing skin. With him so caught up in panic, Ren seized the occasion and pressed Byakko’s curved point against his kidney.

The guard choked out a gasp. “Please…”

God, men were so much better when they begged for mercy instead of sex. He’d much rather dole out violence than he’d ever done pleasure, too. But that wasn’t the time for it.

“My job’s not having men beg for me anymore, you know.”

“Please, I–I—”

“Just keep quiet,” he hissed. Below, Tsukasa was out of his mind. He pointed at Goro.

“You think you’re always one step ahead of everyone else, don’t you?”

“Admittedly, some people make it quite easy.”

But Tsukasa only smiled like he’d just won the lottery. “Do they, now?” He reached into his coat’s inner pocket and pulled out a revolver. Ren’s stomach dropped. Takeishi had patted down Tsukasa in front of his eyes; there was no way he could’ve missed that.

Unless it was on purpose.

“What?!” Ryuji sputtered. “Takeishi searched him! He didn’t…” his gaze lowered to the mass crumpled on the floor, and he groaned. “Oh, you idiot.”

Maybe Tsukasa wasn’t the only person involved in Goro’s lecture for tonight, after all. Though… well, Goro still had a gun pointed at him.

Tsukasa slowly positioned his index finger on the trigger. “The Prince of the Crows, untouchable by any guard. But how are you comin’ out of this one?”

“The same way I came in, walking on my own two legs. And the best part is, it will get even easier without the added dead weight.” He kicked Takeishi in the stomach, who wailed from pain. “Curious as to why I uncovered all this pathetic pantomime? I’ll humor you: Takeishi is lazy. I am well aware, and so is most of my crew. So, when my laziest bouncer took to getting up early twice a week to walk nearly out of the Barrel and into the Financial District to Miel et Crêpes for breakfast, knowing that everything from the coffee to the sweetbread is so much better at Yon Germain, I had to ask myself questions.

“Why had Takeishi become an early bird? And then the Black Tips started to act like they were bigger than us, Fifth Harbor became infested by Yamauchi’s rats, and our biggest shipment of jurda got intercepted. It truly wasn’t a tough connection to make.” He sighed and poked Takeishi in the side again with the point of his shoe. “This is what grand plans concocted by utter fools lead to.”

But Tsukasa cocked the revolver in his direction with a defiant smile on his face. He went as far as pressing the barrel right against Goro’s chest. “Doesn’t matter much either way now, does it?” His finger twitched on the trigger. “Your guards may get me, but you’re still not gonna dodge this.”

Ren’s heart seized. Either Goro had another ace up his sleeve, or he planned on using his powers. That would’ve gotten ugly. But there was no way he would out himself like that, was it?

A siren wailed in the distance, likely from across the city. For how far the sound was, if it hadn’t come directly from the Barrel, it had been close.

“Nineteen Burstraat,” Goro said.

Tsukasa didn’t lower the pistol, but he went still.

“That’s your girl’s address, isn’t it?”

The man swallowed. “Don’t have any.”

“Oh, but you do. She’s rather pretty and all over you. She adores you. And you do too, right?”

“No, no, I—”

“Of course you do. You take her out shopping and spoil her like a princess. That’s what you call her, correct? Your princess.”

Tsukasa stared at Goro like he’d just sprouted another head. He’d acknowledged Goro’s defiance, his brilliance, but he’d never treated him like a threat. Now the Prince was gone, and in his stead, Tsukasa had to deal with Dirtyhands, the Bastard of the Barrel, who dealt with business no differently from a hand of cards—with a sardonic smile on his face and the fierce knowledge that the house always wins. And Tsukasa looked fucking frightened.

“She lives at Nineteen Burstraat,” Goro repeated. His voice was low and devoid of any emotion. “Three floors up, blue roses in the window boxes. Two of my men are waiting outside right now. If I don’t come back in one piece, they will set the place on fire. The whole building, with poor Eiko and her roses trapped inside.”

“You’re bluffing!” he shouted, but the aim of his revolver was off.

Goro lifted his head and inhaled deeply. His eyes met Ren and his lips thinned into a smirk. It was one of Ren’s favorite expressions.

“It’s getting late now, I’d better be on my way back. The wind is picking up, too—is it smoke that I smell?”

Tsukasa searched Goro’s face. Whatever he’d found, it made his fingers drop the pistol on the ground with a metallic thud.

Seems like Goro ended his lecture.

“You’ll get what’s coming for you someday, Bastard of the Barrel!”

Goro nodded. “If true justice exists. But we all know better, right?” He stepped back and brushed off the lapel of his coat where the gun’s barrel had been, then he raised his chin and glared at Tsukasa again. “Go tell Yamauchi to keep the Black Tips away from Fifth Harbor and that we expect compensation for the lost shipment of jurda, plus five percent for drawing steel on neutral ground, plus five percent more for wasting my time. This is what losing a battle against me feels like, Tsukasa. You really don’t want to start a war.”

The Prince. Ren huffed. Prince, Crow, Bastard, Dirtyhands—they were all names, all masks for the same person. No one knew Goro’s true identity or his deadly resources. Years in the Barrel and the stadwatch couldn’t manage to lay their hands on him, not even once. And then people said Ren was the Phantom.

On his way out, Goro crouched near Takeishi. “Assuming you don’t bleed to death tonight, I expect you’re out of Ketterdam before sunset tomorrow, set on never coming back again. I hear you’re anywhere near the city limits or running with the Black Tips, and there will be consequences. Am I clear?”

“Please, Crow…” he moaned.

“You had a place, you set it on fire. Don’t come to me looking for sympathy. I’ve wasted enough of my time on you.”

Despite the loaded gun at his feet, he turned on his back and walked through the courtyard toward the eastern exit. Ryuji squatted down next to Takeishi and clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“Loser,” he spat and followed Goro out of the Exchange.

“There’s something wrong with you, Crow!” was Tsukasa’s last cry. Goro only waved his hand in the air as if acknowledging a compliment someone threw his way.

Ren retracted Byakko—the karambit—from the guard’s back and plucked his rifle from his hands before releasing him, then he sheathed Arsène back into its dagger holster, strapped against his lower back. As silent as a real spider, he lowered himself onto the gabled roof, crossed the topmost part of the building, and secured his grappling hook to begin the final descent down the outer wall.

He’d sometimes hung out with Ryuji and Takeishi, and he was willing to bet this would affect Ryuji for a while. The Church of Barter had to ring the first bells of a new day, and just like Dirtyhands, the Phantom had no time to spare for someone like Takeishi.

Chapter Text

Ecstatic cheers and weapons held high greeted Goro past the eastern gate of the Exchange. Hifumi approached him with gleaming eyes, despite her fingers tormenting what had been Takeishi’s brass knuckles. “You forced him to concede… That was the ultimate power move!”

“What did you even have on Fukurai?” asked Mishima. His lips curled as he acted all coy. “I heard about a guy who likes—”

But Goro put a hand up to halt him. “If I talked now, it would render everything pointless, wouldn’t it? Fukurai might come in handy again; better keep him in check.” He winked at Hifumi. “After all, the difference between coins and secrets is that only physical currency retains its value upon spending it.”

“And like that, the great Prince maintains his tactical advantage.”

“That I do.”

She and Mishima walked past him to pat Ryuji’s back. Mishima handed him his shotgun and lead pipe, chanting, “The Crows keep Fifth Harbor!”

They all celebrated like they were supposed to, but discomfort with Takeishi’s betrayal still hung in the air, made apparent exactly by the lack of acknowledgement. Their snickers sounded joyous, but Goro was ready to bet there was also fear lurking underneath after how ruthlessly he had doled out punishment. Good. They had better never forget who was leading their gang and who they’d pledged their loyalty to. Who could easily make another example out of them, should they commit the mistake of deserving it.

“Mishima, get two runners out to keep an eye on Takeishi. If he survives the night, he ought to remember the Prince of the Crows isn’t in the habit of bluffing about his threats.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Hifumi, go back to the Crow Club. Word about tonight’s showdown needs to get around. Everyone in the Barrel is due a reminder about what it means to cross us.”

“Oi,” Ryuji called for his attention. “What of me?”

He shrugged. “You can do as you please.”

“Don’t gimme that crap. You shoulda let me know ‘bout Takeishi.”

Goro cocked a brow, amused. “What for?”

“What, you think I’m dirty too?”

“If that were the case, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, as you’d be left bleeding your guts out by his side. Don’t be an idiot.”

Ryuji raised his hands, sighing. “Man, you’re such an asshole.”

Goro glanced at him. He’d done a good job masking the limp, but his bad leg was beginning to give in for the night. He might as well have deserved a bit of additional reward. If Goro offered something valuable enough, Ryuji’s usual merriment was sure to break out once more, and he would infect anyone with it. After all, he had a talent for drawing people into a party mood and somehow transforming Goro’s victories into a community feat.

He offered him a pleasant smile. “Go with Hifumi. You’ll find a line of credit at the Crow Club waiting for you. Do with that as you please.”

Ryuji’s eyes opened so wide his pupils seemed about to explode. If Goro concentrated hard enough, the spike of Ryuji’s heartbeat rang in his mind like a bell. The boy tried his best to scowl, but couldn’t quite keep the hunger at bay.

“Dontcha try to bribe me, too!”

No need to try.

“Just go, you’ve earned it.”

Every drop of hostility evaporated from Ryuji’s blood, who offered Goro a cheeky grin etched into flushed cheeks. “Thanks, man. Seriously though, you don’t want no one of us with you? Yamauchi’s rats are gonna be squeakin’ ‘round after that. Don’t want ya gettin’ bitten.”

He shook his head. “Let them come. If it’s trouble they are looking for, they will find plenty.”

He waved them goodbye and turned down Nemstraat. Not being able to walk by themselves through Ketterdam late at night was simply not an option. First, you trembled for a little darkness, then you were granted to have someone’s hand in your pockets and a knife at your throat. Besides, Goro was never, at any given time, unarmed.

He flexed his fingers, junctures creaking, and half-closed his eyes. Ryuji, Mishima, and Hifumi’s presence, slowly fading as they walked away from their meeting site, was a clear stain on his mental map, three pulse points. If only they knew Goro could’ve dropped them dead on the spot with nothing but a clear sight and the clench of his fists, they would fret over their own safety more than they did over his.

But their unawareness proved beneficial. Ketterdam wasn’t safe for any human being, and it got no safer for a Heartrender. He’d lived it on his skin. No matter how much more terrifying Goro became with every heist the Crows pulled off, with every tale that was murmured behind his back, if people knew the truth, he’d have to deal with a whole other kind of unwanted attention. Better being Sojiro Sakura’s feared lieutenant than a Grisha tailed by slavers. He’d run with the Crows since he’d been twelve. He’d made them great and carved his own path through the hellhole that was Ketterdam’s Barrel—he would not give out his position.

The surrounding air shifted. Ren was following him. He must’ve come down from the Exchange roof and tailed him all the way through. Like an actual ghost.

Goro didn’t call him out. His Phantom would manifest the moment he was ready to talk.

He climbed the metal stairs of Zentsbridge, and the iron howled under his feet. He cursed whoever had the idea of building this godforsaken bridge with iron railings instead of plastered stones, but of course, superstitious sailors just needed a place for knotting their delusions. As if a stupid, flimsy rope could truly bend the luck in their favor. Fools.

“You were bluffing.” Ren’s voice came from the dark. Goro enjoyed the silence, but his baritone was always a valued exception.

“Mhh. Care to elaborate on that?”

“You sent no one to Nineteen Burstraat. So, you were bluffing. There were no men ready to set the place on fire.”

His chest swelled with pride. A part of him had expected Ren to notice.

“You’re correct.”

“Thought you weren’t in the habit of doing that—bluffing about your threats.”

“Just like I’m not usually keen on indulging people who can’t speak up their minds. You would be the exception. Many such cases. What’s bothering you?”

Silence filled the night. He could feel the weight of Ren’s frown on his shoulders before he talked again. “The siren that went off. How did you…?”

“Oh, that? A fortunate coincidence. One must seize the moment sometimes.”

“And since when do you leave results up to luck?”

Goro stopped in the middle of the bridge. Ren’s apprehension was endearing, albeit misplaced.

“There is no such thing as luck, only talent meeting chance.”

“You put everyone at risk.” Especially yourself, he didn’t add. Goro clenched his fists so hard that the leather of his gloves squeaked.

“I am never truly unarmed, Ren. You should know it better than anyone.”

A beat of silence. “What if I hadn’t reached Naguri in time?”

“Then you wouldn’t be my Phantom.” He followed the voice’s direction, even though no one was there. As expected. “I place great value on what you do. So, don’t disappoint me.”

A snort, and Ren’s presence was gone.

Goro rolled his eyes and resumed his stride. He needed to ensure business ran as usual in Fifth Harbor, and most importantly, that Yamauchi gave orders to his rats to retreat from Goro’s fucking territory. Then he’d extend his nighttime walk to Leblanc in the Lid to let Sojiro know the parley went well, although the old man would most certainly have something to say about Goro’s definition of success. Finally, he would return to the Slat for a much-needed rest.

He pictured it in his head: his office-slash-room, the weight of his comforter…

…and Ren, perched on his windowsill, curls splayed against the glass, gaze lost between the smoky Ketterdam sky and the activity bustling through the narrow alleys and dirty waterways of the Barrel. After Goro had taught him how to pick locks, he couldn’t get rid of him; Ren learned how to crack open the security mechanism that kept shut the window of Goro’s room, and that spot had become his favorite hangout ever since.

It made his chest expand with both endearment and irritation—Ren had been a waste of wit and talents trapped in a pleasure house in Alice Hiiragi’s hands. Still, his indenture hadn’t come cheap, and Goro had been wondering for a while now if he hadn’t bought his very demise.

The air shifted again. He wasn’t alone, but it wasn’t Ren.

Goro paused in the middle of the street and focused on his surroundings: the houses on his left were silent, and the canal on his right brought forth only water splashing against the banks and the thuds of smallboats bumping against their mooring.

Damn it. He’d let his mind wander too much.

A dark figure emerged from the wall at the other end of the alley, like vapor climbing out of a chimney.

Goro squinted hard. Working overtime had to be taking a toll on him. He straightened his posture and clenched his hands. Fists and kicks, first, and if those wouldn’t do, then no one would be around to witness a Heartrender practicing his craft.

“What business?” he asked in a casual but firm voice.

The stranger pounced on him. Goro dashed to the side and channeled his attention to the attacker’s body and its inner workings. His vitality was all over the place—his blood flowed like it knew no weight. What the hell?

It took too long: a fist crashed against his jaw, and a blast of pain overtook his skull. The attacker was too fast compared to any other person Goro had ever had a brawl with. He dodged a second fist and went for the enemy’s legs. He stabilized his balance with the palms of his hands and swung a kick, but it moved through the void.

He blinked, disbelieving.

Something hit him in the back, right between his shoulder blades, and it kicked all the air out of his lungs. He fell prone, gasping, but managed to push his weight against the wall to avoid any other surprise attacks. If only Goro could see his opponent better, then he would be the one to prevail—

A cluster of mist became limbs, a cloak. Arms closed around him through the wall. Like a ghost. But that couldn’t be. Ghost stories were on the same level of delusion as prayers. He thrashed against his opponent and yanked free one of his arms. He raised it to end this encounter for good, but whatever entity had assaulted him seized his wrist before he could do anything useful with his powers. A jab to his neck sent a prickling sensation all over his shoulders, fire through his veins. A syringe?

What little was visible of the dingy alley faded into a wave, a blur, then complete darkness. He refused to go out like this, but his energy was leaking out of his body.

He still hadn’t gotten revenge.

Mother… forgive me.

***

A nauseating scent of ammonia invaded his nostrils, and Goro woke up with a violent jerk of his head.

The man in front of him wore the robes of a university medik. His hand gripped a glass bottle of wuftsalts, which he weaved beneath Goro’s nose. The stink nearly made him vomit. He coughed hard.

“Get that shit away from me.”

The medik nodded and made the bottle disappear inside a leather pouch. His eyes did a once-over of Goro’s body, and he nodded again, satisfied. “You appear to be doing quite well, all things considered. I’m glad.”

Goro lunged. A chain around his wrists yanked him back against the chair. Someone had shackled him.

Fuck, does he know I'm a Grisha?

Dread stilled the energy coursing through him, but he did his best to keep his expression in check. He wouldn’t talk until whoever this man was exposed his hand first.

“Sorry for that, by the way,” the stranger said, pointing to Goro’s restraints. “A necessary precaution. I hope you’ll understand my position.”

Goro glowered, but kept silent. He’d expected some Black Tips brute or a soldier from another rival gang. This man didn’t look anything like a criminal, and the place they were in didn’t smell like the Barrel, either.

The medik took place behind a bulky desk made of mahogany panels carved with frothing waves and flying fish. The wood, likely freshly polished, shone under the warm gleam of the oil lamps hanging from the walls, which were covered top to bottom in shelves heavy with books and papers. Their only interruption came from a leaded window and a painting: a mountain at dusk in a minimalist style, with the branch of a blooming Shu plum tree peeking from the left corner. Framed in gold-lacquered wood, Goro was fairly sure it was a Madarame—an authentic one, at that.

He glanced behind his shoulder, where two armed members of the stadwatch were guarding the door, purple uniforms and charged rifles standing at attention. Shit. Had the corps eventually gotten him?

Except he wasn’t being kept in a guardhouse or a cell—this was the house of someone wealthy enough to own a real Madarame, so what in the world was going on?

“Mr. Crow,” the stranger said again. The hint of condescension in his tone made Goro’s palms itch. “How are you feeling?”

Goro studied him with greater care. He looked close to but not quite forty, and dark brown hair curled on top of his head almost as unruly as Ren’s. Under the white medik robe sprouted an achingly questionable tie checkered in blue and black, but something else stole Goro’s attention: a golden pin peeked from the robe’s breast pocket, a crown of laurel leaves enclosing a massive, perfect ruby.

“You work with Okumura,” he spat. Oh, he was going to tear this man’s throat to shreds with his precious pocket pin.

The medik blinked at the jewel like he’d just remembered he was wearing it and gave him a brief nod. “You can see it like that, yes. Although I’m not exactly one of his employees. I gather then that you are already acquainted with him?”

Goro clicked his tongue. It was his job to know each merchant’s family symbol. Okumura’s was the red laurel. This man in front of him was so unfit to be dealing with criminals that it nearly made him burst into laughter.

“I do. He’s one of those merchers crusading to clean up the Barrel.”

“A commendable mission. It’s always best when men find honest work.”

“That being through the art of trade?” he hissed. Upstanding, stuck-up merchants loved to boast about it.

“…Not necessarily, no.”

“Then we might find common ground for something to agree on.” His fingers ran up and down the cuffs around his wrists, feeling for the metal, testing the strength of the link. He wasn’t planning on discussing ethics with a university medik, but he did need to gain more time. “What business?”

The man’s eyes gleamed at that, like he was relieved Goro finally came around to hear what he had to say. His heartbeat performed the equivalent of a twirl. He didn’t seem to suspect Goro at all.

“My name is Takuto Maruki, and I have a proposition for you. Rather, Mr. Okumura does, on behalf of the Merchant Council.”

He tilted his head to the side. “The Council? If Okumura’s attempts to ascend into politics have already proved fruitful, I have yet to send my congratulations.”

“Oh, no—you would be correct in assuming Mr. Okumura isn’t part of the Merchant Council… but, you see, that is precisely the point. If only I could explain—”

“Is it customary for the Council to begin all negotiations with a beating?”

“I sure hope it’s not!” Maruki complained with a horrified expression. He cleared his voice before proceeding. “As for this case specifically, Mr. Okumura deemed it necessary to hand out a… cautionary demonstration.”

Goro bit the inner flesh of his cheek so as not to snort. That Maruki right there might have been the most spineless person he’d ever had to deal with. He craved to see where this was going, but first, he needed to assess whether he had been outed as a Grisha.

“And what services would the Merchant Council possibly need from me?”

Throw.

Maruki plastered a disgusting little kind smile on his face and picked up some papers. “You see, you’re quite the special person.”

Hook.

Goro’s stomach dropped, but he kept himself in check. Maruki’s heart kept pulsing at a steady pace, which was reassuring. The man only flipped through the pages, index finger hovering over the writing.

“One of the most prolific criminals in Ketterdam, according to the reports. Yet never-before apprehended.”

And reel.

Goro let a fraction of the tension piled up on his shoulders slide away as Maruki went on with the talk, body pressure as stable as ever. His secret was safe.

“Years in the Barrel, yet the stadwatch never managed to catch you, not even once. One might assume you simply went under the radar, though I read here,” and he knocked on the papers, “that you’ve been floor boss at the Crow Club for more than two years. You’re the youngest to ever run a betting shop, and you’ve doubled its profits in that time.” He went on reciting Goro’s feats, his posture becoming stiffer with each line of the file he read. “There isn’t a poor soul in the Barrel that doesn’t fear the Prince of the Crows, although no one has ever heard your real name.” His eyes filled with sadness at that. No, worse: pity. Goro was going to murder this guy. “How old are you, Mr. Crow?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Maruki’s mouth curved down at the corners. “You don’t look older than twenty.” He couldn’t have made it clearer, just, oh, how sorry he felt for Goro. Disgusting.

“That’s enough of an answer.”

“I’m sorry life has led you down that path.” He returned the sheets to the desk. “But this proposal can change something for the better.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Just think about it—despite all the crimes you’ve committed, your record isn’t stained by prison time, and once you leave the Barrel, you might be like any other person!”

Like any other person. Maruki truly had no clue about Goro’s powers.

“Spare me that cliché bullshit.”

The cuffs’ lock clicked, and Goro leaped at the desk. He snatched a letter opener sitting beside the envelope that had contained the files and caught the lapel of Maruki’s white robe. His hands trembled too much for his liking, surely an aftereffect of being drugged and restricted, but he pressed the point against the man’s throat.

The guards surrounded him, rifles drawn against his head. Goro wrapped his mind around Maruki’s frantic heartbeat and reveled in the panic swallowing up his pupils.

“Let me make this clear, Doc. You don’t drag me away from my streets, especially not with a pity-induced, poor excuse of a deal. I don’t need your charity, and I don’t need your saving. Now, you’ll show me the way to the door, otherwise, we’ll both be using another exit.” He eyed the window closest to the desk.

“Please, let’s not resort to violence. I know I can get you to see my perspective on this.”

“I don’t care how big your boss is. Tell Okumura the next time he wishes to strike a deal with me, he doesn’t do it while I’m kept prisoner in his study.”

“Sakoda!” Maruki called.

It happened just like in that dimly lit alley. A boy as thin as a withered white rose and just as pale walked through the bookshelves-covered wall. He wore a blue kefta, the coat all Grisha of the Second Army donned as a means to identify their class. It was embroidered in pale blue—a Tidemaker. A red ribbon with a gold laurel leaf was pinned to the lapel, marking him as one of Okumura’s company workers.

But even a Grisha couldn’t just stroll through solid matter.

“What the hell is this?” he growled.

“Let me go, and I’ll explain everything.”

“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” He inched the blade closer to drawing blood. “Start talking now or you won’t ever be able to.”

Maruki’s throat bobbed, but he nodded. “What you’re witnessing are the tremendous effects of jurda parem.”

Bullshit. Jurda was nothing but a stimulant. The blossoms were grown and harvested in Novyi Zem, then dried and sold in shops all over Ketterdam. He’d chewed on them to stay alert during his early days in the Barrel; he knew far too well no jurda could alter a Grisha’s powers. Maruki must not be telling the whole truth.

“That’s not possible. Jurda is completely harmless.”

“That might be true for regular jurda, but parem is something different, and far from harmless.”

Goro glanced over to where Sakoda stood. His face was as white as a wet rag, with purple running under his eyes, and his cheeks dipped like someone had scooped up the meat with a spoon. Sweat bundled strands of dark hair together, and his shoulders trembled too much to be attributed to the room’s temperature. His eyes were dazed as if he wasn’t really present.

“You’ve drugged him,” Goro muttered.

Maruki scowled. “It wasn’t me! But yes, you’ve got the point. Jurda parem is an enhanced version of ordinary jurda. It comes from the same plant, but the fabrication process is starkly different, although we lack any too-specific information on the topic. Yet.”

“Yet.”

“Yes. Which circles us back to the beginning of our conversation. Please, Mr. Crow, can we be civil about this?”

A shiver prickled down his spine. Hadn’t that one new grunt already mentioned a new and lethal substance circulating in the city? Goro pressed the tip of the letter opener harder on the skin, almost to the point of breaking.

“I want the guards out of this room. And I need one of their weapons.”

Something shuffled behind his back, but Maruki raised a hand to stop whatever movement was about to happen. “We have an agreement.” Then, to the guards, “Please, wait for us outside. Leave a pistol on the floor.”

Boots stomped, the door clicked shut, and Goro drew back from Maruki and the desk. He picked up the pistol and turned it in his hands to ensure it was in good shape, loaded it, and secured it to his belt. He glanced at the chair, but the thought of sitting again unsettled him, so he leaned his weight against the wall nearest to the window, ready to bolt if need be. Crossing his arms on his chest, he nodded to Maruki.

“Well then, get talking.”

Maruki passed a hand through his hair and exhaled a long sigh. A pitiable display, but he had none to offer. Okumura should have picked someone more fit to deal with Goro’s kin.

“The first sample of parem was shipped to the Kerch Merchant Council by a scientist from Shu Han named Wakaba Isshiki. She wished to defect, so she sent a sample to the Council to back her claims about the drug’s supposedly ground-breaking effects.”

“I see.”

“In the past weeks, Mr. Okumura had it tested on three Grisha, one from each Order.”

“Enthusiastic consent and due retribution were handed out, I am sure.” He made sure his tone rubbed extra hard on the Doc’s poor excuse of a conscience.

Maruki looked away. “In truth, they were all indentures. A Fabrikator and a Healer who belonged to other people, and Sakoda, who’s here with us tonight. He’s a Tidemaker who works for Mr. Okumura’s company. You’ve seen what he can do when he’s under the effect of parem.”

And he doesn’t look like he’s enjoying it. Goro swallowed through his dry throat. He didn’t like where this was going.

“Nothing an ordinary Tidemaker would, that’s for sure.”

Maruki nodded. “Normally, they can control currents to summon water or moisture from the air or a nearby source. They dictate the shifting of the tides in our harbor and ensure the safety of our ships. But with jurda parem, Tidemakers can alter their material state from solid to liquid to gas and back again.”

“How?”

He shook his head. “Hard to say. The principle is the same as with regular amplifiers—bones, teeth, scales—except those only augment a Grisha’s powers. Jurda parem seems to alter a Grisha’s perception, drawing new connections at extraordinary speed, hence why they can manipulate matter far more quickly and more precisely. Things become possible that simply shouldn’t be.”

Goro’s heartbeat sounded like a war cannon inside his ears. His face radiated heat, like when he came down with a fever. And maybe it was like that. He felt sick. He hadn’t been this troubled by something since the day he lost his mother. He wet his lips, trying to latch onto words that weren’t forming.

“What are the effects on normal people?” Like you, he didn’t say. Like us, he misled Maruki to imply.

Maruki’s mouth thinned to a line. “It’s lethal. No ordinary mind can tolerate parem in even the lowest doses.”

“And how would you know?”

The other recoiled, offended by Goro’s unspoken assumption. “Isshiki told us so in her letter. Besides, I’m a medik. I was consulted as someone deeply familiar with the inner workings of the human body, and I can imagine what a stimulant like parem would do to a common person’s brain if it has that effect on a Grisha.” And he gestured to Sakoda, who perked up in interest, maybe waiting for orders. Or the next dose.

That could be me.

Goro shivered. A taste of parem, and he would be the most lethal being walking the streets of the Barrel. A taste of parem, and he would end up as a sorry shadow of himself right after. Whoever owned the drug could control any Grisha who’d had a dose of it and became addicted. He could never allow that for himself. Jurda parem needed to be eliminated.

“You said you gave it to three Grisha. What can the others do?”

Maruki produced some sort of golden bracelet from his brown pants pocket. “This started as iron.”

“Bullshit.”

“I can see how it’s hard to believe, but I have Mr. Okumura’s direct testimony. The Fabrikator took this broken chain ring in her hands and, moments later, it was like this.”

“How do you even know it’s legit?”

“Mr. Okumura had it tested. If it’s not identical to gold in every way, the difference has eluded us.”

Goro pinched his chin between his thumb and index finger. As a Grisha himself, he could understand how a Fabrikator’s brain under parem could comprehend the matter’s structure and alter it on such a fundamental level. But he needed to keep up pretenses.

“Let’s say I believe you. Why would I need to be involved?”

Maruki adjusted his standing as if he’d just grown a spine. “I assume news of the Shu government suddenly settling their debts with the Kerch has already broken out to you? As well as the unfortunate assassination of a Zemeni trade ambassador at the Stadhall.”

So it was someone going in through the plumbing, indeed. He nodded. Maruki went on.

“The Council has reasons to believe all these occurrences are the work of Grisha employed by the Shu government in secret, and dosed with jurda parem.” He scratched at the base of his neck, looking away. “It goes without saying that if jurda parem were to spread, no place on this Earth—be it house, vault, or fortress—would be safe ever again. Countless lives would be lost, and not only those of Grisha. We’re talking about a world collapse.”

“Tragic,” Goro said through gritted teeth. He was getting tired of mincing words. “What is it that the Council requests of me? To steal a shipment? To seize the formula?”

“To retrieve the scientist.”

He snorted. “You’re asking me to kidnap Wakaba Isshiki.”

“Better yet, we wish to rescue her. As I was saying, about a month ago Isshiki sent out a plea for asylum following what she stated were concerning plans about what her government aims to achieve with jurda parem. The Council agreed to help with her defection by offering a way out of her country. Sadly, a skirmish broke out at the rendezvous.”

“With the Shu?”

He shook his head. “With the Fjerdans.”

Goro frowned. Those fanatic Grisha-hunting crooks must’ve had spies both in Shu Han and Kerch if they’d learned about the drug so quickly. “I don’t see how the most prolific criminal in Ketterdam might solve this issue. You’re setting it up to be something the Kerch officials should handle.”

“For diplomatic reasons, our government prefers not to be associated with Wakaba Isshiki, hence why they enlisted Mr. Okumura’s help.”

Goro huffed out a sneer. “Oh, I am sure.”

“We know for a fact she’s alive,” Maruki scurried to explain. “She’s currently awaiting trial by the Fjerdan justice…” He cleared his throat. “At the Ice Court.”

Goro stared at Maruki. Blinked. A raspy laugh erupted from his chest. “Oh, no. I am not doing it.” Now that he knew the drug existed, he would send Ren to steal some of it. Then he would have Tae Takemi work her magic and, Goro hoped, within an acceptable time, he would be the proud owner of the only antidote to jurda parem. All without risking his life on a suicide mission, or giving a certain someone even more tools to gain riches and power, for that matter. He bent his lips into a grimace. “Let Mr. Okumura know his hospitality will be repaid in kind, and have one of your lackeys show me the door.”

“W-We’re prepared,” Maruki sputtered, “to offer you five million kruge.”

He pocketed the pistol and rolled his eyes. Why was every single human being set on wasting his time tonight?

“I might be greedy, Maruki, but I’m not stupid. The Ice Court is a death trap.”

“Ten million.”

“There’s no point in chasing a fortune I won’t be alive to spend. Damn you, I’ve had enough of—”

“Twenty.”

Goro paused. Another shiver ran down his spine, and for completely opposite reasons. Every nerve in his body tingled. He detached from the wall and stepped closer to Maruki.

“Am I hearing well? Twenty million kruge?”

Maruki nodded. His face had the same color as Ketterdam’s canal water, and the lamps weren’t doing anything to make it appear any warmer.

Goro shifted his weight from one leg to the other and placed his hand at his hip. “I’ll need to convince the right team to walk into a death trap. No cheap fee, I assure you.”

“That’s hardly cheap!” he whined.

“Well, if I remember correctly, the Ice Court has never been breached.”

“And that’s why we need you!”

“Wakaba Isshiki could be dead.”

“We have no reason to suspect it. What we have, though, is enough time to act before the secret of jurda parem is revealed to the world.”

“If the Shu have the formula—”

“They don’t. Isshiki claimed she falsified the lab results and led her superiors into thinking they cracked parem’s secret, but they’re far from it. The Shu must be operating from whatever limited reserve she had to supply.”

“And what does the Merchant Council need her for?”

Maruki stared at him, as if he’d asked why the fire burns. “They aim to finance the research for a cure, obviously. Turn into healing something that has been created to bring harm.”

“And get even more disgustingly rich with its commerce, I wager.”

“Not everything needs to be about wealth.”

“You’re no mercher, so I would say I’m not surprised you don’t understand—but you’ve just quadrupled your offer for monetary compensation. So, you do understand.”

Maruki pointedly kept his mouth shout, and Goro basked in the feeling of a well-fought argument with a smirk. Twenty million kruge. In the end, wasn’t breaking Wakaba Isshiki out of the Ice Court about the same as working the lock of a safe open to pick up what lay inside?

Only the security around this specific safe had yet to face a worthy rival.

He gave a curt nod to himself. Even after Sojiro got his thirty percent cut, Goro’s share of the loot would be enough to change everything. He could finally gather enough money, and thus power, to put into motion the plan he had formed when he’d first crawled out of the cold water of Hanraat Bay with the corpse of his mother and fury blazing through him. His revenge against Masayoshi Shido would proceed. This was the turning point. And the man himself was about to hand Goro the means to do so. Goro doubted Shido had any actual interest in complying with the rest of the Council—that good-for-nothing pig was most likely set on hoarding the results and profits of Isshiki’s research for himself.

But that would prove fruitless if Goro managed to bargain with the scientist herself. If her notes, or even a dose of parem, were to casually land on Takemi’s desk, Goro was ready to bet the cure would happen either way. And he would still get paid for the job. A so-called win-win scenario.

It sounded too good to be true.

“Why me? Why the Crows?”

Heavy fits of cough tore through their conversation. Sakoda removed the side of his arm from his mouth, but the blue kefta came away stained with blood. Maruki rushed toward him and directed the boy to sit in the chair where Goro had been locked. It made every hair on Goro’s body stand. I’ll be dead before I end up like that.

“Well?” he prodded, if anything, to shift the attention away from the suffering Grisha.

Maruki threw one last worried glance at Sakoda and turned his attention back to Goro. “We sought out you and your gang for the very same… let’s call them qualities that were noted in your file: the Council knows you don’t get caught.”

He smirked. “Indeed, I do not. And I would argue that my encounter with a drugged Grisha tonight hardly counts.”

Maruki sighed in relief and extended his hand to him. “Do we have a deal, then?”

“Not so fast. You’ve said parem has been tested on three Grisha. Sakoda here is a Tidemaker—he’s your Etherealnik. The Fabrikator who mocked up that piece of gold was a Materialnik.” He wet his lips and swallowed down a building sense of dread. “What happened to the Corporalnik?” What happened to my Order?

Maruki’s hand dropped, as did his enthusiasm. “I figure you must mean the Healer. She was serving her indenture with Councilman Takakura’s household. Mr. Okumura reasoned that since she was a Healer and not a Heartrender—and because the experiment with the Fabrikator had borne some complications—he was making the safe choice.”

“Surprisingly smart of him. Delusional, too, I imagine.”

“They had her inside an observation cell. Within seconds of consuming the parem, she took control of the guards—”

“Took control?"

Maruki raised his hands to quell his protests. “I understand it sounds absurd, but that is precisely what happened. She told the guards to wait, and they just… obeyed. They stayed frozen on the spot for days, as if hypnotized, until they were as good as dead.”

Mind control of some sort. After all, Goro considered, the brain was just an organ, nothing more than a vast and rather complex network of cells. He could, for one, manipulate cells of every kind to burst hearts, knock air out of lungs, or drop people into a coma while never laying a finger on them. If a drugged Fabrikator could turn iron into gold and a Tidemaker could liquefy himself into droplets, then why shouldn’t a Corporalnik on parem be able to influence electric impulses on such a deep level?

In a curt voice, he simply said, “I see.”

Maruki’s eyes twinkled with what looked like hope. “You understand, then, why jurda parem must be stopped.”

Goro wasn’t ready to give him that satisfaction, not yet.

“You mentioned there were problems with the Fabrikator’s trial.”

Something in his stance imploded like a player at the table realizing the mistake he’d made right after placing a card on the mat. He coughed a little, averting his gaze. “Ah, yes. Well, I can show you.”

He grabbed a lantern, and Goro followed him out of the study, through a corridor lined with more paintings of various stylistic choices—not all from Madarame, but all undoubtedly authentic. The staircase led them to the atrium, one spacious hall tiled in clean black and white, with walls paneled with carved dark wood, all in good taste. It dripped mercher’s wealth, and the craft itself was on a level Goro had never assumed possible by regular artisans.

I wonder if they're Fabrikator-made.

Maruki led him across the hall and past a double glass-paneled door, into a luscious garden that, despite spring still being two weeks away, was so abundant in greenery and flowers it appeared closer to an advertisement illustration rather than an actual place. Shido’s mansion hadn’t been too different from this one, and for a second, Goro wasn’t walking through the cobbled path of Okumura’s house—he was running out of the kitchen at the end of his shift to meet his mother tending to the vegetable garden.

Goro pinched his wrist and gave himself a mental jerk. He needed to focus.

Maruki stopped near a shack that, he assumed, must’ve been used to store the tools employed by the garden workers. He stood right beside two piles of pebbles that grossly reached past his ankles.

Goro shot an eyebrow up, expecting.

With a sigh, Maruki inched the lantern closer to the piles and moved some rocks on top to reveal what lay beneath: a stump, or rather, the cut-off foot that could generate one. Bile rose from his stomach and burned through his throat, but he gritted his teeth and swallowed it back down.

“What in the world is that?”

“The Fabrikator, she… Ah, how to put it? In her attempt to escape, she fused the guards’ feet to the ground. It went so deep that the only solution they’d found to free those poor men was, well, amputation.”

“Did she go back to Ravka?”

Maruki shook his head. “I heard she collapsed from fatigue once she reached her home and died soon after.”

“What about the Healer?”

“She did attempt a voyage to Ravka. However, we regrettably found her body washed up near Third Harbor two days later. We can only assume she drowned trying to swim back to Ketterdam.”

“What for?”

“More parem.”

And it took only one dose. Goro clenched his fists. He wouldn’t know peace until this plague had been erased from the face of Earth. And if his plan went through, it would, and with great profit for him and his crew. It was time to settle the bargaining.

“Thirty million kruge,” he said.

“You said twenty!” Maruki cried.

“You said twenty. It’s clear that you’re desperate.” His gaze flicked to the piles of pebbles, while his mind ran to Sakoda and the other Grisha, dead while experiencing the worst withdrawal known to humanity. “And I can see why.”

“That is beyond reasonable. I can’t make this decision alone.”

“But I do,” a deep voice boomed from behind them.

Goro turned.

A pompous man came through the glass-paneled doors with a lantern of his own. He was in his fifties and wore the dark frock coat and vest of all Kerch merchants. Around his neck, a silken scarf with a red variation of Maruki’s tie pattern was folded so that it resembled a rooster puffing its breast. From his breast pocket, the golden chain of a watch shaped like a laurel shone through under the moonlight.

Okumura.

Once close enough to make eye contact, Kunikazu Okumura asked, “What business?” and Goro couldn’t help but notice how different an effect the formula had on Maruki when spoken by someone with a perceived right to do so—back straighter, attention caught. Hypocrite.

“Ah, Mr. Okumura,” Maruki saluted with a bow Goro did not get. “I was just about to conclude my meeting with our guest, Mr. Crow.” His voice wavered when spelling the word ‘guest.’

“But of course. Well then, do we have Mr. Crow on board for the job?”

Before that worthless medik could speak any further, Goro stepped forward and plastered his best, princeliest smile on his face.

“I fear my cashier would be rather high.”

“Now, now, how much could it possibly—”

Goro’s smile turned sharp. “Thirty million kruge.”

Okumura recoiled. “Thirty?" He patted his mercher’s prim jacket as if Goro’s request physically dirtied him, but, Goro had to give him that, his composure knitted back together in no time, and so did his insufferable high-and-mighty attitude.

“Well then,” he sighed, “if this is our only way… I assume Doctor Maruki already introduced you to the great threat jurda parem poses for all of us. We might even see a—”

“A societal collapse, yes, I’m aware.” He doubted Okumura himself had such noble, altruistic reasons for wanting to put his hands on Wakaba Isshiki—namely, this was most likely his biggest chance at finally securing the Council seat he’d been ogling for so long—but that was none of Goro’s concern. The only factors that mattered were the antidote and his loot, and he was about to get both.

Okumura pursed his lips tightly together, but nodded. “The hopes of our trade lines, markets, and, ultimately, our lives rest with you, Prince of the Crows. If you fail, the world will suffer for it.”

Worse: if I fail, I don’t get my revenge. He smiled through the thought and offered Okumura his hand. “Thirty million kruge.”

“Thirty. The deal is the deal.”

“The deal is the deal,” he repeated, and they shook. Goro clasped the mercher’s soft and tidy fingers with his leather-clad ones, which Okumura seemed to find amusing.

“Why do you wear gloves, Mr. Crow?”

He humored him with a curl of his lips. “There are as many answers to that as there are people in the Barrel. Just ask one.”

His expression faltered. Of course, his prim and proper mercher’s heart would cower at the mere thought of dealing with Goro’s kind.

“Each time a new story graces my ears is somehow more worrisome than the previous.”

Goro had heard them too: blood crusted at Crow’s nail beds like grime at the back of a fireplace. Scars wrapped around his hands, wrists to fingers like rotten bandages. Talons had grown out of Crow’s nail tips because he was part demon, and that was how he got his moniker. Crow’s bare touch could cause anybody to wither and die. That last one was his personal favorite because it was the closest to the truth.

“Just pick one,” he said with a shrug and patted his own lapel as a means to declare the conversation closed. He turned toward the door to the atrium, but Maruki wasn’t done speaking his mind. Unfortunately.

“I do wonder what a remarkable young man like you could’ve contributed to our society had his life gone down a different path.”

Goro gritted his teeth. Ask Shido, he wanted to spit. However, he only waved his hand in dismissal. He was tired and only longed for sleep.

“I guess we’ll never know.”

He retraced his steps back through the black-and-white tiled hall, and instead of the stairs, he took the corridor leading toward the main door, painted with gold and red laurels, and out of the house, ready to walk back to the Slat and get a wash and a quick change of clothes before the big preparations for the heist.

The night, though, wasn’t done with him yet.

As he walked down the side of the mansion, another door made of just simple wood opened in front of him. He exhaled a long sigh and clenched his fists, determined to keep his body count to zero for the night.

“Whoever you are and whatever you need, I’ll grant that wish for you if you make this quick.”

A small figure slipped out of the door: a girl about Goro’s age, no taller than his chest, with a fluffy bush of pinkish hair kept short, just past her ears and over her shoulders. She dressed in casual clothes—or as casual as silken house vests could go—and she held herself with the posture of someone who underwent rigid etiquette training.

“Haru Okumura, I assume?” Goro mused, his interest piqued once again.

The girl nodded. “I am.”

“Something gives me the impression your father ought not to know about this meeting.”

“You would be right.”

“Then what’s this chitchat about?”

She pressed her lips together thinly. “I have a proposal for you.”

Chapter Text

‘I place great value on what you do. So, don't disappoint me.’

Ren grumbled under his breath and pointedly kept gliding through the shadows of the less crowded alleys that led to the Barrel. Goro could be such a prick when he wanted to—and he put enough work into it that it was about time for Ren to accept that was just how he was. He treated being a Grisha as some ultimate trump card he could pull, but Ren knew just how disturbed Goro was by the possibility of his secret getting out.

Only once had Ren witnessed Goro using his powers. They’d been younger, only a few months into their partnership, and utterly out of tricks. They’d just infiltrated a merchant’s house party and felt invincible, but something had gone wrong: a bunch of men belonging to the target’s personal corps had intercepted their retreat and backed them against a wall. Ren had drawn out Arsène against pointed guns and raised batons, ready to go down with a fight. Instead, Goro had stepped in front of him, clenched his fists, and dropped five men dead on the ground. He’d taken Ren’s dagger and stabbed each of them in different, vital parts of their bodies. And he’d commanded Ren never to let a word of what he’d seen slip. ‘The Prince of the Crows has never been caught’—that myth followed Goro’s name amongst Barrel folks, recounted with equal parts fear and admiration. But it came with a sour price, one paid with lives taken.

The alley flowed into a lagoon of people, brimming with colors and laughs despite the late hour of the night. The Kaelish Prince, the gambling house owned by Junya Kaneshiro’s Dime Lions, stood right past the mass of bodies as if overlooking its eager, potential clients; a compact three-story-high pile of stone bricks with pointed arches and small windows carved like cracks in the rocks. It had been built and decorated in the style of the Wandering Isle, with thick green banners hanging from its topmost tower, embroidered in gold. Kaneshiro had supposedly assembled it to honor his Kaelish heritage.

Ren suppressed a snort. His mother was Kaelish, and he took his crystal-gray eyes from her; he’d been friends with Kaelish girls with flaming red hair. Kaneshiro’s dark pupils and mop of shoulder-length brownish locks, always slicked back with salve, fooled no one. But maybe going the extra mile to keep up the pretense deluded him into having the charm he lacked.

Either way, Ren wasn’t getting through the crowd.

He inspected the nearest wall for viable footholds to exploit. One building had a drainpipe facing the alley—one not greased with oil this time—and Ren climbed it as easily as any length of rope.

From the roof, East Stave peeked behind the last rows of stores and gambling dens packed on each side of the Kaelish Prince, and past the canal, on the opposite bank, the Crow Club was open for business and thriving with tourists. If one were to ask the Dime Lions, the fact that another hall of theirs opened up that far into the lower part of the Barrel was pure coincidence. Weirdly enough, this area had never mattered to anyone. Not before Goro had turned it profitable.

A scream from somewhere in the middle of the square snatched Ren’s attention.

In front of the Kaelish Prince, the current of people swirled like a brawl was happening amongst their ranks. Two bulky bouncers in deep green suits dragged a man out of the main entrance. The guy was howling, invoking the Saints and Ghezen, swearing he was just one game from winning back his fortune. Something deep in Ren’s guts recoiled from the sight. Just a regular day in the Barrel. It was part of Ren’s job to ensure scenes like that kept happening.

Another group of people jostled through the crowd surrounding the poor man. Covered head to toe with white garments, they helped him back on his feet, even though he sobbed and shook like a kicked puppy. One offered him water from a pouch, while another spoke to the man’s unseeing face.

A third one, however, turned to the crowd and requested attention with raised arms.

“Citizens of Ketterdam, and dear visitors who came from all over the world to enjoy our city, please lend us an ear! Stop building a life of pain for yourself, wasting away your time, money, and ultimately your very soul. No one’s existence should be dictated by suffering, or by one mistake they’ve made on the spur of the moment. We speak on behalf of the Garden of Eden, a place for any man or woman who feels lost or sick; a place that welcomes all who wish to tread a different path, one of virtue and joy.”

Someone sneered, someone else cursed. Most left the show. But some others stumbled closer, hypnotized by kind words and hopeful promises like flies to torches. Like pigeons to gambling chips.

‘If it were a trick, I’d offer you happiness,’ Goro had said the night he purchased Ren’s indenture from the Menagerie. ‘You won’t find that in the Barrel, and you won’t find that with me.’

Those weren’t Barrel people, though. The men handing pamphlets and leaflets to passersby belonged elsewhere, and they stood out in the faux splendor and filth-covered streets like a healthy tooth in a rotten mouth.

The Garden of Eden. Ren chewed on his lower lip. He’d heard something about a newly established rehabilitation facility in the Kerch countryside with that name. He assumed that was more about people with a drinking problem, though. Then again, the sight beneath, straight out of a gambling den, could’ve belonged to any bar or tavern. Was Eden trying to expand its business? They had noble intentions, but one can’t empty the sea with a spoon.

He shrugged. As much of an annoyance those people could be to his line of work, as long as they left the Crow Club alone, he wasn’t tasked with any type of intervention.

He jumped over to the roof of a nearby building, sprinted on the shingles, and took off from the drainpipe. His stomach fluttered as he covered the distance through the air. With a tailspin, he landed on the banister of a balcony and climbed another drainpipe even higher. He took the grappling hook out and propelled the claws up so they could wedge against the grated window of an even taller house. With a twitch of his shoulders, he made the cloak flap—unnecessary flair, Goro would call it—and scaled on top of another rooftop.

The wind tousled his hair way harder up here, bringing forth salt and cold from the sea. This far up from the side waterways, the air turned almost breathable if he didn’t stumble into a chimney.

Ren took a moment to sit on the edge of the gable, one knee bent for his cheek to lie on, and his other leg swaying through the void. His fingers ran to caress the tip of Satanael’s handle, peeking out of its sheath. It wasn’t the highest spot in Ketterdam, but it still made it possible to see how brighter the Barrel glowed at night compared to what lay past the Staves. His heart always grew fuller on the rooftops. It was like traveling through a second Ketterdam, a realm of its own. A kingdom he was the sole ruler of, the only human with the key to entering its many hidden doors.

It was the closest to being free he’d felt since he’d been handed to slavers and sold to Hiiragi.

He’d been sixteen and he’d been Akira Kurusu, the rising star of the Circus of Shujin. Show-comers always tipped higher when he was on stage, which had helped him get a pass for his ‘insufferable’ attitude, all sharp grins and witty comebacks. The Circus had been touring West Ravka, and Akira had taken his one night off to explore the nearest city of Os Kervo. On his way back from the most disastrous hookup of his life, he’d come around to a man trying to force himself on a woman in a poorly lit side street, his voice altered by annoyance and alcohol.

Akira had stepped in and pushed him away. It wasn’t that powerful of a shove, but the asshole had been so drunk he’d fallen on the ground on his own. Ignoring his curses, Akira escorted the woman to safety and kept walking his way back to his parents’ tent. But along the way, a group of thugs had ambushed him, claiming he had wronged their boss, demanding he pay for his offense. They’d dragged him in front of his parents, expecting reparations. They’d threatened to ruin the Circus’s reputation for good.

Then, one of them had taken a longer stare at his face and suggested that they sell him. “With how pretty he is,” he’d said, “I bet we can net a tidy sum.”

Akira’s parents hadn’t even looked him in the eyes.

Those thugs had brought him back to their boss, who’d sobered up enough to arrange the whole transaction. Through a ‘contact’ of his, Akira had been smuggled onto a cargo ship headed to Kerch, tied and gagged amongst powders and animal furs. The journey lasted nearly a week. The worst part—he hadn’t been alone: boys and girls like him, doomed to a future of slavery, some of them Grisha. Akira, at sixteen, had been the oldest of them all.

Ren breathed in the crisp of the night. Tension pricked at the bridge of his nose; it made his eyes sting. Maybe the smoke of coals and the wafts from the canals had made it up there, after all. Unease tainted his heart. Despite himself, he wondered if at least some of those boys and girls got to keep their names, or if whoever bought their lives, their existences, forced them too to forsake their identities and mold to whatever Ketterdam demanded. None of them ended in the claws of Alice Hiiragi, though, so maybe they were spared the humiliation of learning to respond to whatever she’d deemed more enticing—or else.

He shook his head, a low growl of frustration seeping through his teeth. There was no time for that type of mental wandering. He threw one last glance at the square far below, where the commotion seemed to have quieted.

A pity the Garden of Eden wasn't around before.

Back then, a different man in candid clothes had come to take him out of the Menagerie, one who didn’t do charity. Still, as long as Ren Amamiya breathed, Alice Hiiragi’s days on this Earth were numbered. After all, Ren Amamiya was partly her creation.

He plunged from the rooftop and resumed his rooftop traverse across the Barrel.

The narrow, crooked silhouette of the Slat peeked over the horizon. Fighting against his own smile, Ren sped up toward the best surrogate of a home he’d found since his kidnapping. He jumped on the gabled roof and nested his fingers in between the steep shingles greasy with soot and Saints-knew-what-else, the kind that forecast black under the tips of his nails for days.

He climbed high enough to reach the skylight window of the attic, forced the lock open, and dropped inside.

Dust rose as he landed on the creaking planks of the floor, and he coughed it out of his throat. The attic barely fit his cot and one storage shelf, but it was his, and best of all, it had a door with a lock that he could use to shut off the outer world when he didn’t feel like dealing with it.

Ren stretched his arms out after such a long night of slithering up and down the city and fished the door’s key from a pouch hanging from his belt. He pulled it open and stilled, gathering the sounds that rose from the lower floors—boots walking, glasses clinking, people chatting. He frowned. The Slat was way too quiet for the headquarters of the gang who pulled the stunt they’d pulled with Tsukasa at the Exchange. Goro mustn’t have returned yet, but that made no sense either. Something wasn’t right.

Ren left the attic behind, locked the door again, and slid his way down the wooden staircase, riding the banister.

He peeked at the foyer from the second-floor landing. The flow of people coming and going was as steady as canal water, but never as lazy: dealers and servers coming back after their shift at the Crow Club, exchanging chats and gossip with those who were on their way to begin business; runners bringing in news from the harbors or otherwise handling any other type of chores; bouncers trading knowledge about whom to keep an eye on for the night. A stream of eye-crossing colors and shapes, but otherwise operating as usual.

Then the sea of Crows parted to make way for their Prince. Hands clapping and mouths cheering fenced his path into the Slat. Anyone who wished to still keep their fingers attached thought better about patting Goro on the back, but no one abstained from making their enthusiasm and respect well known. And Mishima was the first in line to hype them further.

“Y’all had to see Tsukasa!” he sneered. “The Black Tips are about to get so mad.”

Someone else nodded with conviction. “I heard he’s already gathering soldiers to go against us.”

“Let him!” shouted Mishima. He raised his pistol. “I’ve got bullets with his name on ‘em.”

“Tsukasa will stay put for a while,” Goro said as he crossed the hall. “He lacks the numbers for another parley, let alone anything bigger than that, and useless bribes have wrung his coffers too dry for him to hire outside help.” His eyes stopped on a group of younger Crows who were giggling by themselves, high on the pride that comes from an epic victory. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to the Crow Club?”

One of Goro’s raised brows was enough to send the group scurrying away with a barely audible, “Yes, sir!”, and he proceeded toward Sakura’s office. Ren furrowed his brows. He, for one, had taken his time to retreat to the base, but if Goro was so sure to find Sakura already at the Slat, that meant it was way past Leblanc’s closing hour. Which meant Goro had been gone even longer than he’d guessed. What was going on?

Instead of descending the final round of steps, Ren proceeded down the corridor of the second floor. He carefully opened the door to a cramped closet space, stacked with broken chairs, half-dried-up jugs of paint, and other amenities. One box filled to the brim with cleaning products caught his attention, and he pushed it to the side to reveal a grate on the floor about as large as his face. No one had touched it, as expected from the residents of the Slat.

The grate offered a very partial view of Sojiro Sakura’s office at the Slat—one corner, his stuffy, tarnished red velvet chair, and his messy desk—but also, and most importantly, a clear flow of conversation between him and Goro.

“Still alive and kicking, boy?” the old man inquired.

“As always,” Goro said cheerily and closed the door behind his back. “I successfully reinforced our claim on Fifth Harbor. Yamauchi will no longer antagonize us.”

“Good. Anything else you need to say? About Takeishi?”

“I dealt with him already.”

“Not what I asked. Your habit of acting on your own without a word to me is getting frustrating, Akechi. I can’t protect you if I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Ren could picture Goro’s mental answer in his head: I don’t need your protection. But Goro must’ve been feeling diplomatic.

“Yes, sir.”

Sakura exhaled one of his hoarse laughs. "Oh, I know you're up to something when you start showing me respect, you little fiend. What have you got brewing?”

“A job,” he said in his most typical neutral tone. “I may need to be gone for a while.”

“How long?”

“Three weeks at best, one month at worst.”

“Big money?”

“Very.”

“Big risk too, then.”

“Couldn’t be otherwise,” Goro sighed. “But you’ll get your thirty percent, as per usual.”

Sakura snorted. “You’re never this eager when we’re talking about my cut.” He muttered something Ren couldn’t hear. “Watch out for what you’re holing yourself into, kid. Deals that seem too good to be true—”

“Usually are. Yes, I know.” Goro bit it out, but he cleared his voice and smoothed his tone all over. “My apologies. That was rather uncalled for.”

“You’re going all out with being polite tonight. Is this job so dear to you?”

Goro recoiled. Load, aim, and fire. Just like that, Sakura pinpointed his entire act with only a few words. Ren snickered under his breath. He seemed to have that gift with anyone. Goro took the blow, but he didn’t row back.

“I’m not going to pretend this isn’t somewhat of a personal matter, but I assure you, I’m not making empty promises. I’m already taking necessary precautions to ensure the loot comes home safely.”

“How much’re we talking about?”

“Thirty million.”

Sakura sputtered, and Ren couldn’t fault him. Thirty million. That meant nine million kruge for the Crows’ Boss alone. But how was Goro coming down with this job all of a sudden? He hadn’t spoken to Ren about big heists incoming, let alone one that would need him gone for a month.

“I’ll give you this,” Sakura went on, “it’s a difficult sum to say no to.”

“Glad we’re in agreement. I’ll talk to Hifumi, she will act in my stead while I’m gone.”

The hinges of Sakura’s office door creaked again, leaving Ren with doubts wrestling through his mind and a scowl crumpling his forehead. Where was Goro planning to go? And most importantly, why would he want to hand the gang’s leadership to Hifumi, of all people?

It was such a stupid thing to get all wrapped up about, but even from a logical standpoint, it made no sense: Hifumi was brilliant and nearly as subtle as Goro could be when it came to negotiating, but she lacked that terrifying aura that kept the Crows in check. And Goro didn’t trust her nearly as much as he did Ren. The only reason he’d want Hifumi to shoulder that responsibility in his absence was… if Ren wasn’t available, either.

Sounds like I’m about to go on a trip.

He placed the cleaning supplies box back in place and hurried toward the stairs. As Goro was being slowed down by the last of the Crows complimenting him for the parley, Ren flew up the banister and reached the third and last floor, where Goro’s office was located. He crouched on the corner of the railing, perched like a cat waiting for prey.

“Don’t think I haven’t heard you,” was Goro’s welcome through the staircase. Ren rolled his eyes. He could disappear at will, make himself virtually invisible, and people couldn’t tell he was there. But Goro wasn’t like other people. He had a natural gift that aided his perception, and especially with Ren, it was like once he’d seen him vanish, he couldn’t unlearn the trick, couldn’t stop himself from seeing him again and again.

“You’ve got an unfair advantage. It doesn’t count.”

Goro passed by him and picked the lock of his own room. “Anything to report from the outside?”

“The Eden weirdos were at it again tonight.”

A contemptuous sigh. “I wish for their level of delusion. It’d be almost hilarious if they weren’t so annoying for our line of business.” He stepped past the threshold and hung his double-breasted black coat on a nail on the wall. “Were they harassing our pigeons?”

Ren followed him inside. It smelled like paper, like mold, and like Goro’s leather gloves. He shook his head. “They were outside the Kaelish Prince.”

“Then they can continue their crusade for all I care. I’ll cheer the loudest the day that place shuts down.” Every owner of a gambling house in the Barrel hoped to see their competitors bankrupt, of course, but like anything regarding Junya Kaneshiro specifically, Goro’s voice vibrated with something else, like it was personal. He stopped right in front of his desk. “Close the door.”

Ren did and stood right behind him. The desk looked like the antithesis of Sakura’s: kept meticulously organized, with each stash of papers divided by category. While sneaking into offices he shouldn’t lurk in, Ren had come across adding machines on the desks of the Barrel’s floor bosses—bulky boxes of solid wood topped with a mishmash of brass buttons with numbers on them. He’d learned that they counted on such tools to have more reliable results. But Ren saw Goro doing the Crow Club tallies in his head. He kept books only so that he had solid proof to back his accusations against cheaters.

Goro gripped the chipped edge of his desk and stared at the sheets. “As I’m sure you’ve already heard, there is a new job waiting for you.”

“Yeah. Thought this was how it worked between us.”

“What do you say to three million kruge?”

“That I agree with the old man on deals too good to be true.”

Goro laughed. “Even Sojiro Sakura bowed to greed, eventually. I appreciate the sentiment behind his concern, but as my raising in the Crows has proved, business isn’t his trade.” He rounded the desk and walked through a door that led to his tiny bedroom, still not looking at him. “So, do you want the money or not?”

Looks like Sakura’s not the only one who bowed to greed.

Ren fiddled with a curl from his fringe. “You’re not the type to hand out gifts. What’s the job?”

“A heist that most would deem impossible. The odds of us succeeding are inversely proportional to those pointing to our demise. But should we accomplish it…” He got rid of his smoke gray jacket, then his matching sweater vest. He paused, studying his gloves, but took them off, too. People loved to tell all kinds of tales about Goro’s hands, but the truth was they were just that: hands. Five fingers each, made of bones and flesh and skin. Lethal, Ren had seen, surely lethal, but at first impression, no different from anyone else’s.

Just… as far as Ren knew, Goro only took off his gloves inside this room, and that included Ren’s presence. It made his cheeks flush and his heart swell with pride.

He cleared his voice. “Will we truly be gone for a month?”

The back of Goro’s head nodded. “Most likely. I prefer to err in caution rather than in optimism.” He removed his shirt too and scooted to the side, where he picked up a rag from the edge of a basin and ran it under a stream of water from the faucet. Ren willed all his muscles to work so that he could look away from the lean, muscled, scarred form of Goro’s back, but he was stuck. He swallowed through a dry throat.

“And you wanna leave for this long while the Black Tips are all riled up?”

“You hold more faith in that creep Yamauchi than is reasonable. Trust me, this job will lead to stark improvements in the lives of everybody involved.”

If we don’t die. Ren kept that to himself.

Goro brushed the wet cloth over his chest and under his arms. They bore the same pinkish signs of street brawls as the rest of his body, plus two tattoos: the crow drinking from a cup, the symbol of his belonging to the Crows, and a second one made up of only two letters, N and A. Ren didn’t know what those meant, just that his fingers were itching with the need to touch, but he thought better of it.

So he did the second-best thing: he ruffled Goro’s feathers.

“Isn’t there a conflict of interest here? Sakura implied it was personal.”

Goro’s shoulders sagged. “That’s none of your business.”

“You’re ordering me to embark on a death journey. I’ve been fighting your battles for two years. Maybe you owe me a crumb of honesty about this one.”

“I’m not ordering you.” He turned, and as much as his expression was hard, his eyes brimmed with warmth. “I’m requesting. This isn’t an assignment. It’s a job for you to take or leave as you see fit.”

He’s giving me an out. The implicit danger that had been intangible up to that point poured on Ren like Ketterdam’s fall rain. He’d taken countless life-threatening jobs for Goro, the least of which happened just tonight, and they’d never been anything but tasks to be carried out. Not this one. Ren clenched and unclenched his fists. Suddenly, he had no idea what to do with his body.

Goro exhaled a sigh, and his posture relaxed. He stepped closer to an old dresser with chipped edges and moth-made tiny holes in the wood and took out a clean white shirt and dark brown jacket to get himself dressed up again.

“I’m going to explain all the details soon. You have my word. Just confirm whether I’ll have you on my team or not, so I can plan accordingly.”

“So you can know if you’ll live or die, you mean,” he joked, but he accepted the olive branch for what it was. “I’m in. You can count on me.” And with three million kruge in his pocket, the prospect of repaying his debt to Sojiro Sakura sooner rather than later had just become much more concrete.

Goro was as good as new. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and headed back toward the office.

“In that case, round up Ryuji and Iwai. I want them here by dawn. And I’ll need Yusuke waiting at the Crow Club tomorrow night.”

Ren blinked. “Yusuke Kitagawa? He’s less than two weeks old. If this job’s so dangerous—”

“Just do it.” He picked his charcoal, double-breasted coat from the nail and tossed Ren something. It flashed gold through the study, only lit by the streetlights, and Ren caught it with one hand. He opened his fist and found a massive ruby pin, circled by golden laurel leaves.

“Fence it,” Goro said.

“Whose is it?”

“Now? Ours.”

“Whose was it?”

“Someone who should have thought better before he had me jumped.”

Ren’s stomach dropped. “Someone jumped you?”

Goro nodded, silent, and averted his gaze. Shame didn’t look good on him at all, and he must have known, too.

“It won’t happen again. You can be sure of that much.”

With a heavy heart, Ren walked to the dresser and took out a clean pair of gloves. He handed them to Goro, who accepted his olive branch for what it was with a thin smile.

“See you in the morning. I’ll be out for business.” As he approached the first step of three long flights of stairs, Ren leapt onto the banister and winked.

“See ya.”

And he slid down, smooth as water rolling off the side of a boat.

Chapter Text

Nested on the ground floor of a crooked building not far from the Slat, Tae Takemi’s clinic truly took the criminality of back-alley medik practice to the next level.

Goro climbed the few steps that acted more as a means to keep the floodwater out when East Stave engrossed past its bank than as a way to mark a difference between the dingy backstreet and the building, already mentally bemoaning paying a visit to Takemi outside of their scheduled meetings. Alas, she was the only reliable supplier when it came to black market medicine, especially if one didn’t want their purchase to be known by the entire Barrel come morning. He strode past a staircase that would’ve forced even a kid to squeeze to pass and knocked on a chipped wooden door two times.

“Come in.” Takemi’s voice could hardly sound less concerned if she tried. Goro rolled his eyes. He was about to offer her the best cure for her everyday ennui, one that needn’t involve probing into his brain or introducing questionable concoctions into his body.

“Doctor Takemi,” said Goro, offering a salute. From a cubicle on his left, she looked up from a pile of paper sheets where she’d been drafting hell knew what formulas. Her face stilled between interest and annoyance.

“Crow.”

“Are you perhaps not happy to see me?”

“That’d depend on what you’re bringing to my attention. You look all smug, so I doubt you’re here for a clinical trial.”

He shook his head. “I fear not tonight, no.”

She assembled the chaos of sheets back into a shape resembling that of a pile and pushed it to the side on her desk. Her chestnut eyes, lined with black khol, locked with his.

“Then I fear you’ll have to be very convincing. I’m working on a new medicine right now—”

“What about an antidote?”

Her stance stilled. “To what?”

Goro glanced around. Behind him, the narrow waiting room crammed with broken benches and spare chairs was empty. But his gaze moved to the only other door on the floor, the one that stood right past Takemi’s poor excuse of a welcome desk and led to her examination room.

“Not here.”

She sighed. “Fine. Come in.”

Goro followed her inside. The pang of alcohol used to sterilize the surgeon’s tools made his nose scrunch, and his eyes landed on said tools, neatly arranged on top of a metal tray right beside a wooden table. The dim light radiating from the lantern hanging from the low ceiling caught on the metal. He turned his gaze away. He’d spent his fair share of hours locked in this damned room, having Takemi perform tests on him to attempt to crack how a Heartrender’s brain and body worked in exchange for favors and medicines. Curse the Shu and their misplaced fascination with Grisha.

A lock clicked behind him. Takemi leaned against the door, one long leg crossed over the other. She wore the same pristine robe as Maruki, although hers sported a few more stains, loose threads, and patches. Moreover, Goro doubted any doctor outside the Barrel could afford to wear a skimpy dress and high heels under their uniform while on the job and still get a steady influx of clients.

“What business?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

“That’s supposed to be my line.”

“That’s false for both of us.” She winked. “At least if you listen to merchers. So?”

Goro, beware of leaning on the surgeon’s table, scooted a little closer to where the basin was attached to the wall. He readied himself for a long conversation.

“Any chance you caught wind of a new substance affecting Ketterdam’s Grisha population?”

She squinted. “Define ‘substance.’ Is it a liquid or a powder? What are the methods of consumption?”

“I take that’s a no, then.”

“Smartass. This city has a knack for harboring the oddest drugs; I see people intoxicated with something new at least once a month.”

“But not Grisha.”

“I’d say you’re more likely to be in touch with that than I.”

Goro ground his teeth. “You know that’s not true.”

“Yeah, I guess it was a low blow on my end. Anyway, to answer your question: I have nothing. No Grisha came to me with anything graver than too much alcohol down his throat as of lately.”

He pondered her response. Nothing in her pulse or her blood flow indicated she was lying. Okumura had the parem tested on Grisha, true, but he wouldn’t have called the type of medik Takemi could be in contact with if he needed medical assistance. He pinched his chin.

“Do the words jurda parem ring any bells?”

She shrugged. “Is it a new flavor of jurda?”

“Worse. It’s something, I am told, that could lead to a societal collapse.”

He briefly recounted what he’d gathered from Okumura and Maruki. She didn’t need to know the specifics about the job, but as the closest individual he knew to a mad Shu scientist, he regarded her expertise enough to ask for her opinion on the matter.

Her eyes grew wider the more he spoke, not with fear, but rather with excitement.

“So, it kills normal people.”

“Correct.”

“But it enhances Grisha powers?”

“Tremendously.”

“And it’s so addictive that people start begging after only the first dose? I can see why it’s called parem.” She tapped her black-polished nails on the clipboard she usually used to take notes, now left conscientiously bare. “It means ‘without pity.’ Whoever named it knew what they had between their hands.”

Goro wetted his lips. He’d rather not have spoken about Isshiki, but the odds of a disgraced Shu doctor having known a disgraced Shu scientist didn’t appear too tremendous.

“Wakaba Isshiki.”

Takemi balked. “She’s behind this?!”

“Oh, so you do know her.”

“Not in person, but she’s a fairly renowned figure amongst Shu Han’s scientific community. Last I heard about her, she was employed by the government.” Her gaze drifted past Goro’s shoulders, tinged with sadness. “The Ice Court, uh…”

“That’s not what I’m here for, though. Not the only thing, at least.”

She offered him a sour smile. “Of course. You want me to produce an antidote for parem.”

“Can you do it?”

“Not without the drug.” She clicked the stiletto heel on the ground, forehead crumpled into a frown. “And it’d be better to have the person, too.” She nibbled at her lower lip. “And I can’t guarantee you it can be done quickly…” Her eyes met his, the weight of an apology in her gaze. “Nor can I ensure it can be done without clinical trials.”

Goro’s fingers twitched with unease. “It won’t be me.”

“Then it has to be someone else.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How about we figure that one out once I hopefully have both the parem and its creator?”

“Fine by me.” She mimicked locking her mouth with a key. “I figure this matter would be extremely confidential, yes?”

“You would assume correctly.”

She smirked. “I expect compensation.”

Much to his chagrin, Goro nodded. “I’ll see what I can arrange once the job is completed. Speaking of which, I have two additional requests.”

“Oh?” Her expression glowed with mischief, not for what Goro was about to ask, he was sure, rather with the thought of how much time of guinea pig duty she could extort out of him after. But that would be a problem for later.

“Let’s start with this: how strong of a sedative would I need to keep a few people asleep for a short while without killing them? Mild headaches and a bit of memory loss would be optional, but rather appreciated, side effects.”

She detached from the door and walked to a cabinet past the sink, on the other side of the room. The door opened with a sharp cry of its hinges, and Takemi shoved half her face amongst the jar-filled shelves to search for the required concoction. She took out one slim glass vial.

“This is enough to send two adults to sleep for a few hours. Lower dosage equals less snoring time.”

Goro looked at the ceiling and its darkened wooden beams, doing the math. “I feel it’d be safer with double that dose.”

Takemi frowned. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon. I will let you know the exact date.”

“That won’t come cheap.”

He restrained a frustrated growl. “I’m aware.”

“Just letting you know,” she said with a shrug. “What do we have next?”

Goro licked his lips. He smirked.

“Do you happen to have that contact with the Hellgate infirmary still?”

***

Goro stepped out of Takemi’s hellhole of a clinic an hour later and with much relief for his nose. Even the typical Barrel odor was preferable to the prolonged stench of rubbing alcohol and layers of scraped bodily fluids.

The mood along East Stave was as devoid of inhibitions as always. The Barrel’s eastern main canal overflowed with tourists, sailors, and merchants who especially felt they could best their luck in one of the many gambling halls—the Treasure Chest, the Golden Bend, Weddell’s Riverboat; all dens displayed their golds, their reds, their purples; they hired their best barkers to draw customers in.

Goro let himself become part of the flow. The constant chatter and the utter mass of bodies and pulses drummed in his skull like percussion, something that had troubled him a great deal when he’d been fresh of awakening to his powers. Now, however, he could tune the disturbance out like white noise.

He strolled past the Crow Club’s black-and-crimson facade. A steady tide of people washed through the columns of the Club’s portico, under the watchful eye of a washed-out brass crow that spread its wings wide. The clock was close to striking four bells, but the crowd was still thick.

Good.

Establishing the Crow Club as a place to visit in Ketterdam took more time and money than anyone had deemed wise. The prime real estate for any activity in the Barrel had always been the wide northern road parallel to the coast that the Kerch called “the Lid,” where all the most renowned businesses were located, including Sojiro’s Leblanc café. The farther south people had to venture, the less likely they were to spend their oh-so-precious coins. But Goro had given them a few more reasons to justify the trek: free drinks, excellent coffee, and, according to his barkers, the fairest deals in Ketterdam. He smiled to himself and proceeded north.

A cruise boat slid down East Stave. Slowly, its hanging lamps and gawking crowd of voyeurs passed by, and the Kaelish Prince stood on the other bank of the canal, mocking. Goro worked his jaw tight. Only two other gambling houses truly mattered to him, outside of his own, and they both came from the same source of headaches. If Goro had risen to be the Prince in the Barrel, Junya Kaneshiro would still be its ostensible King. And like all rulers, Kaneshiro did what he must so that his competition wouldn’t get too comfortable. Goro had always suspected that pig opened the Kaelish Prince across the Crow Club as soon as the latter started gaining traction. Little did Kaneshiro know that Goro had found other, more subtle ways to nibble at his fortune.

He neared the Emerald Palace—Kaneshiro’s major business—keeping its post from the Upper Barrel.

The place had been painted base to roof in what once was shamrock green. Now, after enough time spent choking on Barrel fumes, the facade was closer in hue to mold than to any jewel. Still, Kaneshiro had rowan trees planted along the entrance, adorned in fake gold chains and bearing coins instead of bunches of berries. He also dictated that all personnel wear green silks and matching glitter, and keep their hair flaming red. It was completely tasteless. It was the rightful pride of a piece of scum like him.

“Brick by brick,” Goro muttered to himself. Brick by brick, he would dismantle Shido’s dominion until nothing but dust remained. Kaneshiro was but a stepping stone for Shido, a well of money, and he would be a stepping stone in Goro’s revenge, too, because a quick death would be too good for the man who ruined his mother. It would be too kind for all his other sycophants. Kaneshiro deserved to crumble all the same.

A flurry of customers passed him by on their way out of the Emerald Palace’s golden double door. They ended up right in the net of Goro’s own steerers, actors he employed to lure Kaneshiro’s customers south with the prospect of bigger wins and fairer deals.

“Look at your face! You won big, didn’t you?” one man with a pointed orange beak said to the other, donning a red cape with a hood. He talked far more loudly than necessary. His interlocutor, of course, played that same game.

“Just got back from the Crow Club. Took one hundred kruge off the house in just two hours.”

“You don’t say!”

“I do! Just came up the Stave to get a beer and meet a friend. Why don’t you join us, and we’ll all go together?”

“The Crow Club! Who would have thought it?”

Elbow-to-elbow and shoulder-to-shoulder they strode down the canal, merry and content, hooking the stares of the surrounding patrons, some of who glanced at each other as a way of saying, Shouldn’t we try our luck elsewhere?

Goro’s lips curled into a smirk. He made sure to cycle his actors, too, so that Kaneshiro’s barkers and bouncers would get none the wiser. And just like that, he’d begun leeching away at his business… together with intercepting Kaneshiro’s shipments of jurda, charging him fees for access to Fifth Harbor, undercutting his rents to keep his competitor’s properties free of tenants. All raindrops that on their own wouldn’t amount to anything, but together, with time, they would build the tide that someday would crash that man’s—and Shido’s—fortune for good.

And if the heist succeeds, that might as well be happening sooner than expected.

He turned away from the garish entrance to the Emerald Palace and took the walkway siding one of the smaller canals. Tourists and merchants, unlike sailors, preferred to keep to the well-lit main roads, which left all the other alleys with scarcer foot traffic and, ultimately, made Goro’s walk to his other destination for the night quicker.

The first sign of West Stave—the other canal that bracketed the Barrel—was the music. Flutes, percussion, and strings of all kinds, played by all kinds of people who plied their trade at the corners of the streets, hoping for some extra coins in their pockets.

Then came the light. Pleasure houses with the doors and windows of their parlors flung open flooded the road with the glow of dim-lit lamps, bright just enough to present mostly naked figures squirming, inconspicuous enough to hide what went on in the darkest corners.

And lastly, venturing through West Stave proper, came the movement: the scurrying of visitors who did not want their presence acknowledged, and the wiggling of brothel workers that caused those visitors to act so skittish. Up above, street acrobats and dancers moved in time with the symphony, swaying on high wires tensed from one streetlight pole to its twin on the other bank of the waterway.

Not just light came out of the parlors, of course. Shouts and moans, too, and the bodies they belonged to, covered in scraps of silks or nothing at all. They put on a show for paying customers and tourists alike, even though most of the city visitors never entered a brothel—they would just stroll by or book a boat cruise to enjoy the experience and commit the view to memory. One would recognize the people who did enjoy West Stave’s pleasure from their disguises: many dressed up as characters from the Komedie Brute, so the streets bristled with the hooked, orange beaks of the Madman or the black and red garments of Mister Crimson; the shimmering green of the Scarab Queen or the deep blue veils of the Lost Bride.

Goro pushed through the crowd, one blotch of ink in a sea of colors. He’d used to lurk in the brothels of West Stave, once, before Ren; hungry not for pleasures, but for information. The Blue Iris, the Bandycat, the Forge and its bearded men, the Obscura, the Willow Switch, the House of Snow and its dewy-eyed blondes—he knew them like the back of his hand.

And, of course, the Menagerie—the House of Exotics, where the world was yours for a price!

He spotted the owner: Alice Hiiragi, a thin woman dressed like she just came out of a candy shop, flush with flamingo feathers, with a diamond choker around her neck that covered the better part of her throat. She spotted him, too, and her lips thinned into a line. She raised her glass of expensive wine—more intimidation than celebration, Goro was sure. Hiiragi had owned Ren’s indenture before Goro’s purchase on Sojiro’s behalf, and although she agreed to the transaction and acted all giddy when Goro had come to pick Ren up, he’d always had a hunch telling him she was still resenting him for snatching one of her best investments from under her nose.

Her loss. Ren was better off away from her, anyway. Goro paid her no further attention and crossed the last bridge that separated him from his destination.

The House of the White Rose stood on the more luxurious end of Barrel fashion. It boasted its own dock, lined with tiny torches that were kept flickering all night long and well into the early hours of the day, and the architectural style of its pristine white stone front resembled a merchant’s mansion more than a pleasure house. The window boxes erupted with white roses that diffused their achingly sweet perfume all over the entryway. All things considered, it was still past what Goro would’ve considered tasteful, but at least its runner, a bawd named Shinsuke Kishi, had finer preferences than Kaneshiro.

He walked through the parlor, and his nose itched with how pungent the smell of roses became. Workers primed them inside alabaster vases scattered around, even hanging from the walls. The ivory couches where men and women sat drinking sparkling white wine and eating vanilla cakes soaked in almond liquor reeked of that same perfume.

One boy dressed in a creamy white suit waved at him from the front desk, and the white rose in his buttonhole swayed with the movement.

“Mr. Crow,” he said with a bow, “Ann is with a client.”

He gave the boy a nod and continued down the corridor, past a potted rose tree. He trailed his fingers along the wooden panels lining the wall, carved like a garden’s hedge, and pressed his thumb into a tiny alcove. The panel slid open, and Goro climbed a corkscrew staircase reserved for the staff.

He stopped on the third floor, his breath a tad heavier, and looked for the bedroom right beside Ann’s. It was open and unoccupied, so Goro slipped inside and lifted one still-life painting the size of his hand away from its nail on the wall, revealing a round crevice that overlooked the other side.

Peepholes weren’t at all uncommon in brothels; they ensured the employees’ safety and honesty, and they gave some additional thrill to those who enjoyed watching others drown in their pleasure. But anyone looking through this specific peephole and hoping for some action would’ve been sorely disappointed.

A little man with a rather forlorn expression and even sadder sprouts of hair on top of his head sat, fully clothed, at a round table draped in ivory linen, with his hands folded on his lap. Ann Takamaki stood behind him, one palm pressed to his forehead and the other to the back of his neck. She wore the red kefta embroidered with a black lining that advertised her status as a Grisha Heartrender.

Ann and the man were silent as if taken out of a painting and placed there; not even Ann’s long blonde locks wavered in the slightest. Despite being employed in a pleasure house, Ann didn’t do that type of work, and she personally saw that no one got the wrong impression.

She’d told him, once, “No bed for me, thanks. A settee’s fine for sleeping. Don’t want anyone getting ideas.”

He’d snorted. “As if any man would require a bed to do that.”

She only fluttered her lashes. “Speaking from experience?”

Goro had stared hard at her clear blue eyes—Fjerdan eyes, he would’ve thought, had he not been made aware of Ann’s Ravkan provenance—until she huffed out her frustration and blew out the bluff. He wasn’t at all interested in flirting with Ann Takamaki, and knowing her history, he doubted she was interested in him, or boys at all, for that matter. She just liked to make doe eyes at anything she fancied, especially if it was a sweet sponge topped with whipped cream.

Indeed, Ann needed no bed—her specialty was people’s moods. Where other mistresses dispensed pleasures, she dealt out happiness and relaxation. She’d fought as a soldier of Ravka’s Second Army—King Igor’s specialized Grisha troops—but since her unorthodox landing in Ketterdam, she’d needed a job to sustain her permanence in the city in a way that wouldn’t put her or her belle at risk. Employing her as a mercenary would have been a waste of money for someone who not only could kill exactly like she did, but also had a very silent, very efficient assassin at his disposal. So, Goro had her slow down heartbeats, ease breaths, and relax muscles, with a lucrative side business as a Tailor, temporarily altering the appearance of her clients. And, of course, she had been tasked with teaching Goro how to better control his powers.

She was the person Goro owed most, if not all, his training.

The clock hanging from Ann’s bedroom wall chimed five bells, and she detached her hands from her client, who took her fingers and gently kissed them.

“Thank you,” he murmured, like a devotee reciting a prayer.

“Go,” she said in a solemn tone, “and be at peace.” Goro swallowed a snort.

The man got up and exited the room, and as soon as he walked further down the corridor, Goro knocked on Ann’s door.

She opened it with caution, and one single blue eye, lashes thick with make-up, peeked from the rift created by the wooden frame and the chain still keeping the door locked.

“Oh. It’s you.” Her tone was flat and not especially eager. Not that he could fault her, but he’d had enough of cold welcomes from Takemi.

“Your enthusiasm is always so endearing, Takamaki.”

“What? Like the Prince of the Crows at your door is ever a good sign.” But she still let Goro in. She tried to shimmy out of her kefta, but her fluffy pigtails got stuck in the neckpiece.

“Saints, I hate this stupid costume thing.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

She eventually freed her head from the cloth and threw it on the floor near the settee she curled up in every night. She turned to him with an angry pout on her face.

“The shape’s all wrong! And it itches! You would know the difference if you actually tried a real one.”

Goro ignored the cheap jab. He’d rather be left in the dark about what an authentic, honest-to-Saints kefta would be like. She’d asked if he would join her on her trip back to Ravka when the time came, if he could enter the Second Army. Repeatedly, in fact. The last of Goro’s refusal had been along the lines of, “I’d rather die than be under another man’s thumb again,” and she never truly forgave him.

Ann dropped her entire weight into a chair at the table and kicked out the jeweled slippers she was wearing. Her legs were almost too long for the furniture provided in her room. She sighed in relief and stretched toward a silver tray her guest had left untouched, offering a cup of tea that by now must’ve run cold and some slices of cake. She took one and shoved it inside her mouth.

“Sho much be’er.” She swallowed half the cake in one go and turned her attention back to Goro. Her eyes got sharper. “What do you want?”

Goro nodded at her cleavage. “Seems like some crumbs escaped you.”

“Don’t care.” She took another enormous bite of cake. “Sho hungry.”

He shook his head. Just who was he about to enroll for the most delicate job the Crows had ever done?

“Was that Fumio Akitsu, the mercher?”

“You bet it.”

“How’s he dealing with the loss of his wife?”

“Horribly, if you ask me.” She threw him a wink. “Thank the Saints I’m seeing him now, huh?”

“Do you expect a turnaround in his business now that he’s receiving his dose of simulated happiness?”

Ann twisted her lips, squinting. “You should see a change,” she finally settled on. “Akitsu started seeing me at the end of last week and has been here every other day since.”

Goro nodded. He made a mental note to buy some of the lowest stocks in Akitsu’s company. Even if it was only Ann’s magic working, he expected business to pick up sometime soon.

Ann studied him. “Something tells me this isn’t the only reason for your visit.”

He nodded again. “Have you heard about jurda parem?”

“Voices, but I don’t buy what they say.”

Goro hummed under his breath. Takemi had been right about the Grisha network; she’d just assumed the wrong one to be part of it.

“What if I told you they aren’t just rumors?”

She glared at him. “Really, Goro? Squallers flying, Tidemakers turning into mist?”

“And Fabrikators transmuting iron into gold. Healers controlling minds.”

“Oh yeah? And when have you ever cared about other Grisha?”

He straightened his back and glared down at her. “Jurda parem is real. And if you’re still the diehard patriot I know, you will want to learn what it does to people like me and you.”

She jutted her lower lip out, and her eyebrows furrowed in a pinch. Goro was at a loss as to whether she was about to scream, cry, or throw a tantrum.

“Tell me, then. Go on.”

He told her. He withheld the specifics of Okumura’s proposal, but he shared the circumstances around Wakaba Isshiki, jurda parem, and just how addictive the drug was.

Ann scowled. “If this is all true, Wakaba Isshiki needs to die.”

“That’s not the job, Ann.”

“Then I don’t care. It isn’t just about the money, Goro.” She rolled her eyes. “But what would you know?”

“It’s as much about the money as it is about the drug. Think for a second: if the scientist is alive and we succeed, we could get the antidote and the loot.”

“Stop selling hope.”

“Please, do not mistake my words for anything as lofty as hope. This is a job like any other, and I need a Corporalnik in my crew—”

“Then take a good look at a mirror—”

“—and that Corporalnik needs to be you.” He rounded the table and stood right in front of her. “It’s the soundest option at our disposal. I am no Tailor and no trained soldier—”

“You don’t even want to be!”

Goro pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ann. Be reasonable about this.”

She got up and placed both hands on her hips. Her blue eyes boiled like geysers. “Look, I don’t know where this Isshiki scientist is, but wherever she’s hiding, letting her live would be, like, the stupidest thing ever. I’m not gonna do that.”

“She isn’t hiding. She’s detained at the Ice Court.”

Ann’s jaw fell. “You’re joking, right?”

“Oh, if only.”

“Goro, if Fjerda has her, she’s as good as dead.”

“Not according to the Merchant Council. They’ve offered me thirty million—why would they do that if they thought she could be dead? If there’s someone who can break her out of the Ice Court, it’s us.”

Ann’s frown deepened. Her eyes glazed over as if the cogs in her brain were turning. “Wait a minute… You don’t just need a Corporalnik, do you? You need a Fjerdan. This’ll be an inside job.”

Goro nodded. “Someone who knows the Ice Court, inside and out.”

She choked out a hysterical laugh. “You’re such an asshole, Goro Akechi. How many times have I begged you to help Makoto? How many hours of training have I given you, hoping you would listen? But of course, now that you need something from me…”

“Sojiro Sakura isn’t running a charity.”

“Don’t put this on poor Sojiro!” She dug the tip of her index into the lapel of his coat. Goro sucked in a breath and willed his fight response to quell. “If you wanted to help, I know damn well you’d have found a way, and you know, too.”

“Oh, but why would I have done that?”

She opened her eyes wide. “Because… I mean, I taught you—”

“Could’ve bargained that one better in hindsight, couldn’t you?” He shrugged. “Breaking Makoto Niijima out of prison would have meant calling in favors and paying juicy bribes. The price was too high.”

“But suddenly it isn’t, is it?” she spat.

“Better yet: now Niijima’s freedom is worth something.” She glowered at him, and he felt compelled to add, “To me, at least.”

Exasperated, Ann passed a hand over her face. “Okay, well, good luck convincing her to join your batshit crazy heist. She’ll never agree to help.”

“Oh, I have my methods.”

“And what are those? Bribes? Violence?” Her expression turned even harsher. “On Sankta Lavenza, Goro Akechi, if you only but lay a finger on her—”

“She won’t get hurt, don’t jump to conclusions.” He stepped back and tugged at the hem of his gloves. The added distance between them made breathing easier. “Niijima is a human being like you and me. I’ll be making an offer she won’t be able to say no to. The same as I did with you just now.”

Ann looked away. “She’ll want revenge on me.”

“That’s what she wants,” he said. “What people want and what they need are two distinct things. Leverage is all about knowing the difference.”

Chapter Text

Ann knew something had gotten to her badly if she wasn’t hungry.

After her meeting with Goro, she’d slept too little and too poorly, and she’d gone through the next day with no proper meal and only one slice of almond vanilla cake. Her stomach hadn’t even grumbled.

At night, she exited the House of the White Rose from the service door in the back and walked north toward Fifth Harbor. She clung to her coat to fend off the monstrous amount of humidity bathing the night, and the more she gripped the caramel brown fur, the more she ached for her beloved red kefta, the real one. Goro had always made fun of her, saying it was stupid to lean on a piece of clothing to gain strength of heart. But she wasn’t willing to accept mockery from a Grisha who barely named himself one.

Iwai and Goro waved at her from a tiny rowboat right as the clock atop the Church of Barter rang twelve bells; both had the orange-beaked mask of the Madman perched on top of their heads. Squeezed between them was a girl Ann didn’t know, way shorter than her, with thick black hair and a rather unruly fringe, and she donned the tight-fitting black and green garments of the Scarab Queen.

Goro handed her a deep blue silk cape with a matching, lighter veil: the costume of the Lost Bride. Ann turned the shimmery fabric between her fingers, frowning. “Are we going to a party, or what?”

“Just wear it.”

She rolled her eyes but adjusted the disguise over her coat. One could always count on Goro Akechi to be his crankiest self.

Iwai took charge of the rows. Ann didn’t know a whole lot about him—only that Goro employed him as a bouncer and an enforcer, and that he’d used to be a sailor. He had the shoulders and arms of someone well-adjusted to doing the heavy lifting, although his build wasn’t nearly his scariest feature—if she were to meet Iwai’s scowl on the streets at night, Ann was pretty sure she would’ve kept her hands ready.

Water splashed all around her, with waves getting wider as they left Ketterdam behind them; the city nothing more than a disordered mass of tiny yellow dots drowning in the fog. The air sludged, heavy, against the back of her throat and down into her lungs, tainted with the smell of tar and machinery from the shipyards on the tiny, outer island of Imperjum. Then something else seeped through, even more pungent, the type of sweet that could disgust even her—the stink of burning bodies from the Reaper’s Barge, the disgusting floating platform where Ketterdam people disposed of the corpses not wealthy enough to deserve a tomb and a stone in the cemeteries outside the city.

She wrinkled her nose and pulled the hem of her Lost Bride cape higher on her face. The night truly set out to show them its worst.

How anyone would happily want to live here is beyond me.

Through the thick layer of gray, one darker shape emerged before them—Terrenjel, another one of Kerch’s outlying islands. With each round of the rows, she was getting closer to Makoto… and the closer to Makoto she got, the faster her heart beat.

Goro elbowed her in the side and gestured at her veil. “Lower it. We’re about to dock.”

She inhaled the horrid air to protest—why were these Saintsforsaken costumes so important?—but waves, smaller ones, assaulted the rowboat with a steady stream of crashes. Iwai did not appear to care, but the other girl tried her best not to get splashed, which Ann could honestly understand. Through the shifting mists, she caught sight of other boats moving through the water, carrying the shapes of other Madmen, other Brides, a Mister Crimson, and another Scarab Queen. What business did these people have at Hellgate?

Only a few lights stood out like resistance fighters in the middle of all that fog. The boat’s hull crushed on the sand, and she gasped, clenching the edge of her plank-slash-sear so as not to crash into Goro.

“Couldn’t you just bribe the warden?” she muttered.

“Then he would know he has something I want.”

Two men rushed forward and hauled them farther onto land, while others hurried to take care of the boat right behind them, and the next one after that, and all the ones she’d seen on their cruise to the alcove. Details of the scene got lost under the veil of the Lost Bride, but some men had their sleeves rolled up, and they all shared the same tattoo on their biceps: a feral cat curled into a crown—the symbol of the Dime Lions.

A shiver ran down her spine where not even the muggy cold could reach. She twisted her face in another direction.

Upon her arrival in Ketterdam, the Dime Lions had been the first gang to contact her.

She’d spent the first week busy between Kerch courts and lawyers’ offices, desperate to solve the mess she’d started only to protect Makoto, which, by then, had turned into her worst nightmare. Once her testimony was complete, she’d been dumped near a berth in First Harbor with barely enough money to book a passage back to Ravka. Her heart torn between going home to rejoin Mika’s squad and staying in Ketterdam to help Makoto out of prison, she’d eventually realized there was no chance she would leave her—enemy-slash-improvised-ally? Unlikely friend? Somewhat lover?—to rot in jail.

She had no money and no connections; even so, Ketterdam’s gossip network had shown its might: news of a young Corporalnik in town had already gotten out, and Junya Kaneshiro had been first in line to offer her a spot in his gang. Desperate for money and a place away from slavers and witchhunters, she’d let herself be led to the Emerald Palace, where Kaneshiro in the flesh had hurried her to join and set up her business at the Sweet Shop.

But that same night, Ren had knocked at her window with a proposal from Goro Akechi.

She couldn’t believe how Ren had climbed six stories of rain-slick stone in the middle of the night, but Crow’s terms were much more favorable than Kaneshiro’s, and she’d figured the contract was something she could actually pay off while working to get Makoto her freedom back. And Ren, well… Goro had just sent the best person to argue his case—a boy who spoke perfect Ravkan, who had spent a year of hell indentured to Alice Hiiragi at the Menagerie.

“What about Sojiro Sakura?” she’d asked.

Ren had snorted. “I have no idea how he ended up a boss. He seems to put more thought into his curry recipe than he does the Crows’ affairs.”

“And Goro Akechi?”

“A liar, a thief, a murderer.” He’d counted on his fingers. “A Heartrender.”

Ann had opened her eyes wide. “You’re kidding me, right?”

He’d shaken his head. “No one knows, though.”

“So why’s he telling me?”

“Because it’ll push you to say yes.”

She’d huffed. “He’s smart. In a slimy kinda way.” But she’d known he was right. Aside from any money, she’d much rather help out a fellow Grisha than some creepy crime overlord.

With Ren’s aid, she’d sneaked out of the Emerald Place and bound her life to the Crows for the foreseeable future. Then, two days later, a girl had been found dead at the Sweet Shop, strangled in her bed by an unidentified customer.

Ann knew better now than to expect any type of Grisha solidarity from Goro Akechi. Still, better with him, alive, than dead by Kaneshiro’s hand.

“Money,” one Lion said to them before they could climb out of the rowboat.

Goro handed over a stack of kruge, and once it was counted, the man waved them on.

Iwai got off the boat first and stood by its side, one hand stretched to help the mysterious girl off. Goro nodded for her to go next, and she landed on the sand with questions storming her mind. Starting with: What on Earth were Dime Lions doing outside Kerch’s most feared prison?

They followed a row of torches up an uneven path to the leeward side of the prison. Ann tilted her head back and stole a glance at the high black towers of the fortress, thrusting up from the sea like a spear through a body.

The path led the way to a dark, kitchen-like room that smelled funny. The stench of vinegar grated Ann’s nostrils, but the worst part was what the vinegar had meant to cover. Underneath, the stone reeked of human waste. She fought the urge to pinch her nose to fend it off and hurried after their improvised guide. Past the kitchen, they found themselves in an entry hall whose ceiling dripped with moisture.

Ann glanced at the staircases leading to the upper floor, expecting they’d head toward the cells. Instead, they passed through another door and onto a high stone walkway that crossed a rocky pit underneath and connected the main prison to what looked like another tower. Salty wafts of wind jostled her veil all over the place. She threw another glance at the girl walking in front of her and hissed through her nose.

“Where are we even going?” She urged under her breath. “And who is she?”

Goro ignored her. Her face scrunched into a pout, and her cheeks tingled with shame for it. He must’ve been thinking she was being too whiny. Well, too bad for him—if only he’d shared a crumb of information with her, they wouldn’t even have this problem to begin with!

Think about Makoto, half of her said. The other half just knew that was an even more terrible idea than asking Goro Akechi questions.

They entered the second tower, and like a waterdrop detaching from under a leaf, a figure emerged from the shadows. Ann slapped a hand over her mouth to avoid both screaming and accidentally killing someone.

Ren joined their group; he wore the horns and high-necked tunic of the Gray Imp, but Ann could pinpoint those silver eyes anywhere. But it went far beyond that. Ann had traveled around the world as a soldier of the Second Army, yet she never quite saw another human moving like Ren did, flowing like he was more liquid than solid flesh. She could swear she’d witnessed less refined movements from royal Tidemakers.

“How did you get in here?” She tried her best to keep her voice low, but the absurdity of everything was starting to get to her. She felt like the butt of a joke that wasn’t even funny.

“Came earlier on a supply barge.”

Ann scowled. “Do people just… come and go from the prison as they please, and I had no idea?”

“Once a week, they do,” Goro interjected, his tone harsh with the implied order to keep quiet. But Ann was done playing nice.

“Don’t give me that shit, Akechi. If it’s this easy to get into Hellgate—”

“I’m Crow to you now.” He kept the volume low enough for it to be a whisper, but the intention behind it bore the intensity of a growl. “And the problem isn’t getting in. It’s getting out. Now, stay on your guard, and don’t make a fuss.”

Ann swallowed her anger and shoved her fists into the pockets of her coat before she did something very stupid. No one would see her clenching her fingers and ensuring Goro Akechi got a taste of his own medicine by dropping him down unconscious in the only place in Ketterdam that had fruitlessly tried to reclaim him for the better part of a decade… but she still needed to play by his rules. He’d made sure she had no other choice.

They entered a tight passageway, one Iwai needed to actually squirm to get through. This second tower showed the signs of time a lot more, with stone steps that dipped in the center, stomped on by too many boots, and walls stained black by the torches that burned and had been burning in the same spots for centuries. Their Dime Lion guide pushed open a heavy iron door and gestured for them to follow him down a steep staircase. Trapped in this spiral of salt and stone, the foul smell of bodies and refuse made her head spin. Her eyes searched the other girl, who, however, gave no signs of minding the air too much. Saints if I’ll ever understand these Barrel people.

They spiraled lower, into the bowels of the rock. Ann clung to the wall. There was no banister, and though she couldn’t see the bottom, she doubted the fall would be kind. They didn’t go far, but by the time they reached their destination, she was trembling, her muscles wound taut, less from exertion than the knowledge that Makoto was somewhere in this terrible place. She couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“Where are we?” she whispered again.

“In the old prison,” Goro answered, maybe feeling merciful. “They built the new tower but thought better than demolishing the old one, of course. One never runs out of space to keep the worst of the worst.”

Ann shivered and scooted a little closer. Despite how thick the walls were, one pulsing, buzzing sound thrummed into her ears—maybe the sea crashing against the rocks down below? But as she kept walking, what had seemed like waves breaking against land sharpened into the clear chant of voices shouting. They emerged into a curving tunnel. To her right were more old cells, but light poured in from staggered archways on the left, and through them, she glimpsed a rowdy crowd.

The Dime Lion led them around the tunnel to the third archway, where a prison guard dressed in a blue-and-gray uniform kept his post, rifle slung across his back.

“Five more for you,” the Dime Lion shouted over the crowd. Then he turned to Goro. “If you need to leave, the guard will call for an escort. No one goes wandering off without a guide, understood?”

“Would never dream of it,” he said in his sweetest voice. It gave Ann the creeps.

“Enjoy,” the Dime Lion said with an ugly grin. The prison guard waved them through.

Ann stepped forward and, as she did, her body screamed at her to step back and run away. They were on a jutting stone ledge, looking down into a shallow, crudely made amphitheater. What remained of the old tower had been eviscerated like shellfish to make room for the arena in the center. Even the rooftop with a few rows of the upper cells had collapsed, leaving space for the sky to hover above the banisters, blanketed in a thick layer of clouds. Some of the wrecked beams and shingles still stood in the dirty sand of the arena, like pieces of furniture.

She followed Iwai and the girl through a row of densely-packed seats, unease slithering up on her.

All around, a colorful mass of costumes and masks stuck out of the railings in front of their seats, throwing all sorts of cheers, curses, and even objects down below, depending on whether they cheered for the fighter’s success or hoped for his death. The focus of their attention was a scrawny prisoner—a man with a wiry copper beard—standing on the threshold between the arena and the pit of a cave, lit by torches. He had his wrists still shackled, and a second man—one dressed in a cape made from a lion’s skin, head, and everything—gestured for him to come forth.

The crowd chanted, a thousand bodies and one voice, “Come on, why don't we spin the wheel? See what it may call!”

The man with the lion-shaped cape raised his hands as if to incite the public to scream higher; the shackled prisoner walked close to a giant spinning wheel carved out of wood, divided into different sectors with paint of different colors like the slices of a cake. With a grimace, the man gave the wheel a hard spin. One red needle ticked along the edges as it spun, making a cheerful clattering noise that the crowd supported with a loud ohhhhh to increase suspense. Ann’s stomach was about to kickstart its own revolt into her belly.

The wheel slowly came to a stop with the needle pointing to a drawing she couldn’t quite make out the shape of… something like a black stain over a faded green background. Her surroundings shook with the crowd’s bellowing, while the poor man’s shoulders drooped as a guard came forward to unlock his chains. The prisoner cast them aside into the sand, and the posture of his whole body turned tense.

A roar strong enough to overshadow even the excitement screamed by the spectators reverberated through the tunnel, and the prisoner backed as far away from it as possible. The man in the lion cape—who Ann guessed must’ve been the announcer—and the prison guard took frenzied steps over a rope ladder that lifted them out of the pit to the safety of a ledge.

The creature that crawled out of the tunnel and into the bloodstained sand of the arena wasn’t anything Ann had ever seen. It looked like some kind of reptile, with a body as thick as the trunk of a century-old tree covered in gray-green scales. Its head was wide but flat and bore two amber, slitted eyes that, even from this up above, looked way too brilliant for an animal. A yellow-white crust defined the line of its mouth, and when it opened to roar again, something wet and foaming dripped from its pointed teeth.

“What is that thing?” Ann asked. Her voice cracked more than she would’ve liked.

“Rinca moten,” said Ren. “A desert lizard. Poisonous teeth and all.”

“Seems pretty slow on its feet.”

“Yeah, they always do.”

The man lunged forward with his knife drawn. The big lizard struck so quickly that Ann had to blink twice to make sure she wasn’t imagining things. One moment, the prisoner was sprinting across the arena; one moment later, the lizard slammed into his body and sank its fangs into the poor man’s shoulder. The howl that shrieked from his throat covered even the sharp crack of bones. He collapsed on the sand, the well to another rivulet of blood painting the arena red.

The crowd booed, one unanimous, thrumming sound. A few threw nondescript objects against what was now just a corpse. Ann wanted to throw up.

“What the hell is this?”

“You’ve used the correct word, Ann,” Goro said, pinching his chin. “This is the Hellshow. You have Junya Kaneshiro to thank for this—and the right people inside the Merchant Council, of course.”

“They know?!”

He barked out a sour laugh. “They go wherever fresh money lies, and that is very much the case with tonight’s macabre entertainment. After all, if there’s a show…”

“There’s a betting ring,” Iwai added.

“Precisely. Which is what our visit is about.”

Goro addressed the guard who had shown them their seats with a subtle nudge of his chin. No one goes wandering off without a guide. Were they about to leave?

The man in the blue-and-gray uniform made his way through the crowd to where they were sitting. He lowered his head to Goro’s level, who whispered in his ear something Ann couldn’t catch. She squinted to focus on his reaction. The guard’s eyes widened. He must’ve recognized what Goro told him.

Without a word, the guard gestured for them to follow him again. They went back through the same path they’d come from, but at the end of the passageway, the guard had them turn counterclockwise around the arena, with the wall vibrating with shouts and clapping hands and stomping feet on their left instead of their right. They passed a series of archways watched by other guards, who only minded the one man in uniform opening the line and barely acknowledged the rest of the group trailing behind him.

They went further and further up, where cells grew a tad more spacious and sparser. Despite being larger than the norm, they weren’t overcrowded—in fact, they each contained only one prisoner. Was this man leading them to Makoto’s location? If that were the case, that meant… the betting ring…

The guard approached a darker alcove between two archways, and Goro swung his hand in Ann’s direction and mimicked the clenching of a fist. She shook herself out of her musing.

“How down?” She mouthed it more than whispered. It was a code she’d learned in the Barrel. How badly do you want me to hurt him?

“Shut eye.” Just knock him out. He cleared his throat to gain the guard’s attention. “How long still? We need to place our bets before the next fighter gets started.”

“We’re almost there—”

Ann’s attention zeroed in on the man’s face—he sported an overgrown beard, and his nose peeked out, slightly crooked. She closed her fingers into a fist as if to physically seize the man’s pulse and dropped her hand to slow it down to a halt for long enough to make him faint on the spot.

Iwai rushed to pick up the slumbering body before it could cause a rouse and took to undressing him of his uniform. Goro unlatched the Madman mask from his face and slipped out of the rest of his costume to begin the switch.

“Stop staring at me,” he hissed, “and get to work. I need you to tailor Mogami.”

The mysterious girl, who kept quiet all night, stepped forward. She removed her Scarab Queen costume as well and stood directly in front of Ann, collected to the point of seeming unaffected.

Ann blinked. “You want me to make her look like Makoto?” She studied the girl further: long dark hair instead of a short, brown bob; sharp eyes the color of coal, where Makoto’s were rounder and shining like the sea set aflame by the dying sun; her body was built like the crooked branch of a tree, so unlike Makoto’s lean but sculpted form. “They look nothing alike. You can’t possibly want them switching places.”

“They don’t need to be similar,” he huffed while rummaging through the guard’s set of keys. “I want you to give Mogami firepox symptoms so that no one will notice the difference. Being sick with something highly contagious, Makoto—or rather, our dear Mogami—will be quarantined for a month to see if she survives the fever and out-waits contagion.”

“If you seriously think my tailoring will last an entire month, then that’s the biggest compliment I’ve ever received in my life.”

Goro isolated one key from the rest and glared at her. “My contact in the infirmary has guaranteed she will stay sick enough. We only need to get her diagnosed, the rest is unimportant. Now, hurry up before someone else comes our way.”

Ann spared a pitiful glance for Mogami. “I’m sorry, this won’t be pleasant.”

She shrugged. “I can take it.”

Ann chewed on her lower lip and lifted her hands. She spread bruises and swellings on Mogami’s arms, fighting that inner voice that whispered she wasn’t good enough for this. Never as good as Shiho. Tailoring hadn’t been her calling at all, and in addition to that, her education at the Little Palace had been cut short by the Civil War that had wreaked havoc through Ravka.

“Hurry it up,” Goro urged.

“I’ve never seen firepox up close!”

“Count yourself lucky, then.”

She willed her memory to work; she squeezed it like a sponge until some illustrations from her anatomy books formed in her mind. Confidence burst through her, and she tipped and caressed Mogami’s skin on her neck and swelled her entire face until blisters and pustules left nothing of her previous look.

She opened her palm to Ren. “Knife.”

“What makes you think I—”

“I’d rather believe in Crow’s conscience than you not carrying a knife.”

He snorted, but handed her a foldable oyster knife. She sliced through Mogami’s hair without caring how badly chopped it was and removed the darker hues from it until it more or less matched Makoto’s color. With a bit of imagination. If one didn’t look too carefully.

“Time’s up, I fear,” Goro said and yanked her back by the shoulder. “Stay behind until your turn comes.”

“How am I supposed to—”

“Trust me, you will know.”

I wouldn’t trust you with tying my hair without you stealing my ribbons.

Goro stepped ahead of the group and led them through the last portion of the corridor like the guard had done a few moments prior. He stopped in front of a cell and nodded for Iwai to come forward as if he were introducing him to someone.

“What business?” Makoto’s clear voice spoke. Ann’s heartbeat spiked. She sounded exactly like the people lurking in the worst parts of the Barrel, only with a heavy Fjerdan accent.

“We’re here to become rich!” Iwai boasted.

“I am sure. Your wager?”

“Wait, hold on a sec there, missy.” Ann choked at the thought of the scowl Makoto must’ve been wearing for being treated like that. “I see no papers.”

“There’s no need with me.”

“Ain’t doubting that! You look smart enough to know your tallies. And I’m wise enough not to trust words over good written paper.”

Makoto sighed, but Ann could tell she was getting nervous. “Look, I don’t make the rules here. If you don’t like them, then—”

The cell’s door swung open as if by magic. Goro had been working in silence to open the lock while Iwai had kept Makoto distracted.

Both men stepped aside to clear the view for Ann. She guessed that was her cue.

She stood right in front of the entrance, mere feet away from Makoto, who sat against the wall of the cell, cross-legged and with stashes of coins by her sides. Her hair had been cut even shorter—it barely scraped the point of her ears now, to prevent lice. Her lips were cracked by dehydration, her complexion paler, her cheeks more hollow.

It was the most fucking beautiful sight Ann had seen in more than a year.

“Ann?!” Makoto gasped. Saints, she missed the sound of her name spoken by her, the way she drew out the A.

“Makoto…”

Her eyes filled with tears. This moment—she’d dreamed about it since the day Kerch corps had taken Makoto away from her, even if it was Ann’s fault. She’d betrayed her, but she came back to set it right.

“We’re here to get you out.”

Her red eyes twinkled. It wasn’t anything precious. It was the glint of blood.

“Ann Takamaki,” she snarled.

Makoto lunged, and her hands closed around Ann’s neck.

Chapter Text

Makoto often dreamed of Ann.

In all her visions, she hunted her, desperate like her survival depended on her getting to Ann. Sometimes she sprinted through the meadows, lush green grass slapping against her hips, with the spring breeze tickling her cheeks. Sometimes her bare feet stomped against the moss of the woods surrounding her home village, before witches burned it to ash. Most often, though, Makoto chased Ann across sweeps of ice, where her blonde curls nearly got lost in the cold white. On her best nights, she tackled her to the ground, drove her pocket knife through her chest until the icy crust on the soil turned crimson, and watched the life drain out of her eyes.

But in her worst nightmares, Makoto kissed her lips and welcomed her hands under her fur coat. Ann laughed and teased; she pecked her on the cheek and begged to share a crepe or a slice of cake. She embraced Makoto in her arms, and neither of them was afraid if the other brushed a pulse point with teeth or gripped a mouthful of hair at the base of the neck. Those nights always left her most ashamed. Makoto would wake up furious and disgusted at Ann… but especially at herself for being so weak. She’d already betrayed her country, her order, her mentor, her own sister—nevertheless, a part of her couldn’t resist the witch’s tantalizing charm. She had ruined Makoto with her wickedness, and Makoto had let her.

Tonight, however, was a good one.

Makoto toppled Ann against the ground and closed her fingers around her rose-perfumed neck, the pulse of her enemy a frenzied scream under her fingertips. Her knees dug into the witch’s arms, pinning every movement of her upper body to the ground—she knew better than anyone that Ann Takamaki, with her hands free, was more dangerous than any wild beast Hellgate unleashed on its prisoners during the Hellshow.

“You,” she gritted out.

The witch struggled beneath her, but Makoto had been training nearly half her life for this. She’d been honed into hunting and killing creatures like her. And even if this one had managed to fool her long enough to escape, she wouldn’t commit the same mistake twice.

The Grisha’s face paled with the lack of oxygen. “Let me go, you dumbass!” she wheezed, and tears streamed down the corner of her eyes. Crocodile tears. Nothing but lies, just like the rest of her.

“Drüsje,” she rasped. Witch. “You will pay for what you’ve done.”

Something cold pressed against her forehead. The safety of a gun clicked.

“Hands off her, Niijima.”

The voice was velvet, but the words were rough, both an order and a threat. Makoto stilled. She bore her gaze where her nails dug into Ann’s throat, jagged and chewed, too short to cut skin. This stranger holding up a gun against her was obstructing the way of her rightful mission, of her revenge.

But her revenge would’ve borne no meaning if she died right after. She needed to bask in the moment Ann’s life shattered.

Makoto took a steadying breath and released her grip on the witch’s carotid, but otherwise kept her pinned to the ground. She glared at the boy threatening her and defiantly pushed her forehead against the barrel of his gun. He looked like he was around her age, dressed as a prison guard. Action had ruffled his chestnut hair, and his wine-red eyes, hardened by annoyance, reminded her of the austere cast her sister always wore.

“What business?” she repeated, harsher this time.

 “I do business here, Niijima, and you’re better off never forgetting that.” He nodded at Ann. “Let her go. We’re here to break you out, and you can either follow us on your own feet or get dragged like a sack of jurda by Iwai here.”

Another man grunted in her direction. Even under the orange beak and cape of his costume, his build was undeniable. But Makoto only glowered.

“Are you even hearing yourself? No one just… breaks out of Hellgate.”

“Tonight they do.”

“Oh, is that because of you saying so?” She was being childish, but she wished to get under this boy’s skin at least as much as he got under hers.

He pulled at his gloves with utter irritation. “I don’t say shit, Niijima. I act.” Thrusting the barrel even harder on her forehead, he gestured for a girl with her entire face swollen in blisters to come forward. “Mogami, get into position.”

For Djel. Makoto scurried back on instinct. She didn’t need to contract firepox on top of everything—

“Finally!” sighed Ann. She jumped back to her feet, grinning, all white teeth framed by rosy lips, and the back of Makoto’s mouth burned with bile. Act, it was all an act. Her fists itched with the urge to punch. But the sick girl entered her cell, and Makoto moved even further away from her.

 “What do you even…?”

She squinted at the scene in front of her. A group of masked guests. A fake guard.  … And a girl with firepox to take her place. Makoto sucked in a breath. All the pieces clicked in her mind. They intended to orchestrate a prison break by swapping her with someone else—the firepox was but a disguise to hide it. It was frankly insane, on top of being extremely risky. And she’d been locked inside one entire year, it’s not as if she hadn’t ever indulged the thought of escaping. But the risk had never been worth the reward—in the event that she indeed made it out, what would await her? She’d lost her companions, and Sae must’ve assumed she’d died. Skimming on rigged bets had gotten her close to having enough money to pay a good bribe, which was a sounder path to freedom than any sneaky operation. She glared at that insufferable boy.

“Is that your plan? You want us to trade places?”

“Glad to see you’re smart on top of being extremely annoying,” he said with the most infuriating condescension. “Now stop being a liability and get dressed. We’re going out.”

She frowned. “Wait. What if the guards check—”

“They’re about to be way too busy for that.”

The walls reverberated with screams. Dust and debris fell from the ceiling as the entire tower vibrated with an avalanche of footsteps. Guards barked orders, and the sound of a panicked mob got closer and closer; in the distance, a desert lion roared, and an elephant trumpeted.

“You’ve opened the cages.” Her voice shook.

The monstrous boy grimaced. “Skull was supposed to wait until three bells.”

“It is three bells,” noted another boy. He wore a ridiculous pair of horns, and Makoto had no idea whether he’d been there the entire time or appeared inside the corridor right at that moment like mist descending on the frozen ground.

What was shaping to be their leader glanced at his watch and huffed out a breath. “Color me surprised at Skull being punctual.” He sheathed his gun and offered her a gloved hand. “On your feet, Niijima. It’s showtime.”

For all that was sacred to Djel, Makoto wanted nothing more than to slap it away. She had been a holy warrior. She had already devised her own plan to escape; she didn’t need someone rescuing her like a poor, defenseless, useless civil girl who didn’t know better. But the sooner she was free, the sooner she could see that Ann Takamaki paid for her crimes. Whatever reason this boy had for coming to her aid didn’t matter. She wouldn’t get her revenge from behind rusty bars.

Makoto clasped the boy’s hand. She traded clothes with the girl disfigured by firepox and strode out of the cell. The cry of rusty hinges and the click of the lock behind her back sealed her fate, and down the dimly lit walkway, the boy with the horns swept a blue veil similar to the one that Ann wore on her face.

The passage outside the row of cells was a hornet’s nest. Costumed men and women fled the arena, screaming at each other, compressed inside the path traced by guards with their batons out. However, the boy leading their group didn’t join the flow—no, he gestured for them to push against the crowd’s current, back toward the arena. Makoto’s heart seized with panic. Was he out of his mind?

No, he has a plan. She wrestled through the mass of bodies on one side and rocks on the other. With gritted teeth, she made it into the arena, where the mob thinned and breathing became easier again. They escaped a bottleneck, where the guards were sure to stop the guests to check who hid under the masks. But then, what way out did the leader plan to take?

She risked a glimpse down into the blood-stained pool of sand. One hyena was feeding on a body in a crimson cape. An elephant charged the wall of the stadium, sending up a cloud of dust and bellowing its frustration. One white bear and one of the great jungle cats from the Southern Colonies crouched in the eaves, fangs bared. And what about the snakes? A shiver ran down her spine. She could only hope that this Skull person hadn’t been foolish enough to set them free, too.

They stopped in front of one of the rope stairs rolled on top of the banister directly overlooking the arena, and Makoto’s stomach sank further.

“You can’t be serious.”

The leader ignored her and pushed the bundle down with the obvious intention of making them traverse the same damned space that crawled with angered wild beasts. The man built like a brawler pressed her on.

“C’mon, missy, we’re all in a hurry.”

Jaw working to a grind, she swallowed down her protests. At this point, she had no choice but to follow.

They plunged across the same sand where prisoners fought for privileges—a private cell, soap, richer rations. A spectacle for show-comers to bet on and for her to get richer off of. But as the tunnel leading back toward the animals’ cages took shape, the venomous desert lizard came pounding against them, mouth dripping with foaming white poison, its fat tail lashing the ground.

“Joker!” the leader ordered.

“On it.”

The boy with the horned costume, named Joker, produced a grappling hook from under his cloak and climbed his way back up the lower rows of seats. He crouched on the banister and dove on the lizard from above, spinning mid-air like he was weightless. He held a dagger in each of his hands, which he wedged right between the scales on the lizard’s neck. Still gripping the handles, he jumped off the animal’s back and dragged the blades down with him, ripping its entire head off its body. The lizard collapsed on site, and Joker gracefully rolled on the sand, not even a stain of blood on his costume.

Makoto stared in awe. Who in the world are these people?

The bulky man snatched her shoulder and dragged her forward with a grunt. She yanked her arm free—she could run just fine, please and thank you—and followed the leader of the group into the tunnel and past the cages. The air hung heavy with the musk of animals and their mixed waste. She couldn’t help but scrunch her nose while pushing forward, half hoping this was only a dream, half dreading to wake up and find herself yet again confined in a cell for a crime she did not commit.

The tang of salt water was like a balm on her nostrils. Despite the clog of humidity and the odors from the animal cells they’d left behind still lingering, the chill of the night did more to replenish her strength and morale than any meal in Hellgate ever did.

Another guard stood on the beach, leaning on a rock. There was a rowboat moored near where he kept the post. Makoto halted her jog, but as soon as the guard lifted an orb of green light in their direction, he waved at them in recognition and stepped closer with a hiccuping gait.

“’Sup, Crow.”

The leader, Crow, gestured for them all to hurry out of the cave.

“You were early.”

“The eff you mean, I was spot on time!” the other sputtered. Near the orb of light, Makoto could spot spiky, bleached blond hair flashing through the night.

“If we’re talking about you? That’s early.”

“Shuddup man, the animals are all out, and I’ve got you another boat. Ain’t this the moment for thanks?”

“Thank you, Skull,” Ann panted, still recovering from their run.

“Finally, someone appreciates me.”

Makoto ignored them and hopped on the boat. The high tension of their escape was easing into something more comfortable, and if she was smart enough with her moves, she could leave them all stranded and waiting to be found by either the prison guards or the fugitive beasts. Unhook the rope, then take Crow’s gun. And then Ann would’ve dropped her dead before she could take hold of the rows. But the other blond of the crew, Skull, had a shotgun holstered on his shoulder. Most importantly, though, he sported a limp in his right leg. Kick Skull first, steal his weapon, and shoot Ann. Then deal with the rest. She could do it. All she needed was a distraction.

Joker stood right behind her. He may be fast on his feet, but didn’t look all that bulky, and he was taller than her—if she took him by surprise, she could push him off the boat and gain momentum while the others processed what happened. Drop the boy. Kick the shooter. Steal his gun. Kill Ann. Deal with the rest.

She took one long, calming breath.

She went for Joker’s stomach with her elbow.

She hit plain air.

Joker wasn’t there anymore, as if he’d expected her attack and dodged accordingly. Makoto had to fight to keep her balance. For Djel, not even water slipped away that quickly!

Something pulled her off the boat, and she fell prone on the sand, wet with the tides shifting.

“And here I thought you were smart,” Crow mocked. “Panther, put her under.”

Makoto turned and scurried back on instinct—she didn’t even know where. Just far enough from that witch’s sight, so that she couldn’t lay a finger on her again. Ann stared at her with hurt in her eyes, as if she held any right to.

But she raised her hands.

“Don’t!” Makoto cried, and she despised that crack in her voice. She should have been better than that. But even pleas were useless with Grisha. Her vision blurred and got dark, and everything around her slowed down.

“Have a good rest,” someone said. She wasn’t sure if it was Ann, Crow, or another one in that gang of lunatics.

***

“Wake up, Makoto.”

Someone had been shaking her by her shoulders. Makoto had curled under the comforter and pushed her cheek against the puffy pillow. She did not want to help with breakfast or mend another dress!

“Wake up!”

Makoto had peeked out of the pile of blankets and found Sis desperately trying to rouse her. She’d been crouched at the side of Makoto’s bed, a candle on the floor lighting up her red eyes and messy hair. She’d been wearing her night vest. It was still night.

Wasn’t it time for breakfast yet?

“Sis?”

“We need to hide. They’re coming for us.”

“Who…?”

“Drüsje.”

Makoto had stilled. She’d scolded her expression and nodded. Their father had been drilling the emergency rules into them since they were little. She’d kicked away her covers and jumped out of bed.

“Clothes?”

“Left them on my bed. Go pick up the rations, I’ll get the rest of the heavy gear out.”

Makoto had sprinted out of their room. She’d stopped before rushing downstairs.

“Where’s Mom?”

Sae had taken a bit to answer. “Already out. She’s helping the neighbors. Go now, we need to be quick.”

She’d jumped down the steps two at a time and ran to the kitchen, the gelid wood prickling under her bare soles. Pitched in the dark, she’d wondered about opening the window for a bit of moonlight, then thought better of it. Proceeding by touch alone, one clumsy step after the other, she’d rounded the bulky dining table, walked past the basin, and entered the pantry. She’d reached for the candle and the match they kept on the lowest shelf.

She’d held the candle at face level, eyes stumbling over the different satchels and boxes filling the shelves.

An explosion had roared outside, so strong the walls had trembled.

“Fuck!” had come from upstairs. Makoto had balked. She’d never heard Sis swearing!

Screams had screeched out there, trampled by the din of orders yelled out. Her gaze had kept desperately searching for the emergency backpacks they had stored in case of attacks, but her vision had gotten too blurred. She’d brushed her face with the back of her hand. It shook too much for her liking. Why was she hesitating so much? They’d tried this over and over.

“Makoto!” Sae had urged.

“Coming!”

She’d dove back into her research. Her arms had dragged the candle through the air so fast that the flame had flickered with the silent threat of blowing out.

Eventually, four backpacks came into sight on the shelf: hers, Sae’s, her dad’s… and her mom’s. Makoto frowned. Had their mother not taken her share of emergency rations before heading out?

The stairs had creaked with Sae stomping down them, so Makoto had hauled two backpacks out, then a third one to bring to their mother.

Swinging with the weight, she’d trudged back to Sis, who stood in front of the entry door. More chaos had kept erupting from outside, and an orange light had crept through the crack between the door and the floor.

Sae had shoved a bundle of clothes against her, and Makoto’d let go of the backpacks to get dressed with their heavy gear. She’d sent her night vest flying, teeth clicking with the cold, and Sae had taken to buttoning up her coat while she shoved her legs into the pants.

“Why three backpacks?”

“One’s for Mom, right?”

“No, it’s… We’ll be slower if we take three. We’ll make use of what we have.”

“But Dad said…”

“I don’t care what he said! Take one and move on.”

Makoto’s eyes had prickled. “Procedure is procedure,” she’d quoted.

Outside, another explosion had boomed through the night, this one close enough that some debris from the ceiling had tickled the top of her head.

“Oh, for Djel’s sake.”

Sae had yanked her arm and shoved the straps of one of the backpacks around her shoulders. Makoto had never seen her wearing such a glare. She hated that they weren’t doing as Dad had instructed them, taking one share of rations for each family member, but she hated when Sis yelled at her even more. So, she’d complied. She’d secured the other strap on her own and raised the hood over her head.

Sae had squeezed her hand and unlocked the door.

Wind had carried forth snowflakes and ashes, and a burnt smell that prickled at her nose. Wild flames had brightened the night. They had been rising from the rooftops of the row of houses right in front of theirs.

“Shit,” Sae had muttered under her breath.

“Do… do we take the back path?” Makoto had tried with a broken voice.

“Yes.”

Sis had tugged her around their house and into the woods. They had ventured through a slim, rocky trail that caused Makoto to trip each time Sae pulled her with a bit more urgency. She had no idea how her sister could lead them through the darkness, but maybe she had just practiced this more than Makoto had done.

Something had hissed above their heads.

A wall of fire had erupted in front of them on the path, blinding, scalding. Makoto had turned her head away, but the heat burned too strongly; it’d felt like she’d been inching her cheeks too close to the fireplace. That couldn’t be a natural fire. It was Grisha.

The witches had found them.

Screams in a language she did not understand echoed throughout the woods. She’d snuggled closer to her sister.

“Sis… what do we do?”

“I won’t let them take us. Stay behind me.”

But the voices had grown closer and closer. Smaller flames danced through the air, and hands or chests or faces appeared behind them. Their enemies had been fire witches. They had attacked the whole village.

Sae had squeezed her gloved hand tighter. “We need to move. Follow me.”

She inched back, and Makoto followed her. She had taken out a knife, brandishing it as they trudged through the woods to welcome anyone who might dare to attack them. Makoto had squeezed her sister’s hand back. She hadn’t liked being yelled at, but she was glad she wasn’t alone in this. They needed to meet with their mother and find a safer place.

“Drüsje!” a man’s voice had screamed in the darkness, followed by a shriek. “I have found them! Send reinforcements!”

Makoto’s breath had hitched with both fatigue and joy. The drüskelle had to be coming for them!

But flames had swayed near them once more. Some witches had turned their attention away to defend themselves from the hunters; however, some others seemed to have staggered dangerously closer to her and Sis. Sparkles erupted near their feet, and Makoto jumped back with a yelp, letting go of Sae’s hand in a fit of panic.

Her heart had beaten like a drum, her chest so tight she couldn’t resume running, not if she wished for nothing else. All around her had been chaos. Her vision had wavered with welling tears.

“Dad…” she’d muttered.

One flaming projectile had flown above her head and exploded against a trunk nearby. She’d gulped, freightened, and Sae had run back to embrace her, pressing her face against her chest. She’d dragged her under the exposed roots of a collapsed tree.

“Stay down. We need to hide.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“Close. Let the drüskelle handle this.”

“I’m scared,” she’d whispered in a broken voice. She sniffed, and the pungent smell of burning wood made her nose wrinkle. This had been nothing like the mock emergencies they had.

“Don’t be. It’ll be over soon.”

Another explosion had lit up the crowns of many surrounding trees. The night had glowed red and orange and yellow. Some men lay on the ground, some others had been pinned to the trunks with spears and arrows. Makoto had expected to see the long coat that marked a witch as belonging to Ravka’s army, but none of the corpses had worn anything similar.

“Someone’s here!”

Her dad’s voice. Makoto had pushed her head out of her sister’s embrace and climbed a few of the roots, eyes scanning their surroundings for the familiar shape of her dad.

“Dad!”

“Shh!” had hissed Sae. She’d tried to yank Makoto back down, but she’d kicked her.

From the trees’ crowns, the flames had descended where they had been crouched between the roots and the ground, as if someone had been directing them. And they had. That was the power of a witch.

Sae had pulled Makoto away from their hiding spot just a breath before it caught fire. They had retreated onto the trail, stumbling on their own feet. Fire ate away at the bark of the pines and the dried-out leaves on the ground, uncaring of snow and ice, not when an outer force worked to keep it alive. Cold had turned into heat, and Makoto had struggled to keep her vision clear with all that smoke around them.

She’d recognized the path leading back toward her house. Her chest had puffed with hope. Lanterns had swarmed closer to where she stood—drüskelle signals. She’d run after them.

“Makoto!” Sae had hissed. “On Djel’s name, stay put!”

Makoto hadn’t cared. She’d only wanted to hug her dad again.

With her throat begging for some rest and a cup of water, she had blindly tripped across rocks and melted snow, headed to the only light that mattered.

“Dad!” she’d called again. She could distinguish body shapes from shadows now.

One man turned. The white fur and silver badges on his coat had caught in the glow invading the forest.

And then it’d caught fire.

***

Makoto came to her senses in a windowless room draped in black and crimson. Her head was light but free of pain, and so was her body. Weirder yet, some aches she’d accumulated over time—a cut on her hand from a sharp edge in her cell, a knot in her neck from sleeping on the floor—were all gone. Witch’s magic, no doubt. The thought made her chest constrict in shame. Better withstanding tangible soreness than giving in to a Grisha’s corruption.

She flexed her fingers and wiggled her wrists for freedom, but rope kept her tied to a tacky chair that matched the rest of the environment.

“Let me go,” she protested.

Crow bowed, nothing more than a parody of courtesy. “Apologies for the rough treatment.” The velvet in his voice scrubbed like sandpaper. “You didn’t give us many other choices now, did you, Niijima?”

He’d stripped out of his prison guard disguise and switched to a suit of a gray so dark it verged on black, with a shirt only slightly lighter peeking from underneath the collar of a matching sweater vest.

Makoto aired all her frustration with a strained sigh that came out as tired as she felt. “What do you even want from me?”

“I’m glad that you asked.”

With an irksome, self-satisfied grin, he clapped his hands, and the leather of his dark gloves shone under the light of a chandelier whose arms had been carved out like feathers. Everyone else in the room turned their attention to him, and Makoto realized just how cramped the space was—the chair she was tied to had stood near a corner, but most of the area was occupied by a round table draped with a red cloth showing a crow motif on it. On top of the table sat a wheel not unlike the one that decided a prisoner’s fate during the Hellshow. A gambling parlor. She’d heard plenty of descriptions of those during her days in prison.

Three people sat at the table: Ann, now donning a long caramel coat instead of that tacky blue veil, the boy named Joker, out of his weird horned disguise and mostly covered by a dark cloak, and the blond boy with the faulty leg who had met them at the exit of the tunnel with the boat, Skull. He’d left the prison guard uniform behind in favor of a leather jacket and a holster belt heavy with ammunition. One seat had been left vacant for their leader.

And then, beyond the table, on the opposite corner of the room near the only door that led out, lingered another boy and another girl, who both looked terribly out of place in the company of those crooks. He was tall, lanky even, and his dark hair gleamed with blue reflexes under the light. She didn’t even reach the height of his shoulder, had fluffy short hair of the same rose of the sky at dawn, and kept her hands folded in front of her, holding herself with a sprinkle of the same grace and severity that Makoto recognized in the Queen consort of Fjerda.

Crow cleared his throat and began his speech.

“Tonight, I’ve summoned you here to discuss the Crows’ next job. Some of you are far more experienced than others, but you have my word on this: I believe I’ve put together the best crew for this heist.”

Some participants exchanged looks with one another. No one talked.

So, their boss did.

He shared his agreement with the Merchant Council, the mysterious scientist named Wakaba Isshiki, her most dangerous creation—jurda parem—and her kidnapping by Fjerdan forces. As he went on, Makoto’s lips parted wider and wider until she had to force herself to snap her jaw shut. This madman demon, this demjin—and she held no doubts about it, the Crows’ leader was a demon—wanted to break into the Ice Court.

It all came together. She remembered about him now: his name was ever-present on the lips of Hellgate’s prisoners and guests. They’d called him Crow, Dirtyhands, both the Prince of the Crows and the Bastard of the Barrel. Many monikers for the same, rotten individual. People talked about how there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for the right price, and they whispered he must’ve been blessed by some obscure god, or made some pact with the devil himself, because in all his criminal life, not once had the stadwatch apprehended him. Makoto pressed herself harder against the back of the chair as if to distance her body—her soul—as much as she could from that being. Whatever dark corner he had stalked out of, he had brought darkness with him.

Crow finished his explanation. He looked over at her with expectation. She barely contained a laugh—not only was he a heinous person, not only was he insane, but also deeply delusional if he assumed she would cooperate with his plan.

“No.”

He sighed. “I expected as much.”

“Then are we finished?”

“Not until I say we are, I fear.”

She kept herself from shouting. “You could have come begging at my feet, my answer would still be the same. I will not help you and your lot infiltrate the Ice Court.”

“You do understand I can have you locked back in Hellgate by the end of the night, right? Once poor Mogami is in the infirmary, a second switch won’t be at all complex to arrange.”

“Do it. I bet the wardens will be so thrilled to hear about your stunt tonight.”

One of his eyebrows twitched. “A snitch on top of a fanatic. What makes you think I’ll be sending you back with your tongue?”

“Crow—” Ann protested.

“No, by all means, let him,” Makoto taunted with sufficiency. “I won’t betray my country.” Not again.

“Told you…” Ann muttered, tearing her too-watery eyes away from her. What right did she think she had, speaking of her like she knew Makoto all that well? It made rage flare up in the palms of her hands.

The other blond boy, Skull, slumped further down in his chair. “No job without her, aye? We ain’t breakin’ into this Ice Court blind.”

“You cannot break into the Ice Court, period,” Makoto chided. “It’s Fjerda’s ancient stronghold, home to our Kings and Queens.” And to their most treasured relics and religious artifacts; to their holy rituals and places of worship. She would rather be skinned alive than help them in. “It’s simply impenetrable. You’ve let yourselves be backed into a corner.” And that was not her fault or responsibility.

“My, look at the pride on your face!” Crow mocked. He could deride her however he wanted. She wouldn’t bend. “A snitch, a religious fanatic, and a die-hard patriot.” He paced right in front of her, leaning his back against the edge of the round table in the spot corresponding to the empty seat. “Tell me, oh innocent Fjerdan: do you know what will happen to your beloved country the moment jurda parem enters the market and gains traction?”

She kept silent. He was trying to sway her, and he would not succeed.

“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Niijima. Answer me.”

“Nothing good, I presume,” she conceded. And indeed, she was worried about her nation. If only she could return home and get in contact with her sister—

“It will be annihilated. Like the rest of the world. The exact expression should be ‘societal collapse,’ if I’m not mistaken.”

“You don’t give me the impression of someone who would care about that.”

“And you not being completely obtuse comes as a relief.”

For all that was sacred to Djel, this boy was so infuriating. She jutted her chin out, trying her best to sit straighter despite her constraints. “Still, what makes you believe Wakaba Isshiki will manage to commerce her drug in the first place? She will stand trial, and if the jury finds her guilty, she will be sentenced to death.”

Ann snorted. “Right, the great and fair justice system of Fjerda!”

“Guilty… of what?” Crow asked.

“Crimes against the people.”

“Which people?” Ann sneered.

Natural people. Makoto bit her tongue. “People who respect the laws of this world instead of twisting them.”

“…I knew it,” she muttered, her eyelids pressed into slits. She turned to Crow with a shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t know how many times I have to keep repeating ‘I told you so’ before you listen to me. It’s useless.”

Crow pinched his chin between his thumb and index, two darts of black on pale skin. “I suppose the promise of three million kruge won’t buy your favor, either.”

Makoto cringed. How dare he imply she would agree to a bribe? “Unlike you, Bastard of the Barrel, I know ethics, and I have a conscience.”

His eyes glinted with something that made goosebumps form on her skin. “A truly upstanding Fjerdan citizen, no doubt! You’re just the good girl type of pushover, aren’t you?”

Her cheeks grew hotter, for a reason she couldn’t fathom. There was no shame in serving her country with honor and pride, so why was he making it out to be some dirty act?

He took in her expression with a smirk and went on. “Tell me something, Makoto Niijima. As far as I know, the drüskelle are a militia reserved for men. Am I wrong?”

The pit of shame in her stomach turned into fear. If this demjin was truly capable of anything, she dreaded where this conversation could go.

Looking away, she admitted, “You aren’t wrong.”

“Perfect. Then, care to explain how a teenage girl found herself training to become one? Pardon me for my assumptions, but I didn’t frame the Fjerdans as being especially progressive.”

Makoto glared at Ann. She must’ve told him… one of her many betrayals. But what better could she expect from a Grisha?

“My circumstances are different. I don’t owe you any other explanation.”

“Oh, I am sure. But are they ‘different’ enough to warrant a convicted criminal a spot in a military order she shouldn’t have been allowed to join from the start?”

She was going to strangle him. First Ann, then this other abomination of nature was next in line. She didn’t care that he looked human—no normal person could act like he did. She growled in frustration and struggled against her restraints.

“Quit mincing words. You’ve made gambling your business, so just play your cards. There is nothing you could possibly offer me—”

“What about making you a drüskelle again?”

She froze, and she cursed herself for it. That was nothing but a bluff. Had her time in prison not taught her anything? “Are you a holy man capable of miracles?”

“Better yet: a businessman.” Crow only opened the lapel of his dark jacket and took out a roll of paper. “And I care to remind you, I’m far from the only one between the two of us who made gambling their business.”

She willfully let the jab slide. This demjin had no right to behave like they were on the same level.

Crow handed the scroll to the boy with the black curls, Joker, who treaded like a cat and opened it in front of her face. It was a document written in both Kerch and Fjerdan—she couldn’t read the former, but the latter spoke clearly enough for her heart to pound against her chest.

In light of new evidence, Makoto Niijima is granted full and immediate pardon for all charges of collusion with slave trafficking. She is released on this day, ____________, and will be provided transport to her homeland or a destination of her choosing with all possible haste and the sincere apologies of this court and the Kerch government.

She pressed her lips together. Her throat ached with equal parts hope and fear. “What new evidence?”

Crow leaned further back against the edge of the table, crossing his arms in front of his chest. She didn’t like the smirk he was wearing. “It seems that Ann Takamaki has recanted her statement. She will face charges of perjury.”

“Perjury?” She turned to the witch and only then noticed the dark marks shaped like her fingers staining her rosy-white neck. She took them in with pride. “How long will you serve for that, Takamaki?”

She averted Makoto’s eyes. “Two months.”

“Two months?” she squeaked, affronted. “And you dare speak ill of our justice.”

Of course Ann would agree to this. Why wouldn’t she? She only had to endure a couple of months of prison time, no doubt looking forward to the possibility of her beloved gang bribing the guards for an especially comfortable stay. And after all was said and done, she would return to Ravka with three million kruge engrossing her pockets, free to live as she pleased. Free to join the army again. Free to keep tormenting Makoto’s people and threatening everyone else who abided by the laws of this world.

But if Makoto complied with this ludicrous plan… she could go home, too. Reassure Sae she hadn’t died. Eventually, she could complete her initiation as a drüskelle official so that she could stop being a dead weight to her sister. She could already envision the bite of the wind blowing from the north, carrying tiny snowflakes with it; she could already taste the sweetness of almond paste-filled semla.

She flexed her fingers to ensure her arms would not go numb from being restrained and breathed in the parlor’s lingering whiff of cigars.

“What if Isshiki is dead?” she asked with her best-tamed voice. She couldn’t risk hope filtering through.

“Okumura says she isn’t.”

But how could a Kerch merchant understand the Fjerdan ways? Wakaba Isshiki might not have undergone a trial yet, but she would soon, and the outcome wasn’t hard to predict. Makoto’s people would never let such a dangerous woman walk free; she was sure of it. It went beyond only protecting Fjerda—it involved everyone else’s safety, too.

“But what if she is, Crow?” she pressed.

“You still get your pardon.”

Her heart fluttered. That sounded too good to be true. And it was—only, the price for it was treason. And not the foolish mistake of a girl who got deceived into giving too much trust to a creature that deserved none. No, this was the cold and calculated act of a criminal. Sae would have sneered at Crow’s proposal and torn that pardon to shreds.

But Crow was astute and frighteningly skilled at bargaining. Makoto could refuse and pray that Djel unleashed his fury against them the moment they stepped foot into Fjerdan territory… but what if, against all odds, this terrible crew managed to find their way inside the Ice Court, anyway? Or worse, what if another country got to Isshiki first? If diplomatic incidents had already taken place in Ketterdam, it was just a matter of time before others besides the Kerch would make their move. Worse yet: the possibility of Ravka obtaining the scientist. The formula was highly addictive, true, but their researchers had witchcraft on their side—there was no guarantee they couldn’t evolve the drug and render it more powerful while erasing the worst side effects. That thought alone shook her with a full-body shiver. If Makoto was part of the mission, at the very least, she could make sure Wakaba Isshiki never took another breath outside the Ice Court’s walls, or she could concoct some type of accident on the trip back to Kerch.

Makoto tormented her lower lip with her teeth to the point of hurting. Maybe she could make this compromise with herself. It made her face hot and her chest tight with shame, but she swallowed it down.

She would join the Crows’ demjin in his impossible heist. She would earn the pardon and complete her training as a drüskelle. She would ask for one last leave to hunt Ann Takamaki down once and for all. Eventually, she would settle down in Fjerda and serve her country with the same honor and pride.

Even so, the words tasted bitter in her mouth.

“I’ll do it. You have my collaboration.”

Crow smirked widely, and his entire body perked up, detaching from the table. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Makoto glowered at him. I pray Djel that life repays you in kind.

The silent boy—Joker, she reminded herself—folded the document and handed it back to Crow, who slipped it inside the inner breast pocket of his coat.

“We’re going to untie you now,” Crow announced. “I hope prison hasn’t robbed you of all manners or good sense.”

Joker materialized a knife from under his cloak and cut through the rope binding her wrists. Makoto ran her fingers around bruised wrists, every nerve from tips to shoulders tingling with pricks of pain. It was good to be free again, even if her conscience was the one getting shackled instead.

Crow took some steps to the side of the room, giving his back to the black-lacquered wood wall so that he could take in the entirety of the group.

“Well then, I believe it’s time for some introductions.” He gestured to Ann. “You should know her already; she will be our trusted Heartrender and back-alley Tailor: Ann Takamaki, but you will address her as Panther while on the job. The one who freed you is Ren Amamiya—codename Joker—our Phantom and thief of secrets. He’s the best in the trade.” He nodded to the blond boy with the shotgun. “This is Ryuji Sakamoto, also known as Skull, our brawler and sharpshooter.” He patted against his own chest. “Me? I’m just Crow to you. And before any of you ask: no, my name is not relevant.”

He took a pause and approached the two people waiting in the opposite corner of the room. She’d almost forgotten they were there. Crow walked closer to the lanky boy, who saluted them all with a bow. A weird satchel strapped to his belt swayed with the movement.

“This is Yusuke Kitagawa, our demolitions expert—the best in the Barrel if you ask me. He treats explosions like fine art.”

“He’s new,” Ren pointed out with an impish grin. Crow glared at him like his feathers got truly ruffled for the first time, which Makoto savored with immense satisfaction.

“And I hope that won’t pose a problem,” Yusuke said, speaking for the first time. He had a rich, deep voice, but he didn’t at all look or sound like a thug.

“We shoulda called Kaoru,” grumbled Ryuji. “He’s better.”

Crow frowned at him. “The problem with Kaoru, in case you forgot, is that his father would rather have my head on a silver plate and remain unemployed than involve him with any kind of criminal activity.” He dismissed the argument with a wave of his hand. “Besides, Yusuke already managed to blow up a warehouse door without setting the building and the entire district on fire. Or tipping off the stadwatch, for that matter.”

“He was the one behind that?”

Yusuke looked offended. “Is it that hard to believe?”

“I mean, yeah?!”

“Anyway,” said Crow, clearing his voice. He stopped near the girl with the fluffy hair and the long black cloak, who bowed at them, too. “This leads us to the last member to join our party.”

Ryuji roared again. “Man, what the eff? She ain’t even no Crow!”

“I don’t like this,” Ann added. “And I don’t understand. Why did you have to force some girl to join us?”

“I didn’t. She’s here of her own volition. And I haven’t agreed to her request just because she’s asked nicely.” He tugged at the hem of his gloves and rounded the entire room with his eyes. “Meet Haru Okumura. She’s Kunikazu Okumura’s only daughter, and our best insurance on thirty million kruge.”

Chapter Text

Ryuji was half-swinging in his chair, using the back legs as leverage, and he nearly fell on the Crow Club floor with a choked gasp. He glowered at Akechi and his stupid, perfectly composed posture.

“What the eff, man! A merchant’s kid? You hafta be kiddin’ me.”

But that scheming fucker was all busy gloating about his great plan. If Ryuji hadn’t been the king of bad odds, he would’ve bet Akechi’s tight-lipped attitude would cause the blowout of the entire gang sooner or later.

Ann and the Fjerdan girl looked the same shade of shocked, which was hilarious considering they’d spent the entire night up to that point bickering. He even heard that Makoto had tried to choke Ann first thing as Akechi cracked her cell open. Ryuji wasn’t a whole lot practiced in politics or anything—he just knew Fjerda and Ravka kinda hated the shit out of each other—and he knew zero to nothing about the girls’ history together, but they did make one hell of a pair.

Incredibly, Makoto spoke again first. “I hate to admit as much, but Sakamoto is right. What do we have to gain from a girl who can’t fight or spy? She will be a liability.”

“She has plenty of marketable skills,” Akechi said with firm conviction.

The girl—Haru, was it?—nodded with a hopeful glint in her eyes. “I’ve chopped enough wood to be good with an axe.” She feigned surety, but all Ryuji wanted to do was laugh—even her voice was soft and wobbly like sweet pudding. “Also, I’m knowledgeable enough about plants and herbs to concoct poisons or healing preparations!”

No, he couldn’t do it. This stuff was getting too ridiculous. The sneer erupted out of his mouth. “Lemme guess, you can play the piano, too?”

“…And sing,” the girl admitted, her face redder. Her gaze fell to the floor, and her fingers, properly folded in front of her pitch-black cloak, squeezed each other. “Also, I’ve been to the Ice Court with my father multiple times for embassy dinners.”

Akechi’s damned smirk only grew wider. “See? Marketable skills.”

Ryuji waited for the act to drop and for him to reveal the prank. But silence stretched across the parlor, and Ren looked dead serious. He must’ve known. Of course he did, idiot. Ren’s job was to know everything about anything and anyone. Had he known about Takeishi’s betrayal, too? About Akechi’s actual plan for the parlor the other night? Saints be damned, Akechi just trusted him so much. Ryuji couldn’t help the pang of jealousy that hit him, and he got both embarrassed and disgusted with himself for it.

“Still!” he complained, even though he’d already figured it’d be useless, “Why can’t we have her help on the plan and then leave her locked somewhere in Ketterdam?”

The girl’s perfectly put-together expression shattered, and she glared at him like what he’d said was unreasonable. Damn merchers, they always acted like they had a right to have the world bow at their passing!

Akechi’s expression hardened, too. “Don’t be stupid.” His icy tone made him wish he hadn’t spoken at all. “Do you think her daddy won’t come hunting down for his only heir the moment he learns she hasn’t departed for Fjerda with the rest of us?”

“How could he even know?!”

He opened his arms and took in the room. “Anything in Ketterdam leaks. The Crow Club and the Slat are no exception.”

Without a better argument to counter that sneaky bastard, Ryuji glared at Yusuke. “What’s your excuse for him, then? He’s been with the Crows for two weeks, tops. I don’t buy the demo stuff.”

“You do not trust my word?” Yusuke gasped, comically offended.

“He’s truly very good with explosives,” Akechi amended, “and he possesses an excellent hand at sketching. If we cross his skills with Niijima’s knowledge and have Okumura fact-check for us, we’re going to be the proud owners of the most detailed map of the Ice Court the world has ever seen. Do you understand my vision?”

Ann propped both elbows on the table and squished her pouting face against her knuckles. “Are we really sure about ignoring Iwai’s son? He’s in uni for chemistry. I bet he could do the job just as well.”

Akechi put up one of his fake-ass smiles. “I suppose you want to be the one to break the news to Iwai that his precious son is coming with us on a death expedition, then?” He challenged her with a glare and a sneer. She glared back with the air of someone who could murder but chose not to.

“Kaoru’s not even in the gang,” Ren added, ever on Akechi’s side. “We can’t ask this of him.”

“But we can trust a mercher’s kin and a newbie?” Ryuji sputtered. “None of you is makin’ any freakin’ sense.”

Akechi shrugged. “I’ll have you know, you’re free to leave at any time.”

Like hell I am. That jerk knew better than anyone how deep Ryuji’s debts ran. Thirty million kruge meant that even after ol’ man Sojiro got his share, Ryuji’s slice of the cake was still shaping up to be a fat three million. And that could change everything.

He shook his head and pushed against the back of his chair until it was swinging again. He stretched his bad leg on top of the table, wincing at the pain in his knee, and kept balance with the other foot.

“Nah, man, I ain’t givin’ up on the loot. I hate you for it sometimes, but your plans’re hella good. You do you.”

“Crow always has his reasons,” Ann sighed.

“I doubt they’re good ones, though,” Makoto muttered. Luckily, she seemed quick to pick up on the mood for the job. Ryuji just hoped she and Ann didn’t kill each other anytime before they got out of the Ice Court with the scientist.

Akechi walked back to the table, but he did not sit. He stood beside his empty spot and gestured for Yusuke and Haru to come closer.

“First things first: our new hirelings ought to complete their onboarding. As I’ve mentioned before, each member of the gang attending tonight has a codename they use when on the job.” His eyes lingered on Haru, Yusuke, and Makoto. “I expect you three to do the same.”

“Drüskelle did not use codenames during missions,” Makoto replied with enough contempt to fill her own pit.

“I would hope you’d avoided recycling your old one, if it existed.”

Her cheeks turned comically red. “T-That’s beside the point!”

Ryuji snorted. “Can we call her Prof? She’s got the attitude of one, for sure.”

“I refuse.”

He nodded at Ann’s finger-striped neck with his chin. “Claws?”

“No!” both she and Ann fired back, then glowered at each other.

“Fjerda is a monarchy,” the merchling helpfully provided. “Should we simply call her Queen?”

Makoto sighed. “If there’s nothing better…”

Ren pointed a finger at Yusuke’s weird satchel hanging from his belt loop. “Can he be Fox?”

Ann squinted. “Yeah, looks like a fluffy tail to me.”

The one concerned did a half-twirl on himself, studying the satchel and how it fell on his side. He frowned and eventually nodded. “I do appreciate the rather unique allure of foxes. Very well.”

They all turned to Haru, who squirmed. “Oh my, what should I use?” She checked out the room, slightly panicked, and returned her gaze to her long black cloak. She patted it where it puffed out to cover her gown. “If we go by what we’re wearing, should I be Noir?”

“That’s cool!” Ann cheered.

“Great,” Akechi concluded with a smile that was stretched too tightly to be authentic. “Now, Fox, take out your tools, if you please. It’s time our Queen puts all her knowledge to good use.”

Yusuke sat on the only empty chair and drew a slender roll of butcher paper out of the satchel, followed by a metal case that held a short black cylinder Ryuji assumed was meant for drawing, and a set of pen and ink that looked expensive as hell. He whistled lowly, but Akechi shut him up with a wave of his hand, annoyance splattered all over his stupid face.

“Time to earn your keep, Fjerdan.”

Makoto glared at him, and Ryuji figured if eyes could kill, then this night alone, Akechi would’ve been annihilated enough times to be too high to count. She crossed her arms over her chest and, with the most contrarian expression in the world, began talking.

“The Ice Court is built on a cliff right above the harbor at Djerholm, and its structure was designed in concentric circles so that it resembles a tree.” Her voice sounded, for once, uncertain. Ryuji tried to imagine what it would be like to be in her place, and his stomach clenched with unease. “The ringwall comes first, then you have the outer circle. It’s divided into three sectors: the prison, the drüskelle facilities, and the embassy, and each has its own gate in the ringwall. Beyond that, it’s the ice moat…” Her voice wavered with heavier hesitance. “And at the very center of it, the White Island.”

Yusuke moved his sketching chip in stilted circles. “I beg that you share your knowledge a tad slower, lest the result come out too poorly.”

Akechi glanced at Haru for confirmation. She nodded and added her piece.

“It is also entirely built on a rise, so in the end I’d say it looks more like a cake than a tree.”

“The cliffs aren’t a climb suited for any human to take, though.” Makoto glanced at Ann. “Or any other living being, for that matter.” Okay, forget the pity, how did she dare talk about Ann that way?! “The northern road is the only way in or out, which means you’ll have to undergo an inspection from a guarded checkpoint before you can even come close to the ringwall.”

“Two checkpoints,” Haru corrected. “I am fairly certain there were two the last time Father and I visited.”

Yusuke scribbled something on the side of the paper. Akechi threw Ryuji one of his shark-like, I-told-you-so grins. He could’ve thrown a bee’s nest for how irritating it was. Ryuji made a face at him.

“Why two?” asked Ren. He got closer to the table, and his eyes skated all over Yusuke’s sketch like the white ball spinning across the red and black sectors in a Shadow’s Wheel.

Makoto pursed her lips. “It’s much harder to bribe two sets of guards. You see, the entire security system revolves around fail-safes. If you make it that far—”

“If we make it that far, Queen,” Akechi corrected. Ryuji could’ve sworn he saw a pout flashing on Makoto’s lips before her face stitched back into her usual, boring frown.

“Well, in that case, you know what’s behind the outer ringwall already. The prison gate is always functioning with tight surveillance, while just one between the embassy gate and the drüskelle facilities gate is ever operational.”

“Go figure,” Ryuji muttered. “Can we know which one?”

“No. The shift schedule changes every week, and guards on duty are only assigned their posting the night before.”

“Isn’t that good, though? If we figure out the gate that isn’t running, there won’t be guards waiting to beat our asses.”

Makoto looked at him with a pitiful gaze that set his fingers itching for a punch. “There are always four patrols even when the gate isn’t in use.”

Ryuji glared back in kind. “Am pretty sure we can handle four guards.”

“Then that would leave you with the problem of who would open the gate, since it can only be operated by the guardhouse. Failing to do so—forcing it open when it’s not supposed to—will trigger Black Protocol.”

A shiver ran down his spine. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“It means the Ice Court, in its entirety, will go on lockdown. Additionally, every single guard inside will be made aware of your exact location.”

He looked through the room for help, but everyone was just… standing there. Even Ren’s stance had gotten all tensed up. The only one who looked like he was having the time of his life was freaking Akechi. He’d pinched his chin in that ridiculous gesture of his and was nodding to Yusuke’s ever-moving hand.

“Good, put it all down.” He tapped the paper and nodded to Makoto. “I expect the details of the inner workings of the alarm system by tomorrow morning.”

She bit her lower lip. “…I don’t really know anything about those. Only authorized personnel have access to that information, not even the guards.”

“And you’re leading me to believe a smart girl like you couldn’t deduce?”

“Of course I—” she reined herself in, but it was too late. That's just Crow for you. Despite everything and against his best judgment, Ryuji was lowkey sorry for her—aside from all that Fjerdan fanatic bullshit, she seemed like a decent enough person. She’d only had the bad luck of meeting Goro Akechi, who was gloating at full capacity.

“By all means, share with us.”

“Look,” she sighed, “I only know for certain it’s a system based on cables and bells. Everything else is speculation.”

“Noted. I want those speculations put on paper for us to consider.” He knocked the sheets with his gloved knuckles. “Now, imagine we’re inside. Where would we find Wakaba Isshiki?”

For the first time, she rose from the chair and stepped behind Yusuke’s back, beside Akechi, and glanced down. Her index moved from the outer circle on the map into the first ringwall.

“The Court usually detains criminals here, in the prison. There are high-security cells on the topmost floor, reserved for the most dangerous criminals. Assassins, terrorists…”

“Grisha,” Ann added with a grimace.

“Precisely,” Makoto replied without losing a beat. Ryuji clenched his fists. One moment, he felt sorry for her; the next, she needed to remind him how horrible she and her people were.

Akechi, however, was still pondering. “That would make the most sense if Wakaba Isshiki fell into one of those categories. She isn’t like other prisoners, though—on the contrary, we can say she’s currently the Court’s most valued asset, one they wouldn’t want to fall into enemy hands before she undergoes trial. Where would they keep her in this scenario?”

“Sealed in a coffin and buried ten feet underground.”

“Stop assuming she’s dead, will you?”

“It’s called probability. And in the highly remote case that she is still alive…” Her finger moved forward, through the circles, and stopped in the center of the tree-slash-cake-shaped map. “She would most likely be kept on the White Island. It’s where the treasury and the Royal Palace are located—the most secure place in all of Fjerda.”

Ryuji could swear that Akechi’s eyes twinkled like coins. As if that meant good news for them. “Yes. That’s where she will be.”

“In that case,” Makoto said with a proud smirk, “your quest is entirely pointless. There is no way for foreigners to breach that deep inside the ringwalls, let alone ones like… well, you.”

“In case you forgot, Queen dear, if we don’t get inside, you won’t get your pardon.”

“I’m arguing facts, Prince of the Crows, not theories. The ice moat is guarded by multiple watchtowers located on the White Island and a lookout atop the Elderclock. The only way to tread across is through the glass bridge, and there’s no way onto the glass bridge without clearance.”

“But Hringkälla is coming,” Ann said in a whisper. Makoto glared at her.

“Do not speak of such things. They are holy.”

Akechi rose from his hunched position over Yusuke. “What’s Hringkälla, and why am I hearing about it only now?”

“It’s the Day of Listening,” Ann provided. “When the new drüskelle are initiated on the White Island. The Fjerdan royal family throws this massive party with guests from all over the world, and plenty of the entertainment comes straight from Ketterdam.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean actors, dancers, even performers from a Komedie Brute troupe.” She threw a glance at Ren, nibbling at her lower lip. “And the best talents from the pleasure houses of West Stave, too.”

But Ren shrugged. “Never heard of it. I guess my breakout attempt didn’t make me a good fit.”

Ryuji frowned. They were all speaking too quickly. “Wait a minute. I thought Fjerdans didn’t go here. Pleasure houses? Really?”

“You’ve never seen Fjerdan soldiers on the Staves?”

“Duh, sure have. I meant more, like, at home. Thought they were all prudes like Makoto or somethin’.”

Makoto sputtered something, but before she could say anything coherent, Ann continued. “Nah, it’s the one time of the year when they get to stop being so miserable and actually have fun. Besides, only the drüskelle live like monks.”

“A good time needn’t involve alcohol and…” she stuttered, “and flesh.”

Ann barked out a deep laugh. “Oh, shut up! You wouldn’t know a good time if it landed in your lap and danced on it.”

Makoto’s face flushed as red as her eyes, which she used to glare at Ann, who, however, was already back to looking at the map. Ryuji just enjoyed the show from afar—he wouldn’t ever want to find himself between those two.

“Let me see…” Ann mused. “Entertainers and guests enter through the embassy. Maybe we won’t have to worry about breaking in… we could just pretend to be part of the Ketterdam crew.”

But Akechi looked doubtful. “This isn’t the Hellshow, though. I can’t just arrange a disguise and place the right man at the right time.”

“You’re all missing the point,” Makoto whined. “Visitors are usually vetted entire weeks before the event. Anyone who wishes to enter the embassy ought to have their paperwork done because there will be checks, and they will be thorough.”

“When does Hringkälla take place?”

“It’s seasonal. It’s… on the spring equinox.”

“That’s two weeks from today.” He cocked his head to the side, staring at the void.

‘Scheming face,’ Ryuji mouthed at Ann.

‘Definitely,’ she mouthed back.

Ren’s forehead furrowed, and he ran his fingers to fiddle with a curl of his fringe. “Then what do we do about the documentation? We need most of a week just for traveling up to Djerholm.”

“We don’t need those,” said Akechi. “We’re not going to enter through the embassy like the guests. After all, the first rule of a good thief is hitting where the mark isn’t looking.”

Yusuke stopped his furious sketching to gawk at Akechi.

“Who’s this Mark person?”

Ryuji choked on his own breath. “Dude. Are you for real?”

“Excuse me, I fail to understand what’s wrong with my question.”

“The mark isn’t some guy, you dumbass! It’s the person you wanna rob!”

Yusuke scowled. “That isn’t something you should be proud of.”

Says he, the same dude who’d joined a criminal gang just two weeks prior. Just… who the hell was this lunatic?

Akechi cleared his voice to recover everyone’s attention. “Can anyone tell me what’s the best way to steal a man’s wallet?”

Always with his lectures. But Ryuji huffed out a response, anyway. “Gun to his back.”

Ann wiggled her fingers. “Drop his pulse and then act.”

Ren’s eyes gleamed. “Tell him you’re gonna steal his watch.”

Makoto croaked. “There’s something deeply wrong with all of you.”

Akechi clapped his hands. “We have a winner!” He smiled at Ren, and Ryuji’s guts did a funny twist. “You manipulate the mark into shifting his attention away from your actual target. Hringkälla will do that for us. While everyone at the Ice Court is so preoccupied with making sure no unwanted guests come in, and they place all their resources into protecting the royal family, no one will have time to keep their eyes on Wakaba Isshiki. They can’t be everywhere at once.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and nodded to the map. “This is the exact opposite of our latest stunt at Hellgate. Tonight, guards were so engrossed with keeping prisoners from getting out that they didn’t check who was getting in. Our heist at the Ice Court will follow the same, but opposite principle: Fjerdans will be so busy checking who gets in that they won’t care about who walks out.”

Ryuji exhaled one exasperated sigh. “This meaning? Speak up, dude.”

“We enter through the prison, then we leave through the embassy.” He looked at Makoto. “Queen dearest, is the Elderclock operative?”

Makoto showed no sign of wanting to address the mockery. “Of course, it chimes every quarter hour. It’s also how the alarm protocols are sounded.”

“Is it accurate?”

“Of course,” she repeated, offended.

“Then we will use it as a means to coordinate our movements.”

Ryuji thought back to the job at Hellgate. “Are we sneakin’ in masked as guards?”

Akechi shook his head. “Not when only two of us can speak Fjerdan.”

“I also speak Fjerdan,” Haru added proudly.

“Three of us. At any rate, that is still too little to credibly pass as guards.” He clicked his tongue and overlooked the entire group. “No, we enter as we are: as criminals.”

Ryuji opened his eyes wide. “Isn’t that, like, the one thing we wanna avoid? Getting arrested?”

Ann nodded. “I don’t wanna end up locked up in a Fjerdan cell!”

“But if we go in as prisoners,” Ren thought out loud, “no one will check our documents. They won’t care who gets locked up, just that enough people do.”

“Because no one would want to go to prison,” Makoto completed. “So why would people be faking their identities to get in?”

Akechi nodded, goading. “Glad you’re coming to see my vision.”

“What about Isshiki, though?” Ryuji asked. “How will she know she can trust us?”

“Okumura and the Council gave her a code word when they first tried to get her out of Shu Han: Sesh-uyeh. It will tell her we’ve been sent by Kerch.”

“Sesh-uyeh,” Yusuke murmured. “It means ‘heartsick’ in Shu.” Both Ann and Ren nodded at him. Ryuji blinked. Since when did they both speak Shu?

“You from Shu Han?” In hindsight, Ryuji could’ve guessed by the deep, almost blue hue of his hair, pale face, and long lashes. Yusuke nodded.

“My mother was.”

Was. He kept the thought to himself. It was nothing strange to hear in the Barrel, but Yusuke didn’t look like he belonged in the Barrel. Ryuji hadn’t, either, but he’d had to adapt to survive.

“I am sure this is a feat we can pull,” Akechi resumed. “There is quite literally no one else in Ketterdam more qualified than us to take this job.”

Something in the room shifted with his words. It was subtle enough, but if there was one thing Ryuji was good at besides shooting and brawling, it was picking up the mood at the tables. And he could always tell when someone realized they had a winning hand—it just too rarely happened to him.

“You have no idea what you’re up against,” Makoto protested, but it was weak. In the end, she’d been blackmailed into this job like the rest of them.

“But you do, Queen,” Akechi rebutted. “And I expect your complete collaboration in defining our plan. No detail is too small or inconsequential. I want every single bit of your knowledge noted on paper, best if with sketches.”

Eventually, Haru came forward and joined them at the table. She brushed her fingers over the map Yusuke had sketched out and was now glaring daggers at.

“I suppose it does look like the rings of a tree.”

“No,” said Akechi. “It looks like the cylinder of a lock. One we’re about to pick.”

“Good luck with that,” Makoto huffed. “The odds of your mission succeeding are simply unforgiving.”

Ryuji shrugged. “We’ll turn ‘em.”

“Better yet,” added Akechi. “We are going to steal them.”

Chapter Text

Yusuke sketched out the last line of the map and put down the quill. He mindlessly rasped against the table’s cloth with his nails stained in graphite and ink and took some breaths to study the result. All he could see was a disgraceful amalgamation of crude lines and blotched volumes. Jumbled. Shame compressed his heart. Unpolished.

He tore his eyes away from such an undignified display, but no one in the room seemed to care—how could they not?! Didn’t the very outcome of this mission depend on how well Yusuke could recreate the Ice Court’s map? How could they act so tranquil?

But Crow only tugged at his black gloves and gave the paper a curt nod.

“We’re done here. Once I procure a ship, I’ll share the details about our designated meeting spot. Be ready to sail out of Ketterdam by tomorrow night.”

“So soon?” asked the girl who only looked Fjerdan. Ann, was it? Tall, blonde, clear eyes—she was the living counterpart of the northern muses that Kerch artists filled galleries with. She seemed to be knowledgeable about a variety of languages, but if she wasn’t in fact native to Fjerda—and her nature as a Grisha truly supported that she wasn’t—then Yusuke lacked the first clue about her origins.

“It feels rather early,” he agreed. He glanced at the chaotic sketches lying on the table, undeserving of being called a map. He would’ve appreciated due time to properly refine his work.

Crow only took a moment to consider their intervention.

“We can’t risk running into bad weather at sea without enough time to spare. Hringkälla is our best shot at kidnapping Wakaba Isshiki; it’d be foolish to waste it because we took too long to arrive on site.” And his crimson eyes returned to him. “I’ll have to ask that you, Noir, and Queen stay here for the night. We need detailed reproductions of all the sectors and checkpoints, as well as general information about the Ice Court. You may finish the plans on board, but I’d like to see the bulk of it before we depart.”

Yusuke’s hopes picked up. “Will I be granted the chance to properly rework my rendition, then?”

Crow stared at him as if he’d asked something inappropriate, but eventually only shrugged. “As many times as you see fit. Just ensure you complete them before we touch land.”

A boulder lifted from his shoulders. Yusuke clasped Crow’s hands with gratitude. “Ah, I swear I will make good on this opportunity! This shall be the best figuration of a Fjerdan security prison to ever grace this world.”

Crow withdrew his hands like a venomous snake dove its fangs into his skin. He took a few steps back, tugged at his gloves again, and directed his attention to the other blond—Ryuji.

“Keep them out of trouble.”

“Why me?!”

“They can’t remain at the Club all night with no escort. If someone starts asking questions, just say the parlor is occupied with a private game.” His eyes returned to Yusuke, moved to the merchant’s daughter, and landed on the Fjerdan girl—the one that did not look the part at all. “You three keep an eye on him, too, am I clear?”

Ryuji groaned. “Why’re you singlin’ me out…?”

But Crow walked to the wall opposite the door and slid open a black wood panel hiding a safe behind it. He unlocked it and extracted a tidy stash of purple banknotes that he handed to Ann.

“These are for bullets.” He counted another handful and gave them away, too. “These are for your tailoring kit. Only purchase what’s necessary for the journey—if my plan works as intended, we’re entering the Ice Court empty-handed.”

“I don’t like that,” she muttered, but took the money anyway.

“The bullets are for me, though,” Ryuji complained. “Why can’t I be the one to go?”

“Hadn’t I made myself clear enough? I need you here. Besides, you’re not the only one who can use a firearm. Ann is a well-trained soldier, I am sure she can handle herself around Iwai.”

She gave a thumbs-up. “You bet it!”

Eventually, Crow addressed the boy with the wild black curls—Ren. The Phantom. He’d been the first of the Crows he’d met.

***

Yusuke had been braving a rather unforgiving weather while wandering along East Stave, knocking at the door of each establishment he encountered. He needed to probe the entire Barrel, scrutinize all shady businesses, sift through all types of rumors until he encountered any details about substance trafficking and what might have caused the death of his mother… but, perhaps understandably, no criminal had thought fit to share their secrets with someone unaffiliated like him. He’d even resorted to offering them free labor, paintings for their establishments, and portraits of their bosses. It all had been fruitless. Either he entered as a customer, or not at all. They had not wanted trouble, only money—the one thing he’d lacked.

Disheartened, he’d sought refuge under the porch of some disgraced business, an abandoned coffee shop perhaps, and bundled up to protect his only valuables, a satchel full of fine art supplies, from the rain leaking through the cracks in the wood.

Ren had come out from the shadows as if he were one, more akin to the darkness coating the Barrel than any human should be. Still, he had spoken of a work proposal for his gang, and that, to Yusuke, had been enough to render him as bright as the pocket portrait of a Saint. Finally, someone willing to reason!

He’d illustrated Ren his situation and followed him to the Crow Club and its Prince. Crow might not have been much older than Yusuke himself, but the expertise and charm he exuded, even from behind a desk, were commendable. Inspiring, even.

“I hear that the atelier you come from is rather famous. Why would a painter with a future as bright as yours come here?”

“A grave tragedy befell someone very dear to me. A substance—the nature of which I, regrettably, remain incognizant of—had taken her life.” He clutched the satchel with his supplies closer to his chest. “I reasoned that the Barrel would be a sound place to begin my investigation. I intend to solve this mystery if it’s the last pursuit I commit to.”

Crow hummed under his breath. He rested his chin on the back of his gloved hand and leaned forward on a polished, although chipped in places, desk. “And what says your Sensei on the matter?”

Yusuke gulped. “He is not…!” Madarame’s lukewarm reaction to his mother’s sudden death was still a fresh wound in his aching flesh. He’d rather not dwell on it. “…The state of my affiliation with him is currently left uncertain. I don’t plan to involve him in the matter, nor do I wish to.”

The corner of Crow’s lips curled. “Very well. I won’t pry. As long as no one will come looking for you, possibly with a swarm of guards trailing behind, that is fine by me.” He nodded to the satchel. “Now, getting to the heart of my request: all of Madarame’s apprentices have a certain… infamy—let’s call it that—attached to them, as a result of being especially attuned to working with and producing chemicals.”

Yusuke’s heart sagged. That was most certainly something he didn’t desire to discuss. But Crow only waved a hand.

“Again, I won’t be asking for the details. I solely want to know if you would be as good with explosives as you are with pigments. You see, I have one especially delicate job troubling me right now, and I can’t risk, ah, blowing it up by employing the wrong person.”

Shame crawled up Yusuke’s spine at the prospect of what he was about to agree to. But he needed answers, ones he could not find elsewhere in the city. So he nodded.

“I can at the very least hear your request out, and if it’s something I am confident I can fulfill, I will.”

Crow had offered him a sharp smile. “Wonderful. So, it involves a certain warehouse…”

***

Yusuke shook himself out of his musing. Now, Crow handed Ren another bundle of kruge. “I will need you to get cold-weather gear. There’s a shop on the Wijnstraat that supplies trappers—start there.”

“Can’t Mishima do this?”

“Mishima will be busy tending to something else.”

Ren began replying, but Crow shoved the stash of money into his hands with a pointed look.

The unlikely Fjerdan girl named Makoto Niijima cleared her throat to get their attention. “Are you planning to approach from the north?”

“It’s our only way. The Djerholm harbor crawls with customs agents, and I imagine such a major festivity will call for additional security.”

“The Fjerdan cold isn’t forgiving.”

Crow threw her a challenging sneer. “Lucky for us, we have a local guiding us through it, do we not?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, her forehead crinkled by a deep frown. “May I have a word with you? Alone.”

Ann and Ren jumped from their chairs, but Crow raised his hand to stop them. “It’s alright, I can deal with her. You’re dismissed.” He made sure to lock eyes with every single one of them. They shone like the wine in a cup of a still-nature painting, one Yusuke couldn’t help but wonder if it was poisonous. “Not a single mention of this job. No one is to be made aware you’re leaving Kerch. Avoid at all costs putting yourself into a situation where you must explain what’s going on. And should you ever need a cover, you’ll all be working with me at a country house outside the city. That’s all.”

Everyone nodded. Ann asked, “Will we ever have the details about your genius evil plan?”

“Once we set sail, yes. The less you know, the less you can talk.”

“A smart move,” Niijima commented, sardonic. Crow smiled back at her in kind.

“Don’t compliment me too much, Niijima, or I’ll assume you hold some respect for me.”

She pointedly kept quiet, only crossing her arms, waiting for their private meeting to begin.

Yusuke gathered his few belongings. He would be using them again later, of course, but the thought of leaving his quill dirty with crusty ink disgusted him. He might as well take advantage of this brief respite to clear it and sort through his other supplies.

The parlor door slid closed behind him as the rest of the gang walked down the black-paneled hallway. Ren disappeared past the end of the corridor, while Ann and Ryuji stopped midway to talk. The boy detached his shotgun from its holster on his back and showed it to her, grumbling unintelligible words.

Fascinating. Yusuke had never held a gun in his entire life, but the intricacies of their inner workings had always made him wonder. Explosives were already a delicate subject on their own, but differently from bombs and detonation tools, guns were designed to be held by humans. The thought of using them unsettled him, of course, but in anything else, the handiwork at play to ensure the metal barrel and the butt absorbed the power of the explosion was something to be respected.

“Um, Kitagawa-kun?”

Yusuke looked down. Haru Okumura smiled at him, her rosy lips curled as if she was thinking something amusing.

“My apologies if the topic is somewhat personal, but…” She hesitated, just a breath. “Are you perhaps the pupil of Ichiryusai Madarame?”

He blinked, surprised. No one aside from Crow had ever recognized him outside of Zelver District, where Sensei’s atelier was located—although he supposed it had been foolish of him not to predict the daughter of a merchant would be well acquainted with Sensei’s work.

He bowed politely. “I am indeed. Is there something I can assist you with in that regard?”

“Oh, no, not at all! Just thought I had already seen you somewhere.”

“Ah! Maybe you were amongst the lucky visitors of Sensei’s latest exhibition?”

Her shoulders hitched, although he couldn’t begin to imagine why. Had he said something offensive? Maybe she wasn’t a connoisseur of fine arts, after all.

But she hastily recovered and continued the conversation with nonchalance. “Yes, you’re right. I don’t know if you’re aware, but my father’s trading company has been furnishing Madarame’s atelier with every kind of supply for a while now. Animal hair for custom brushes, powders, canvases… even frames, if I’m not mistaken.”

He raised his eyebrows. In truth, he had no clue about Sensei’s supply chain. He only got an allowance for the help he provided with fabricating pigments, and he mostly spent it on his own share of inks and paper sheets—he just enjoyed strolling through the workshops of the neighborhood. Whenever he felt especially slumped in his creative process, he would venture up to the University District to purchase whichever book fascinated him, in the hope it would ignite his inspiration once more.

“I… see,” he said.

“Actually…” Okumura added in a small voice, “If I’m being honest, I was also wondering… well, what are you doing here? Madarame’s atelier is renowned and well-appreciated. I am sure a bright future would await someone like you.”

The question, albeit logical and somewhat expected, struck a sore chord in his heart. He scolded his expression. “You must forgive me, that is a rather private matter.”

“Of course! I meant no offense.”

“Besides,” he added as annoyance took the better hold of him, “I could be asking you the very same.”

She only chuckled. What a peculiar girl, indeed. “I suppose you’re right. Very well, if it can help us break the ice… You know, despite functionally being a hostage, Crow hadn’t lied before: I’m here out of my own volition.”

He gawked at her—such an absurd tale couldn’t be true, could it?—but she laughed again.

“I understand that is rather hard to believe, but it’s the truth. The proposal came from me, in fact.”

“Apologies if I lack respect in any way, but to think the only daughter of someone as well-off as your father would choose this…”

Her gaze fell, as did the corners of her lips. It was as if every flame of joy had been extinguished from her body. “You see, Kitagawa-kun, things between me and my father never went all that well. Lately, it’s become even harder to bear. Last winter he—” She swallowed down. Whatever she had been about to say, it must’ve been painful. “On my nineteenth birthday, he insisted I accompany him to one of his business dinners. Call me naïve, but I hoped he had news about the company to share.”

“Was that not the case?”

She shook her head. “He introduced me to one of his partners, yes. A Kaelish man named Sugimura… then, he proceeded to announce I was to marry him. Preparations for our wedding are still taking place as we speak.”

His heart plummeted. His mother never spoke about Yusuke’s father, but she used to insist that love was something beautiful, a moving force in this world. He’d always figured, from books and word of mouth, that a true companionship ought to have love as its foundation. But the world kept revealing itself far uglier than he’d assumed. There just seemed to be no end to how grim reality could be, and how corrupt people could turn out to be.

“My deepest apologies,” he uttered, lowering his chin as well.

“It’s alright. I’m scared, but I’m glad I mustered up enough courage to escape.” She stretched a smile on her face. “Father has never been understanding of my doubts about marrying Sugimura. My only possessions have already been designated to be my dowry, but with three million kruge to my name, I should have enough money to at least start a life of my own somewhere else.”

“That’s… admirable. You possess quite a strong will.” Unlike Yusuke himself, who fled from his home the very same day his mother passed away, rather than clear all the doubts that had welled up in his nineteen years of living with and working for Madarame.

She beamed. “My, thank you! Although I feel like that must be true for you, too, if Crow wanted you on this mission.”

Yusuke quieted down. ‘I know you could use the money,’ Crow had said, ‘and most importantly, I just happened to cross paths with someone that may or may not be the key to some of the answers you’re seeking.’

He could never, at any given time, quell the voices whispering in his head about Sensei and the atelier. Vendors and passersby in the neighborhood often whispered that the atelier was bad luck for anyone but Madarame himself, that whoever entered as an indenture was bound to either disappear or see their hopes and dreams crushed under the enormous weight of Madarame’s fame and power. These conclaves, banding at the corner of the streets, gathering in the safety of taverns and houses, dubbed his Sensei with all kinds of labels. Slaver, abuser… forger, even! All defamation against him.

But it was as if once Yusuke heard them, they took root in his soul like the most fastidious weed. Because there used to be other disciples besides him, apprenticing at the atelier; young promises of the arts employed in the same line of work as he did: creating pigments, helping out with the paintings, and being the inspiration for Sensei’s next masterpieces. One by one, they all left over the years—Yusuke’s heart always wanted to believe they had found their own fortune elsewhere.

Even his mother used to go through shifts despite her precarious health conditions, but she did it with a smile on her face, and despite the tiredness, she always made sure to work on her personal artwork once her duty was done. She had taught Yusuke her trade, cultivated his gift, and nurtured the fire of his passion for art.

She’d disappeared one night. Yusuke had kept watch in their shared room until the early hours of the next day. She had come stumbling through the front door, cold as ice, but acting like she’d come down with a fever. She had begged Yusuke for more… more of what, however, he had not known. Jurda, she’d just said. Her last words, her last will, aimed at some unknown drug.

Okumura was studying him with wide hazel eyes. Yusuke willed himself to resume the talk—if anything, out of courtesy for his interlocutor. “Speaking so highly of me, even though we have but just met… That is rather nice of you. To be frank, though, I am unsure if your impression of me could hold up to the test of reality.”

“Why would you say such a thing?”

“My view of the world is fundamentally flawed. This conviction of mine proves more true with each passing day.” He sighed. He was growing rather tired, but the night was still young, as they say. “In truth, I don’t consider myself the most qualified person for the task at hand. Still, I want to pursue this feat. Does that make me an egoist?”

She clasped her hands behind her back, eyeing him. “To be quite honest with you, I don’t believe any of us are embarking on this journey with purely altruistic reasons in mind.”

“You might be right. Still—”

“Besides,” she added, “if our goals align so that we can also rid the world of parem’s terrible threat, isn’t that great?”

Warmth washed over him. It must’ve been a gift of hers, to say the right thing at the right time—something Yusuke was well aware he lacked, himself. “I must thank you, Okumura-san.”

“Oh, please, just call me Haru. No need to be so formal.” She scooted closer and lowered her voice to a whisper, as if conspiring. “Besides, we’re about to become accomplices. Can’t do any bad to be friendly, right?”

Yusuke nodded along. ‘Someone that may or may not be the key to some of the answers you’re seeking.’ Those words mulled over inside his head. If she was the daughter of Sensei’s business partner, maybe…

The gambling parlor door slid open again. Crow stalked out, looking victorious, whereas Niijima had been left sulking in the same corner they’d left her. The gang leader pointed to the room.

“All yours. I expect great things to come out of this meeting.” He didn’t wait for a response and proceeded down the hallway, where he exchanged a nod with Ryuji and rounded the corner of the corridor.

“Well,” Haru sighed, “I guess it is time for us to get back to work.”

“Wait.”

Yusuke had spoken before his brain could assemble his intended speech. Heat rushed to his face, but it was too late to retreat. He cleared his throat.

“Pardon, that was quite a poor display on my end.” He swallowed down and went on with his request before anyone else could interrupt them. “I was merely wondering what your opinion of my Sensei was, and if you knew something more about his relationship with your father.”

Haru opened her eyes wide. Her fingers fiddled with one end of her fluffy curls close to her ear, and she looked away.

“Um, if I’m being honest, Yusuke-kun, I wouldn’t consider myself too knowledgeable on the matter. My father has always cut me out of his business, so I’m not too aware of the extent or content of his business relationships beyond a very superficial level…”

“Oh. I see.”

“I’m very sorry to disappoint you. I’ve already told you what I know—that is, my father’s company is the primary supplier of Madarame’s atelier. Also, I believe they have an agreement in place around the selling of his paintings, but I’m left in the dark about the specifics.”

Yusuke reined in his disappointment. Perhaps he oughtn’t have jumped to conclusions about Haru’s role in what happened to his mother. It was entirely possible she wasn’t even the person Crow alluded to. Moreover, it would have been unkind to continually remind her of her strained relationship with her father by demanding answers she couldn’t possibly give him. He needed to ascertain the truth in some other way.

“You needn’t worry. I must thank you for hearing me out, still.”

“It was my pleasure!”

Heavy steps echoed through the corridor: Ryuji was approaching.

“You two’re done with your chitchat?”

Haru nodded. “Mh-hm!”

“Then it’s time to get to work.” He leaned against the frame of the parlor’s sliding door and took post on the spot.

Yusuke stepped past the threshold and back inside, and Haru trailed right behind him. It was shaping up to be a long night—he just hoped tiredness would leave him alone long enough not to taint his work with subpar outcomes.

Chapter Text

Ren pushed through the crowd that flooded the Staves even one hour before dawn. The wiggle of bodies and cacophony of voices muddled his senses, and he glanced up at his personal Ketterdam: the rooftops. But after two nights of nearly no sleep and one whole day of running around for supplies, he didn’t trust his balance with climbing gabled roofs and running on shingles.

After Makoto, Goro had held private consultations with everyone in the crew. Save for him.. He’d only told him the time and place scheduled for the meeting; otherwise, hop hop hop through the city he went looking for anything from snow goggles to a very last-minute request for… paraffin. And two whole lumps at that. Ren lacked the first clue about what Goro intended to do with them, and by the end of the shopping frenzy, he’d been too tired to care.

That, he’d concluded, was by design. He was pretty sure Goro had forced him to run errands all day long, so Ren couldn’t spy on what the others—and especially Goro himself—had been up to. That would be a signature Goro Akechi move, so why did the thought sting so much?

You’ve let yourself become attached.

No, it was worse: he’d deluded himself into believing he could be the exception, the lockpick to crack open at least some of the many cylinders that secured the lock on Goro Akechi’s vault of a heart. But in hindsight, Ren learned most of his personal information—his real name, his Grisha powers—against Goro’s will. It’d always been one step forth, two steps back with him. Maybe Ren overestimated how much he could advance his infiltration before reaching a dead end.

He huffed out a frustrated breath and crossed a bridge toward West Stave, his spine prickling with unease. He usually steered clear of that place if he could, because no matter how invisible he made himself to be, he would always feel watched—by Hiiragi herself or by one of her enforcers, as if they were all ready to pounce on him and drag him back into that hell like they had done after his escape attempt. Sadly, the rooftops were out of the question tonight, and from this side of the Lower Barrel, the quickest route to Fifth Harbor was through the pleasure district.

He raised his hood and let himself be assimilated in the current of Lost Brides and Scarab Queens, Mister Crimsons and Madmen, a blur of blue and green and orange that tinted the streets along the canal.

This part of the Barrel, where he’d been forced to sell his body for a year at the Menagerie… it upset him the most; it filled him with equal parts shame and rage. The costumed crowd acted as a painful, incessant reminder of the masks he had to wear and those he had to bed.

But the street performers and dancers and acrobats… they reminded him of home. Even though the Circus of Shujin had no right to be called that anymore. He’d been forsaken, and not one person ever came looking for him, although a part of him knew just how hard that task would be without Kerch connections. The Circus didn’t go here. The Kerch had their entertainment figured out already. Ren had just become part of it, willing or not.

He didn’t even miss the Circus as much as he missed putting up shows that could be on his terms. He enjoyed the cloak of darkness he wore for the Crows and the allure the Phantom moniker had. But he’d also thrived in giving circus attendees a good time for one evening, in knowing that children and adults alike would cherish the memory of his exhibitions for years to come, even returning just to see him.

Except that those times were long gone and forgotten. His life as Akira Kurusu was no more.

What troubled him, in truth, was the question of what kept him living as Ren Amamiya. Repaying his debt to Sojiro Sakura was just another roadblock between him and his freedom, but what that freedom meant, he had no idea. Three million kruge were more than enough to buy his way out of his contract with the Crows, and then he would stop owing Ketterdam—or Goro Akechi—anything at all. Past that? He was clueless.

The head coordinator for all acrobats at the Circus, Coach Hiraguchi, used to say: ‘The heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true.’ She would drill that into their minds when they trained on the high wire or practiced swings and somersaults. ‘You need to know where you want to go before you get there.’ And Akira had known, every single time. It was easy enough: the tightrope raised another foot, the bombastic cheers of the crowd, an extra share of tips he would invest into a good meal and a drink with Kasumi.

Now it was all hazy like the view of Ketterdam through Goro’s office window on a fall day. The further he gazed, the whiter everything became.

Right now, I’d settle for a rematch.

He and Goro sometimes sparred to keep each other in good shape—one may never know, in the Barrel—but Ren not once succeeded in pushing Goro to use his powers. Which meant even the matches he’d won, he’d done so through Goro conceding before it would get too far. The thought had always made his hands itch, even though they couldn’t produce death like Goro’s hands could.

A glint of gold caught in the periphery of his sight. He halted his stride, hair raised on the back of his neck. The cage-shaped building of the Menagerie stood right in front of him down the street, the last bastion before the Lid and, past that, Fifth Harbor.

Widely spaced golden bars encased the first two stories. On the ground floor, boys and, mostly, girls fawned at passersby to lure people in, whereas on the upper floor, customers who considered the world their stage took their pleasure for everyone to see. After all, their identity was concealed. No one could distinguish one Madman from another. Ren’s blood lit up with searing fury.

He should’ve known best, truly. He should’ve stridden past without another glance. But the sight of that cage, with its kitsch furniture adorning the parlor—flamingo feathers, fuchsia sofas, white furry carpets—captured him once more. He spotted only a few of the girls he’d used to work with: a Ravkan teenager wearing the fox mask and a Kaelish one dressed as a mare. All the others, he’d never met. Boys and girls always came and went at the Menagerie because no client was interested in them; they only cared about tasting something different, something exotic. Their names, their pasts; they didn’t matter. Only that they wore their animal furs and acted their part for the entertainment of paying customers.

Ren had been the exception. He’d always donned the costumes his habitues requested of him: a pale boy dressed like a dark-skinned Zemeni fawn? So bizarre! Black curls paired with the silvery furs of a tall, blond Fjerdan wolf? How queer!

His fingers retreated inside his cape, brushing against the spot on his left arm where Yoshitsune hid, strapped on his sleeve. A kaiken dagger designed for crowds and narrow spaces. Ren took a few calming breaths. He had no means of tracking the man who originated this catastrophe. But Alice Hiiragi… Ren knew where he could find her. And one day, his knives would, too. That much, at least, his heart understood.

He paid the Menagerie no further attention and resumed walking along West Stave.

One arm closed around his waist, with leather-clad fingers pressing into his hipbone. He drew Yoshitsune out, but another, bulkier hand snatched his wrist and forced it back behind his back. The clatter of his blade on the cobblestone sounded like a death sentence as the revolting scent of that candied soap Hiiragi loved to bathe in overtook his nostrils. He looked down with a snarl. Even wearing her higher heels, Hiiragi still only reached his chin. But her red-lined lips smirked with a silent taunt.

“Hello, Ren.”

He hissed under his breath and struggled to free his arm, but the big guy behind him caught even the other one. They’d gotten him again.

“That’s—that’s not my name,” he gasped, a response as instinctual as shoving his arms forward when softening the blow after a nasty fall. He’d repeated it so many times while serving his indenture under Hiiragi, and only stopped around after his failed escape attempt. Humiliation prickled at his eyes. It shouldn’t have been this easy to make him falter, to stab at his resolve.

Her other gloved hand slithered along the line of his jaw and forced him to bow down closer to her eyes. Makeup had turned the lids black, and some water-green liner defined the rim of her lashes.

“Oh, you stubborn little thing,” she sighed. “Ren will forever be your name. The only one that counts.” She pressed her fingers into his cheeks, searching, examining. “Getting a little hollow on the face, I see. Are those thugs treating you well? Do they even know how much you’d be worth?”

He gave another sharp tug, and the enforcer behind him adjusted his hold around his arms, but that meant Ren could get a feel of Arsène’s handle strapped against his lower back with the tips of his fingers. If he took another small step back, he could touch Yoshitsune with the heel of his slipper.

“Let me go.” It wasn’t a plea. It was an order.

Hiiragi shook her head. A strand from one of her gaudy wigs, all purple strained with light blue, caught against the side of her jaw, and the end of its bob cut dangled around her diamond-choker-lined neck, right where Ren dreamed of thrusting his blade. With an annoyed air, she took some steps back and waved at the enforcer, who unclenched his hold. Ren could breathe again, finally. But that monster wasn’t finished.

“Well, I know your worth, Ren.” She glanced down somewhere around his navel. “Every part of you.” She laughed with the back of her hand covering her mouth and walked away, the bulky man trailing after her.

Ren seethed at how his ears flushed hot. He was seeing red. His chest rose and fell, heart going off like one of Ryuji’s revolvers. He hovered the heel of his slipper on the edge of Yoshitsune’s handle and stomped with enough force to send the dagger flying upwards. His fingers clenched around the familiar leather. Then he slipped his thumb under Arsène’s hilt and welcomed it, too, in his other hand. He’d sworn that woman would die someday. That day was tonight.

He adjusted his stance, both daggers out, ready to bolt after her.

Someone else hooked his forearm and yanked him away.

What the hell?

He spun and thrust Yoshitsune through the air, but the stranger ducked down. Whoever they were, a cape not unlike Ren’s own covered most of their body and shadowed their face. They simply stood on guard. They didn’t act like they were about to strike back.

Frowning, he slipped Arsène back into its sheath on his lower back and Yoshitsune on the side of his arm. If Goro knew just how many times he’d been caught unguarded tonight alone, Ren was sure to be fired.

The stranger broke the stalemate first. Dissatisfied with only disrupting his assassination attempt, they grabbed his arm again and dragged him away from the Stave and into a side alley. Ren let them, if anything to escape the small group of people who’d stopped walking to savor a bit of a show. A good head shorter than Ren, their frame was rather petite even under the cloak, and they trod lightly but securely on the cobblestone rendered slippery by humidity, keeping to the darker corners, not unlike Ren did.

Past the middle of the alley, Ren wiggled his arm out and kept his stance tensed and ready to bolt. But the stranger let him go with no further protest and only stood there, as if waiting for commands. Their height didn’t reach a whole lot past Hiiragi’s, posture composed and head bowed down, so Ren couldn’t gain the first clue about their appearance.

Behind the stranger’s back, from the other end of the alley, a second person came forward, a man in a candid white suit—one of Eden’s guys. Ren caught the glint of glasses and the volume of curls bouncing on top of his head; aside from that, it was all pristine jacket and snow-white pants. The man waved in their direction, and even his hands were clad in white leather.

“Good evening, Ren.”

He had no idea who this man was, and even less did he like the imbalance in information. He fully faced him, and masked by the swish of his cape, he hovered his hand near Arsène’s handle again. Whatever may come, he’d be ready.

“Who are you?” he gritted out.

Halfway between him and the man, the hooded figure reacted to the snap in his voice with some shuffling. They took a more aggressive stance, one foot forward and fingers curled around something he couldn’t make out—some sword hanging from their hips. But the strange man kept walking and stopped just beside the person that intercepted Ren in the first place, then put a hand on their shoulder.

“Now, now, there’s no need for that.”

He whispered something else to them and patted their hood. The figure stepped back and left the scene to their master, but they weren’t gone. They played the same game as Ren, sticking to the shadows until they became one, their threat silent but unmistakable: one false step and you’re dead. He knew the language well enough, just as much as he knew the trade.

“Answer my question,” he demanded.

The man raised his arms as if surrendering and offered Ren a smile he could barely see in the darkness. “So sorry to disrupt your night. My name is Takuto Maruki, and I mean no harm.” He said it in a conciliatory tone, but the last words held a different weight than the rest, as if there was some sort of catch—like ‘I mean no harm… unless you force me to.’ It made him shiver. He wanted to be done with him as soon as possible.

“Are you with Eden?”

“Ah—you must mean Eden’s Garden, yes? You know about us?”

“You’re crawling everywhere in the Barrel. Pretty bad for our business.”

His shoulders sagged. That mustn’t have pleased him, but it made Ren’s lips quirk at the ends.

“It saddens me to learn this is how you see our voluntary work, although I suppose it only makes sense from your perspective. I’m sorry that fate has been so unkind to you.”

It wasn’t fate. Ren squeezed Arsène’s handle. Fate wasn’t what saved that woman from rape—Akira Kurusu’s resolve to act was. Just like it was Ren Amamiya’s decision to accept Goro Akechi’s offer and to put enough work into learning how to steal secrets and murder in silence that he’d become the best at it. It didn’t matter how aggressively life had tried to render him a spectator of the events—Akira Kurusu had been born a performer, and Ren Amamiya would honor that for the rest of his days, choice after choice.

“I don’t need your kindness,” he bit back. “What I need now is to be on my way.” He turned tail and took some steps in the direction he came from, but that mysterious hooded figure had already rounded him and now blocked his way.

Oh, so you wanna play.

He made no mystery of the dagger in his hand this time. It was too dark for him to flash it, but the hiss of the blade through the air would be enough.

The hooded figure replied in kind, the first hint of a blade scraping against its sheath.

“Wait!” Maruki begged from behind him. “I truly don’t mean for this meeting to take the wrong turn. I only ask that you hear me out, and then you’ll be free to go. Please!”

Free. Goro had said something of that kind when they’d met: ‘Repay your debt with Sojiro Sakura and you will be, eventually, free.’

“Then you’d better start talking, Maruki.”

“My, you sound just like… never mind.” He cleared his voice, and Ren turned just in time to see him scratching the back of his neck. “As I was saying, I work with the people of Eden’s Garden—in truth, I do more than just that. I am their supervisor, you see. The Garden is my very own creation.”

Ren’s senses spiked. He’d assumed those fanatics were sprouting from a collective or something along those lines. Who could’ve imagined they had a boss? He pushed Arsène back into its sheath. If he could squeeze some information out of him, this detour wouldn’t be a complete loss of time.

“I’m listening.”

“Oh, good. Perfect, even! I will make this quick, then: I know you’re currently part of the Crows. You work as a thief of secrets and a spy, yes? And the best in the Barrel, if voices have it right.”

Ren nodded. “What of it?”

“I will get straight to the point: I’m here to ask that you join me instead.”

That caught him so off guard that he couldn’t stop a snort from erupting out of his mouth. “Not a chance.”

“But wait, let me explain!”

He took some steps forward, and Ren took a few back on instinct, even if by doing so he got closer to the hooded figure. Maruki recoiled, most likely displeased, but he stopped his advance.

“I created Eden’s Garden exactly to help out people like you. Ketterdam’s crime problem might be huge enough that the city opted to profit from it, but I don’t agree one bit with that way of operating. No one chooses to live in the margins of society unless everyone else has abandoned them, be that their family, employer, or even the city itself. But what if there was another way?” Ren couldn’t see his eyes all that well, but he swore they had to be twinkling. “Eden’s Garden is exactly that: a facility to help desperate people back on their feet so that they can ultimately be reintegrated into society as honest men and women.”

Ren’s lips bent down. “I’m a spy and an assassin.” And I’ve been a whore. “How do I fit into that scheme of yours?”

“It’s not a scheme,” Maruki replied with hurt in his voice. “It’s the only effective way to bring actual good into this world. And as more people join, more and more good will be done.”

So it was indeed a scheme. A scheme and a cult. And definitely a scam. There was no such thing as turning Ketterdam into a respectable place. But Ren could see where this Maruki guy was going with his request.

“You want me to scout new pigeons for you.”

“Look, they’re not—they’re patients. They need help.”

“Offer them money. That’s always the most effective way with Barrel people.”

“That would be but a palliative. Unless a behavioral change is in place, money isn’t guaranteed to bring any substantial improvement. On the contrary, I would assume you, more than anyone else, would know where a sudden influx of money is most likely to go.”

“Turning private information about people’s lives against them is the same as blackmailing.”

“That’s not true at all!” Maruki protested. “My goal isn’t to force people to join me. I want them to make an informed choice after seeing the best path ahead. And the most effective way to do that is by learning their very unique circumstances.”

Ren shook his head. This man wasn’t giving him anything useful to work with. Up above, the sky had turned from black to purple. He needed to go.

“Still not interested.”

“Please, at least take some time to consider—”

“Even if I was,” he lashed out, “I’m bound to the Crows by a contract. I can’t just walk out on it on a whim.”

“I can see to that,” Maruki hurried to add, voice full of hope. “Is it an indenture? I hear they’re very common in Ketterdam, sadly—if that’s the case, we can figure out a solution together. I may be able to purchase that contract, and you would repay me through your work. It wouldn’t be at all different from what you’re already doing.”

You’re too late!

Ren doubted Maruki could see just how bitter his smile got. Two years ago, he’d tried to escape the Menagerie, and all he’d gotten were the worst round of beatings of his life and a one-month recovery before he could be presentable enough to see clients. Had Maruki knocked at his door with that same promise, he would’ve said yes. He would’ve done anything to leave that hell of a gilded cage. But now he had his attic at the Slat, the occasional bowl of curry at Leblanc, and countless afternoons perched on the windowsill of Goro’s study.

And he’d rather be a thief, a liar, and a murderer upfront than someone committing the same crimes while deluding himself into being the better person.

He turned his back to Maruki and approached the hooded figure at the other end of the alley. “Move.”

They didn’t even flinch.

“Ren…” Maruki’s voice cracked with sadness. “I beg you to reconsider this. You’re committing a grave mistake.”

That’s not for you to decide. He worked his jaw shut. Arguing with this man was pointless, and he was already running late. His silence would be answer enough.

Maruki sighed deeply. “Let him go.”

Only at that point, the stranger stepped aside. The infused light of near-dawn marked the lines of their silhouette better: narrow shoulders, long and slender legs. Ren was willing to bet it was most likely a girl. He glared at the cobblestone. Didn’t this man already have his thief of secrets? If this girl moved like Ren did, she could probably do the same job. Would suck to have competition, though.

He walked back through the alley before they could drag the conversation even longer. He needed to get to Fifth Harbor as quickly as possible.

“If you ever change your mind,” Maruki said from behind his back, a desperate attempt. “The offer will always be valid.”

Ren adjusted his hood back on his head and headed out into the main street of West Stave. The swirl of masked bodies and musicians and dancers was still going strong, the liveliest party; Ren, however, had work to do.

He left West Stave behind and crossed the wide road of the Lid. The Ketterdam harbors came into view on the horizon, and from this perspective, unclogged by a crowd of masked pleasure-seekers and street performers, he could spot the top of one tower belonging to the Council of Tides, the super-secret group of Grisha who oversaw harbor security, always knowing who docked and who sailed out. Now that the truth behind the cold case at the stadhall had been cleared, the Council of Tide remained the only mystery in Ketterdam that neither he nor Goro could crack. They tried, multiple times, but their identities were impossible to pin down: not through money, not through espionage, and not even through Ann’s network of Grisha. If their upcoming heist in Fjerda were successful, the Council of Tides would’ve proved a harder safe to crack than the Ice Court.

The tower was a sleek obelisk of black stone and doubled as a lighthouse, with its topmost floor ever-lit and manned by guards. If any unauthorized vessel attempted to cross Haanraadt Bay in either direction, the Tidemakers would alter the tides against its favor.

But the Crows had paid juicy bribes for tonight’s operation, and Ren didn’t doubt their departure would go on smoothly.

He broke out of his reverie and sprinted into a jog. Fifth Harbor was getting closer, but he was late.

He ventured into the maze of crates and cargo stacked on top of each other, often three, even four stories of packed goods. Wind from the sea made sails flap and ropes snap. Everything else was quiet. It soothed his nerves after the chaos of West Stave and his run-in with that monster Hiiragi. She would've never ambushed him if it hadn’t been for the mass of people throwing his senses off. That was why he always preferred the roofs. No one could catch him off guard there.

Past the walls made of crates, a light mist rose from the water. A little schooner rolled up and down with the gentle shift of the tides, moored to the quay. It had Robin Hood written in bold script on its side. Iwai had helped Goro commandeer it. It would fly the purple Kerch fishes and the orange flag of the Honjo Company. To anyone in Fjerda or crossing the True Sea just like them, it would simply look like the umpteenth Kerch ship heading north for whale skins and reindeer furs.

Ren squinted to pin the crew on board, but the schooner looked deserted. Chin tipped upward, his eyes scourged the main deck and the two masts, sails still rolled. Not even the crow’s nest was occupied.

He blinked. Was he not running that late, after all? But dawn was fast approaching, he couldn’t be that early, either. He was on time at best. His eyes left the Robin Hood behind and moved past the supposed meeting spot.

Goro and the others were waiting in an open space between two piers, dressed like sailors: rough-spun trousers, boots, thick wool coats, and hats. Even Goro had forgone his beloved vests and jackets and kept his hair tied back into a scant ponytail. He looked like a boy about to set sail on his first adventure.

Ren did a mental tally of the heads: Goro, Ann, and Ryuji; Yusuke and Haru; Makoto and Mishima. Numbers are off. They’d brought four additional people, plus Iwai, to help sail the schooner since none knew their way around the rigging. So, where were they? Moreover, why wasn’t the crew aboard already?

He stepped on something soft and almost tripped.

Yuya Uchimura, one of the Crows who was supposed to make the journey with them, was sprawled on the floor of the harbor, a knife in his abdomen and blood seeping through his clothes. His eyes were glassy under the dim glow of the harbor gaslights. Ren’s blood ran cold. Someone’s talked.

“Crow!” he shouted.

Goro turned in his direction.

The schooner by Ren’s side exploded, knocking him off his feet and showering the docks in flames.

Chapter Text

Ryuji flattened his back against the nearest crate and gawked at the sky, half clearing and half still pitched in blue darkness. Flames rose from what scraps remained of the schooner’s keel. Around him, past the skimpy cover of the crates, magazines spun, safeties clicked, bullets exploded. He took a deep breath, and the morning mist grated on his lungs, heavy with smoke and gunpowder. His heart came alive. Gunfights were the exact shit that set his blood on fire.

He scoured his satchel for ammo. His fingers closed around the buckshot. Nah, those assholes weren’t that close. He pushed further and dug up the rifled slugs. Now, that was somethin’ to work with. Each projectile slid into the magazine of his trusted shotgun, smooth as butter. He smirked. He was ‘bout to blow some guts.

Ryuji sprang up on top of the crate and aimed the barrel at the first thug in sight; he put his leg out of commission, and the enemy collapsed on the ground. Ryuji charged a second shot and blew the edge of a wooden crate, missing his target by anything but a breath.

Beside him, Haru Okumura let out a sound close enough to a yip. Ryuji answered with a laugh. That merchling would soon see what action on a job was like. He adjusted the aim and waited for the bastard to leave his hiding spot. Bring it, sucker.

The world roared stronger, smelled richer, and shone brighter. He was alive the most when in the middle of a brawl or with gunshots ringing in his ears. Shit like money, debts, his future—none of that mattered. It was just him and his survival against a bunch of idiots he could teach a lesson to. No schemes, no chitchat, only pure instinct. It was the best feeling in the world. It came even before sitting at the green table, waiting for his best hand of Tycoon to drop; it came even before pushing against the crowd of people gathered around a Shadow Wheel when his number came right up.

Ryuji welcomed the fight like he would a cherished friend, but there was no denying they were pretty fucked. Surrounded, at least one man down, and their only way to Fjerda was burning before they could board it.

Sure, it could’ve been worse. They could’ve been on the ship when it exploded.

‘Expect competition,’ Akechi had said, ‘despite what Okumura might have said, I doubt we’ll be the only team in the Barrel engaged in the heist.’

Ryuji had taken only a bunch of cartridges with him and left the rest with Iwai and Mishima to be embarked. The stash wouldn’t last long, but it was better than nothing at all. Honestly, he was more mad that Akechi had been right once again. Fuck it, he’d prolly jinxed them. They were too early in the job for things to go this shitty. Something wasn’t right.

Eventually, the rat peeked out from the crate he was hiding behind, and Ryuji made sure his brain matter got a nice souvenir from this confrontation. Blood spilled out of the wound, and the man flopped down. His rifle clattered against the ground of the harbor.

He ducked down for cover and recharged the magazine. Into his periphery, he caught sight of Yusuke Kitagawa curled on the dock, a messy contortion of long limbs so slender he wondered how he’d carry his own weight around. Man, look what I hafta deal with. He sighed and lunged out from his sweet spot to seize Yusuke by the collar of his shirt. The guy was tall, but far from heavy.

“Pull it together, damn it!”

Yusuke mumbled something about bloodstained hands that Ryuji didn’t quite catch, and he hardly gave enough of a shit to ask for a repeat. He eyed the abandoned rifle. They could use the additional firepower. He fired two shots for cover and rushed to steal the gun. The hell of bullets broke loose against him, and he took what had been the other man’s cover.

With his ass pressed on effin’ cold stone and his shotgun balanced on his lap, he studied the rifle—it had four shots in, still, so he made sure it was ready to fire and whistled to the newbies.

“One of you weaklings take this.”

Yusuke stayed quiet, but Haru’s voice came clearly even against the roar of the fight. “I’ll do it.”

He threw her the rifle over the crate and retreated to cover. “Shoot wherever, missy, just make sure it lands. Any hit you can land on ‘em is gold to us at this point.”

As an answer, a bullet was fired from her direction, and it nested near enough to a goon’s foot to offer Ryuji an opening. He raised the shotgun’s barrel and fired at his guts, and the guy howled in pain as he doubled over. Ryuji seized the moment and sprinted toward his original cover to make sure the other two were both protected. All that running was sure to knock at his door later on in the form of a very sore knee, but he couldn’t worry about that right now.

A shape sprang into his peripheral vision, and Ryuji raised his gun once again.

It was just Akechi. He let go a wheeze of relief and lowered the barrel.

“Where the eff are you comin’ out of?”

“Head east to the next dock, board at berth twenty-two.”

“What’s there?”

“The Hereward, our real schooner.”

“What—”

“The boat they blew was but a decoy.”

Ryuji regretted not firing his shot. “You knew?!”

“I suspected, so I took precautions.”

And you didn’t say. Just like with Takeishi.

Blood boiling, he was about to protest, but Akechi glanced at Haru and her rifle, so much bigger than her. It could’ve been comical if they weren’t all about to die. “Make sure she gets to the ship in one piece. Now get moving.”

Akechi stepped back into the shadows of the maze of crates. He carried one pistol in his hand and the scowl of a guy who would not just kill, but murder. One body-long shiver shook Ryuji out of his staring, and he grabbed Yusuke’s sleeve. ‘Course it was on him to be on babysitter duty again.

“Stay behind and don’t get killed, alright?”

“Are you confident that—”

Ryuji paid him no mind. He let go of his last shot to open the way and recharged as they treaded through stacks of crates and fishing nets. Bullets hissed around them, but it looked like their small group wasn’t the focus of their ambushers anymore. Someone had to have built a decoy. He gestured for the other two to crouch down as they made their way through a labyrinth of cargo.

From a crack in between two piles, Ann came into view on the other side. She was pushed against a container two times her height, with her arms raised high into the air. One of their attackers peeked out, and she clenched her fists. The boy clutched at his chest and fell prone, but there was nothing else for him to do. Witnessing her powers at work had always been both exciting and terrifying, but even Ryuji could see how she was at a disadvantage in this situation: their entire surroundings offered barriers that cut her line of sight, and she needed to see her enemies to kill them.

Makoto stood right beside her, lips pressed tight and wrists bound. After her attempt with Ren at Terrenjel’s beach, Ryuji couldn’t really fault Akechi and his many precautions. But Ann was outnumbered and running short on other options. She drew out a knife from her sailor’s belt and sliced through Makoto’s bindings.

She slapped a pistol into her hands. “Defend yourself, you moron,” she hissed with a scowl and returned her focus to the fight.

Makoto looked at the gun like she was seriously considering blowing Ann’s brains out of her skull. Cussing under his breath, Ryuji readied the shotgun. But Makoto’s eyes locked on the upcoming movement in their direction, and she stood by Ann’s side, pistol drawn out. Just like that, they were fighting together. Ryuji blinked a few times. The day he understood those two and what went on in their heads, he would be crowned Saint.

He raised his thumb and index finger to his lips and whistled sharply enough for Ann to turn. Her clear blue eyes found the three of them past the narrow opening created by the crates. He flashed her two fingers, twice, mouthing ‘twenty-two,’ and she responded with an ‘okay’ sign before shifting her focus back to the fight.

With this hassle out of the way, Ryuji gestured for Yusuke and Haru to follow him. They exited from the higher bundles of cargo that separated the berths from each other. Ships of all shapes and dimensions were moored along the dock. They were getting closer to their destination, but chances for cover here also shrank to almost nothing. He made sure to travel between shadows, keeping as low as possible.

“There!” a voice called from somewhere behind him.

“Damn it!” He raised his shotgun and pointed for Haru and Yusuke to go ahead, and they all pounded down the dock. The gunfight had been bearable, but a jog this long did his bad knee dirty. Bone-deep pain stabbed him, and he tried his best to ignore it. If they didn’t make this run, they wouldn’t be making much of anything else.

At berth twenty-two, just like Akechi had said, another schooner, looking exactly like the Robin Hood, rolled up and down with the gentle shift of the tides, moored to the quay. Identical, except for the name Hereward handwritten on the side. No lanterns had been lit aboard, but Ryuji pushed his way up the mounting ramp, nonetheless.

He came face to face with Iwai and Mishima.

“You’re the first ones here,” the older sailor said.

“Let’s hope we’re not the last. Give us a hand?”

Mishima frowned. “Crow told us to keep hiding until—”

Ryuji pointed the barrel of his gun at the men rushing toward them on the dock. “That’s now, idiot!”

The men were coming fast, and there were just so freaking many of them! He needed higher ground, and he needed something different. For how much he loved his shotgun, that wouldn’t do it for what he had in mind. He snatched the rifle back from Haru’s hands and pushed the even bulkier shotgun into her tiny hands. She struggled a bit more with it, but she must’ve been telling the truth about the axe. She was doing quite well for a newbie, much to his chagrin. “Y’all keep ‘em distracted.”

“Understood.”

“No one gets past you two, gotcha? The goons take this schooner, we’re done for. For real this time.”

There was something he wasn’t grasping about all this. The men gunning for them didn’t just care about keeping them from leaving the harbor. They wanted them fucking dead. But he had no time to keep stuff spinning in his brain. That scheming bastard Akechi would surely have some explanation ready for when they got everyone on the ship and set sail. Not if. When. And it was his job that the rest of the gang still found a schooner by the time they reached berth twenty-two.

Ryuji leaned on the boat’s railing and shot at the man leading the charge down the dock, who fell on the floor with a shiny patch of blood forming under him. He seized the moment of distraction and sprinted up the mast. Pain flared up stronger in his right knee, deep enough to make the corner of his eyes prickle. You won’t ruin this, you stupid knee.

Under him, another gunfight erupted, but Ryuji had another goal. Step by step, he climbed the rigging leading to the crow’s nest. One of his boots got caught in the rope. He cursed under his breath and wrung it free. How sailors used this stuff was beyond him.

Pain erupted in his thigh, and blood trickled down his only good leg. Somebody shot at him.

“Fucking hell!”

He clung to the ropes with every fiber of his being, heart going off like a cannon inside his chest. He gritted his teeth and forced all the weight on his bad leg, and the strain of muscles was enough to blur everything before him. This high up, the wind came strong from the sea, causing the rigging to sway even more, but at least the waft of salt and air slapped him awake enough to complete the ascent. He was on top of the world. He was invincible.

Ryuji hoisted himself in the crow’s nest with the biggest sigh of relief. He hooked his bad-beyond-repair leg into the rigging despite the hooks of pain digging into his flesh and raised the rifle. He picked the first target in range, one man who was getting too close to having Iwai within shooting range. Three million kruge. He fired, and the man dropped onto the stone of the pier. He reloaded. Three million kruge and that asshole Akechi owes me a thank you.

Ann and Makoto were making their way toward the schooner, but at least ten men blocked the way. Ryuji aimed at the one closer to them and shot him right through the head, buying them some more time. Akechi himself wasn’t far, although he was running in the opposite direction for some freaking reason. Ren was nowhere to be seen. Everything considered, that was prolly a good thing. Ryuji could aid them some more… if he hadn’t run out of bullets.

Cursing, he wrung his satchel open, but none of the ammo he was carrying fit this rifle’s barrel.

“Sakamoto-san!”

The shout came from far below—Yusuke was calling for him. He was also waving his arms in wide circles, as if only one thing wouldn’t do the job of getting his attention.

“What do you want!?” he barked back.

“You must close your eyes!”

“Then how the hell would I—”

“Forsake that!”

He sealed his eyes shut. “This better be good!”

“On my three,” he yelled, and Ryuji had no idea if the warning was for him or someone else. “One… two… three!”

The thud of something metallic hitting the floor echoed through the early morning. The explosion of Ryuji’s shotgun signaled a bullet fired from Haru’s hands. Then a shrill, shrieking howl. White light bloomed past Ryuji’s eyelids.

He readjusted his position and peeked down below: their pursuers were staggering around, blinded by Yusuke’s flash bomb set off by Haru’s shot.

Ryuji blew a long whistle. Not bad, those two.

Chapter Text

Ren’s journey on the high wire hadn’t started up in the air, with a net, or even with a practice rope. The first training Coach Hiraguchi had imparted to all the new levers—military regimen, they had joked—was on how to take a fall. She’d taught them to protect their head first and at all costs, showed them how to curl to make good use of their spines and avoid fighting their own momentum, and pushed them off their balance countless times until the act of tucking into a roll and sprinting right back up became second nature.

The blast from the explosion lifted Ren as high as half a stack of crates, but as soon as his feet touched the ground again, he rolled back into a somersault. The fall hit hard on his ankles, and even through layers of clothing, he scratched his back against the scrappy stone of the harbor’s floor. But in the blink of an eye, he was standing again, pressed against the crates. His ears rang, full of the aftermath of the boast, and his nose prickled with the tang of gunpowder and flames. A burning pile of wood and sails—that was all that was left of the schooner Goro had arranged as a decoy.

Someone has talked. The thought kept spinning inside his mind until it heaved into his heart. ‘Meet us at berth twelve if we’re lucky,’ Goro had instructed, ‘and at berth twenty-two if we’re not.’ He hadn’t made it sound like anything other than an excess of caution. But he’d been right—so why, why had he kept Ren so occupied he couldn’t keep tabs on the others? Was this the reason behind the private consultations, all a ploy to unmask another traitor?

Ren swallowed his fury and did what he did best—he vanished.

He scaled the cargo crates like a cat, with fingers and rubber-soled feet finding grips and footholds like claws and paws.

The view from above sank his stomach like the fire was sinking the Robin Hood. Men had surrounded the Crows and even managed to scatter the entire group. Ryuji, Haru, and Yusuke had been separated from Ann and Makoto, and they were taking cover behind a crate. Goro exploited the enemy’s attention being diverted and slithered in their direction.

Ren needed to buy them more time so that they could make it to the Hereward.

He ran over the tops of the crates. Two more men were about to join the holdup against Ryuji’s group, and he met them halfway from up above. He locked his grappling hook in place and jumped through the air, swinging across a corridor between two piles of cargo. He drew out Arsène from behind his lower back and slashed through one man’s throat on his way forward, then exploited momentum from the swing back to kick the other in the kidneys and stab him through the shoulder blades.

As Ren touched the ground again, he jerked the blade out of layers of clothes and flesh and flicked it to shrug most of the blood off it. Instinct screamed at him to keep moving, but he couldn’t give up on cracking the mystery of what had happened. He crouched near the two corpses and slashed their clothes open. On both their arms, the tattoo of a hand, its first and second fingers cut off at the knuckle. Black Tips. Was this payback for Goro’s stunt with Tsukasa?

The ground trembled with feet stomping closer, and panic rose in his heart. He had press on.

Ren withdrew the grappling hook and scaled the maze of crates. His next targets: a girl who was up against Ann and a man who kept the post. He drew Kaguya out of its holster strapped on his right thigh and threw the kunai through the man’s carotid, then crawled toward the girl who was opening fire with a massive rifle, pounded the back of her neck with Satanael’s butt, and pushed the Seax knife’s squared blade between her shoulder blades. Her tattoo showed five birds in a wedge formation: Razorgulls. Those are Tsuda’s people. Just how many gangs were they up against?

He silently wished Ann good luck and scouted for a way to scale the crates back up, but barrels and fishing nets had been abandoned in this area without a care. There was no way the grappling hook could hold his weight, and he couldn’t risk going up free-handed if it meant the whole pile collapsing.

He turned tail and jogged in the opposite direction. Shots rang somewhere close, but he couldn’t pinpoint the exact location. Step by step, he relied on his ears to lead him down the best path: right, right again, then left. The explosions got stronger, and he readied for another round of combat.

Two men were firing on the docks with their backs to him. Unaware fools. He smirked and threw Kaguya right in the middle of the skull of the one standing on the right, who collapsed with a strained cry. His companion watched, horrified, and he turned around as soon as he realized Ren was there. Ren ran for him and took off into a leap before the goon could reload his rifle. His feet pushed the enemy against the stone floor, making his ribcage rebound with a choked gasp. Ren kept his shoulders pinned with his knees and slammed Arsène’s tip straight through his heart.

“And that’s why you don’t make enemies with the Crows.”

He yanked Arsène out, then retrieved poor Kaguya from the other man’s head and wiped the skull shards and brain matter from the blade on the men’s clothes before returning each to their sheaths. He’d scored six kills, and that was the best he could offer to tip the odds in favor of the gang. Now he had to go.

The walls of crates looked way more stable here; it was worth attempting a climb and once again evaluating the situation from above. He ran two steps along the side of the container until the upper edge was in his line of sight, and he gripped the rim.

Something pierced him beneath his right arm, and he gasped as he let go of the surface, slipping back down on the ground. He howled, and his fingers ran to the injured spot to assess the damage. They came back slicked with blood. It kept gushing out of the wound, trickling down his right side.

Heaving, he rolled his back against the crates to sustain his weight. In front of him stood Masa, the lieutenant of the Razorgulls—Tsuda’s gang.

Masa yanked him up by the front of his cloak and thrashed him hard against the container. Pain reverberated through his skull and even more slashed through him from around his armpit. He fought not to black out.

“Ghezen!” the man yelled with a contented sneer. “I’ve got Crow’s Phantom.”

“Bad aim, uh?” Ren wheezed out. “Missed my heart.”

“Don’t want you dead, Phantom.” He wiggled the same knife he’d hit Ren with in front of his nose. “You’re quite the catch. Can’t wait to hear all the gossip you’ve gathered for your Prince. Ohh, all his secrets, too.” He slammed him further up against the crate for good measure, and Ren couldn’t keep his cries of pain from spilling out. His toes only brushed the ground from how high he was being pinned.

He had an idea.

He bent his wrist so that his fingertips could brush against the curved blade strapped there: Byakko, his karambit. Small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, but quick enough to slash without being seen. Too bad Ren hadn’t had enough time to pay Takemi a visit and replenish the poison on the blade.

Masa threw him a pitiful look. He and his misplaced gloating.

“Giving up so quickly, Phantom?”

Ren’s fingers closed around Byakko. He gave Masa a smirk.

“With you? Don’t make me laugh.”

He pretended to struggle against the hold so that Masa would press more of his weight against him to keep him pinned. And the idiot fell right into his trap.

Ren slashed the hidden blade across Masa’s stomach, navel to groin. With the sweetest shriek, Masa released him to tend to his poor, wounded privates and ever more damaged ego.

Ren’s feet touched the ground again, and a wave of dizziness made him stumble. He gritted his teeth and felt again for the cut on his side. Blood poured all over his front now, too; it seeped through his clothes and glued fabric against his skin.

 Fuck, I can’t climb like this.

He swayed back, away from Masa and around a corner, but it was only a matter of moments before that bastard was on his tail again.

He searched for the only way he knew: up, toward the crates, toward the sky. The cargo containers were stacked like a pyramid here. If he could just make it to the first level, he could hide from Masa and try his best at damage control.

Ren raised his arms to hoist his weight past the edge, but the pain devouring his side caused him to stumble forward. He gasped for air and got back into position. He could climb, or he could stay here and fucking die.

You either climb, or you die, Ren. It had the taunting sound of Goro’s challenges.

He tried again, slower, and latched his fingertips atop the first crate as securely as he could. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he dragged his body over the edge onto the tin roof of the container. The sky was getting lighter. His back was getting wetter with blood. Fuck, he’d left a trail.

One more, he promised himself. He needed to get higher. Just one more crate. One more, and he’d be safe. He forced himself up to his knees and reached for the upper level.

The surface beneath him shook. Someone laughed.

“Come out, come out, Phantom! I know you’ve got secrets to tell!”

Ren swallowed snot and fear and reached for the lip of the next crate. He gripped it against everything his body was telling him. But the container under him dropped away, and he was left hanging, legs dangling through the air.

“Come on down!” Masa mocked again.

Ren wasn’t going to. He’d rather die. But that prospect, too, was disappointing. He let out a curse, pulled himself over the next crate, and lay flat on the roof, panting.

He made it to another level. He knew he should keep going, but his body was unwilling. It didn’t matter how angrily his mind screamed to move, that this was a stupid place to die. He couldn’t. At least I’m going out after a fight. But was it any better than succumbing to Hiiragi’s beatings after trying to escape? Was it better than a gunshot through his skull by the stadwatch after a bank robbery went wrong? He hadn’t even had a shot at his revenge yet.

“Fuck!” he shouted through the void. The sky was clearing further, not a cloud in sight. It was shaping up as one rare sunny day in Ketterdam, and he wouldn’t even be alive to see it.

He turned on his side. He wanted to push himself up. Pain shook him once more. Fuck, wrong side.

A weight landed on the crates behind his back. What was left of his pulse dropped. Why the hell do people keep slipping past my guard tonight?!

He curled up on himself, reaching for his left thigh, where Loki resided, and slid out a thin, frighteningly sharp blade. A misericorde dagger. In the Barrel, it was known as kind steel. Against armored foes, it was the secret to getting past the cracks in their guard and finishing them off. But pointed against oneself, it meant a quick death. Better that than torture at the mercy of the Black Tips or the Razorgulls.

He pressed the point between his ribs, an arrow to his heart. But a hand gripped his wrist and slid the knife out of his clutch.

“Don’t you dare die on me, Ren.”

A velvet voice roughed by a snarl. Goro. He wrung his eyes open.

“Kill me yourself, then,” he managed. “Finish the job.”

“Stop spouting nonsense.”

Goro slipped one hand under the small of his back, hooking the other behind his knees, and picked him up from the cargo roof, bundled him into his arms. He secured the hold tight against his chest and leapt down, landing roughly. Ren moaned as they hit the ground, but couldn’t help coughing out some poor excuse of a laugh, too.

“Your timing’s… a little off.” Against his better judgment, he closed his eyes again.

“Don’t you dare,” Goro repeated, more desperate. “You must make it to the schooner. Ren. Open your damn eyes!”

He did. His vision got blurred; he could only make out the shape of Goro’s face, his hair swaying all around his head with his jogging, and his piercing, bloody red irises. They looked nowhere else but at him.

Good.

It was childish. It was stupid. Goro would berate him to no end should he voice that thought, but that knowledge didn’t make it any less true. Ren had stolen for him, lied for him, killed for him. He’d dirtied his soul in a way Hiiragi hadn’t succeeded in after defiling his body, and Ren had taken that in stride, willingly and with a certain pride, because no slimy praise and no extra tip on his performances ever caused his heart to grow as full as when Goro Akechi complimented him on a challenge well met. Because then, Ren could repay him with a smirk that meant, ‘Now it’s your turn.’

And yet Goro acted like whatever he and Ren shared hadn’t been built on muddier grounds than any normal work partnership.

 “Ren,” Goro’s voice urged him back to the present. His run had slowed down—they must’ve been close. “Talk to me.”

Ren squinted. There was something he was supposed to ask Goro, but it kept slipping from his mind. So he just said:

“You came back for me.”

“Of course. I’d be a terrible businessman if I didn’t protect my investments, no?”

Investments. “I’m going to kick your ass so bad.” Oh, right. He remembered. Goro owed him a rematch. “Say you’ll accept my challenge.”

“Another one?”

“Say it.”

Goro moved his lips, but Ren couldn’t grasp what was coming out.

Chapter Text

Goro stumbled through the last meters to board the schooner. Ren was nimble but not lightweight, and despite bodies littering the pier like intoxicated flies, there were still assailants chasing after them. Pain from the effort jabbed through his ribs, it strained his arms, and his throat begged for some water, but he had to bring Ren to safety at all costs.

Heaving, he climbed the gangplank and came across Iwai, who was heading to the steering wheel to oversee the sailing out of port.

“Get us out of here!”

“Workin’ on it, kid.”

Goro threw a glance behind his back. They were putting distance between them and their attackers, although not as quickly as he’d hoped. The wind wasn’t picking up in their favor, but time had been too tight to have Ann get in contact with a trusted Squaller for the voyage. Right—Ann. He needed to find her.

“Where’s Panther?” he yelled.

Ryuji, sprawled against the mast closer to the prow, gestured behind him. “Belowdecks.” He patted the thigh of his good leg. “Just took care of me. Do you need—”

Goro pushed past him without another word. It didn’t matter how much his shoulders ached or how sticky with Ren’s blood his clothes were; every second counted. He stormed down the ramp that led below. There was only one cabin door where the yellow light filtered past the cracks. He kicked it open.

Ann was tending to Yusuke, fingers skimming over his arm where a bullet had grazed him. Where she touched him, flesh knitted back together, and no blemish remained except for a halo of reddened skin that would disappear in a few hours at most. Goro could’ve done that, too, if only he’d taken the proper time to learn how to mend instead of just injure. With a scowl, he adjusted his grip on Ren’s body.

“Move,” he ordered Yusuke, who promptly jumped off the table.

Ann opened her mouth with a retort loaded, but she saw Ren and shut up. “Saints. What happened?”

“I was about to ask the very same,” added Yusuke.

“Knife wound. Right flank.” Gently, he placed Ren down on the table that had been bolted to the deck. Despite all the orange flickers coming from the many lanterns lit inside the cabin, his Phantom’s face offered nothing but cold paleness. If Goro’s mind weren’t trained on picking up his worryingly slow but somewhat steady pulse, Ren would’ve passed for dead already.

Ann stepped closer, crinkles plowing her forehead. “That’s a lot of blood.”

“Help him.”

“Crow, I’m… I’m not even a real Healer.”

He swallowed his pride, even if it burned like cheap alcohol. “Better you than me, anyway. Get to work.”

Her lips flattened into a line, but she didn’t protest. “You’re both in my light. Get out.”

Goro scooted aside while Yusuke exited altogether. Still, the cabin was so cramped he had to plaster himself between the wall and the end of the table where Ren’s head rested, so as not to stay in Ann’s way. His black curls spilled all over the wood, and his fringe was, for one, tilted backward to reveal the fair skin of his forehead and the round cut of his eyes slipped closed.

The first thing he remembered about Ren was his eyes: alert, cunning, magnetic. Alice Hiiragi had had him style his bangs with a side parting to keep a portion of his curls slicked back along his ear, and the clear gray irises had been brought out by sprinkles of silver on the lids and dark lashes lined with black kohl. That night at the Menagerie, he hadn’t noticed Ren tailing him in the slightest, and right after the shock of being caught by surprise had come the pull of his gaze. His instinctual response had been to retreat—he’d pretended not to notice and walked away. But everything about Ren had kept haunting him ever since.

“Unless you can be useful,” Ann said without looking at him, “go away. You’re making me nervous as hell.”

Goro glanced at Ren’s sleeping form one last time. He wondered if stabbing-induced rest still carried dreams with it. Ren’s room at the Slat was situated right above his; he’d heard his bed squeak with tossing and turning. Screaming, on the worst nights. Goro hovered his fingers near Ren’s temple, but the sight of dried blood on his gloves stopped him before he could touch too-white skin. With a grimace, he walked back into the passageway and closed the door behind him.

He was alive because of Ren; they all were. His Phantom had left a death trail behind him and created an opening wide enough for them to fight their way out of a corner. They had been surrounded, and without Ren’s miracle, Yuya Uchimura could’ve been far from the day’s only victim.

Say you’ll accept my challenge. What a ridiculous request. Ren had no business thinking he could best him, of all people, and Goro had grown less inclined to agree to further rematches the harder it became for him to fight against his deepest instincts of raising his hands and send Ren into a forever slumber. Not that he wasn’t curious about the outcome, were they to fight with all they had. But that would’ve meant taking things too far. It was too dangerous.

He threw one last glance at the cabin where Ann was working her magic and dragged himself further down the corridor. He couldn’t get rid of the foreboding sense of death clawing at his stomach—he was too nervous, stilted. Out of focus. What happened to Ren had left him exposed and small, a soiled, untreated abrasion on tender skin, like those first hours right after he lost his mother. With shaking fingers, he pushed open the door to another cabin and set his sight on a drawer. He needed to rid himself of the blood, of the stain of what he had allowed to happen to Ren—

No, not yet.

He pushed the drawer closed before taking anything out. Something else needed to come first. He turned tail and climbed his way back on deck.

Sea air slapped his face and prickled his nose and his throat. He wasn’t looking forward to having his hair all matted with salt, but the boost of liveliness was appreciated and beyond necessary. He approached the banister and let his gaze wander over the horizon. Ketterdam barely stood in the middle of the long, smoky-gray line that made up the Kerch coast.

Uneven treading grew closer behind his back, and Ryuji leaned against the railing by his side. The wind mussed his short hair. A portion of the spikiest strands standing up on top had been burned off—that must’ve been a disconcertingly close call.

He stared at Goro with panic-inflated eyes.

“What. Happened.”

“That,” Niijima said, “should be my line.” She approached them, struggling to keep her steps even on the rolling deck. Her cheeks had taken a turn greener. Not a sea person, apparently. “Were those men from other gangs? Did you maybe step on the wrong foot?”

Ryuji breathed in to answer, but Goro cut him off. “Takeishi can’t sustain a retaliation this fast or this hard alone. Black Tips and Razorgulls? Something isn’t adding up.”

He turned to look at the mast further from the stem, where Mishima had tied Masa against the wood, still bleeding out from Ren’s hit.

Goro had come across him on his way to find Ren, holding his belly, folded nearly in half on the ground. ‘I stuck your Phantom,’ he had snickered with a manic look in his eyes, ‘I stuck him good.’ Goro sneered back, ‘Looks like he got you, too.’ But a surge of fear had chilled his blood: Ren’s aim must have been off by a lot, otherwise Masa wouldn’t have been talking at all. He had made sure no one else was around, knocked him out, and called for Mishima to retrieve him for later.

Now, he gestured for Ryuji and Mishima to free their lone prisoner, and they held him pinned against the mast. Goro shook his head.

“No, not there. I want him closer to the rail.”

The two exchanged a long stare, but obeyed. They hauled him back to his feet and pressed him against the edge of the wooden railing separating him from a dive in the True Sea. Despite everything, that piece of shit was still grinning.

Goro stood right in front of him. “Now, now. Masa, was it? Why don’t you tell me what brought you, a Razorgull, out to play with Takeishi’s Black Tips tonight?”

“Takeishi’s been done dirty by the Crows, Bastard of the Barrel. We owed you.”

“A public brawl with guns and men from another gang? Sounds like a bigger bite than what Takeishi could chew right now, defanged as I’ve left him. Was your boss aware of this?”

“He likes unruly birds as much as Takeishi.”

“Ah! Takeishi and Tsuda being buddies. Now that is hilarious.”

“What’d you even—”

Goro stepped closer. He kept his hands very clenched and very still by his sides. “I want you to use what fraction of your brain is still functioning, Masa. Neither ol’ man Tsuda nor your precious Takeishi can find you now, and they have most likely already assumed you’re dead. There are no rules of barter here. I can do with you as I please.”

Masa spat in his face. His disgusting saliva rolled down Goro’s cheek, and he pushed back the uprising of bile burning through his esophagus. He took a handkerchief from the pocket of his sailor coat, wiped his face clean, and folded it in a neat square, if only to have something to keep his hands occupied that could prevent him from causing Masa’s brain matter to explode out of his skull through all five orifices on his face.

“Hold him,” he ordered Ryuji and Mishima. He flicked his coat sleeve and slipped out an oyster-shucking knife. ‘I am never, at any given time, unarmed,’ he’d told Ren. It didn’t only cover his powers.

He surged and slashed across Masa’s right eye—from brow to cheek—and before the man could draw breath to cry out, he made a second cut in the opposite direction, a nearly perfect X. And now, Masa howled.

Goro used the same handkerchief to wipe the blade clean before returning it to his sleeve. He tugged at both his dirty gloves and dove into Masa’s eye socket. The man shrieked and twitched under the grip of Goro’s hands, who yanked out his eyeball and held it delicately between thumb, index, and middle finger. Its bloody root trailed across the back of his hand, and rivers of blood gushed out from the empty socket all over Masa’s face.

Someone—most likely Niijima, or maybe Okumura—retched past the railing.

Goro spared the eyeball a glance: sullied in red goo, all capillaries exploded around the dark brown iris. Nothing like the ones that kept watch over him. Nothing like Ren’s. He tossed that useless piece of cartilage overboard, brushed his fingers with the handkerchief, and jammed it into the empty socket. Masa let out another pained scream and struggled against his captors, but Goro grabbed his jaw with both hands and forced his lone eye on him and only him.

“Listen carefully, you piece of shit,” he hissed, a breath away from Masa’s face. “Now you tell me what I want to know and seize your best chance at survival, or I take the other eye out and start this conversation again with a blind man.”

“It was just a job!” Masa babbled out. “We got five thousand kruge from Takeishi to join the Black Tips in the harbor.”

“That’s a tidy sum, Masa. For that price, why not bring out more?”

“You were supposed to be on the fucking boat! He said we only had to take care of the stragglers.”

“Who hired you?”

“Takeishi—” But Masa’s heartbeat stumbled. Bullseye.

“Who hired him? Don’t act like I’m stupid, Masa, I don’t advise that for your own good.”

The other man wavered, sputtered, snot rolling down into his mouth. The only eye he had left drifted away from Goro, losing focus, and he slapped him to ensure the conversation would keep going.

“Who. Hired. Takeishi.”

“He’ll kill me if I tell.”

“You’re going to die either way if you don’t spill what you know.”

“Junya Kaneshiro!” he sobbed. “It was Junya Kaneshiro who hired us both!”

Goro let loose the grip on Masa’s face. The waves crashed around the sides of the Hereward, and the wind howled in his ears. No one aboard talked, but Ryuji and Mishima had terror in their eyes. Niijima was blinking hard, mouth agape. Okumura and Yusuke didn’t know enough to be intimidated.

“Shit,” groaned Ryuji. “We’re cooked.”

But Goro wasn’t having it. He needed to know more. “Is Kaneshiro leading his crew?”

“Th… The Lions?”

He nodded. “To Fjerda.”

“I don’t know about no crew. We were just supposed to stop you from getting out of Fifth Harbor.”

“I see.”

“I need a medik,” he whined, like a little kid throwing a tantrum. Goro kept his face very firm.

“But of course.”

He took Masa by the lapels of his coat and hoisted him off his feet, bracing his body against the railing. The frantic hammering of his heart sounded like the sweetest melody.

“I told you what you wanted!” Masa screamed, struggling. “I did what you asked!”

Ignoring the gasps breaking out around him, Goro gifted him a smirk as sharp as Ren’s blades and leaned closer so that no one else on the ship could hear what he was about to say. “You signed your death sentence the moment you stuck my Phantom, Masa. I feel bad not leaving the pleasure of the final blow to him, but, you know, under normal circumstances, you would’ve bled to death from your poor wounded groin on the floor of Fifth Harbor. Have fun debating which is worse: that, or drowning.”

And he dropped Masa into the sea.

“No!” Yusuke and Okumura both cried out, and the girl ran to the railing, leaning over to see what had become of ol’ Tsuda’s lieutenant. His gurgled pleas still rose from the waves, but they quickly became harder and harder to hear.

Goro turned to Ryuji and nodded to Okumura. “Drag Noir away from there; we need her still alive.”

Ryuji looked at him as if he was debating what he had in front of his eyes: a ghost or a monster. A demon, Goro amended. Eventually, Ryuji sighed and got closer to her. “So sorry, missy…”

The girl, however, was already stepping back on her own, and she gestured for Ryuji to stay in his place. Even with all the anger her gaze bore, she still looked like a little bird with ruffled feathers.

“That wasn’t right. You… you said if he helped you—”

“So I did.”

“Then why wouldn’t you—”

Goro snorted. “Listen to me very carefully, merchling. Don’t think you can come here and lecture me about fairness and honesty while your dear father sits fat on his throne as a Company Chief. Don’t you even dare thinking of policing how I handle this job when you’re being married off by your own family. Have you ever, even for a second, asked yourself where his riches derive from?” She began to answer, but he cut her off. “I don’t want to hear a single word about merit, about his eye for business. Hell, even inheritance! They’re all lies. One doesn’t simply become rich enough to ogle the Merchant Council without having dust under the carpet and a whole cemetery of skeletons in the closet. You’d do well to remember that, the next time you come to me whining about what’s right.”

He was done with this conversation. Masa had just been taken care of, which meant he was due for a wash, a change of clothes, and the repose he hadn’t been getting for nearly three days straight.

He strode back toward the ramp leading belowdecks. He could still hear Ryuji’s voice. “Girl, let it go. You simply don’t argue with a man covered in blood and a knife up his sleeve, gotcha?”

“Don’t you have a gun, though?” she asked.

I could drop all of you dead. Goro slammed the door to what had just now become his personal cabin by his own, very personal decree. There were reasons behind the fear with which people spoke Crow’s name, and it was part of the job that those reasons kept multiplying by the day. If any of those ragtags had different ideas about how to climb the ranks of the Barrel, they could’ve gone and started their own gangs for all he cared.

He took off the dark sailor coat, whose shape was too short for his liking anyway, and he let it drop on the floor. Next came the sailor’s belt off his trousers—he didn’t mind that one, but since it looped higher on his trunk than a regular belt, it took the worst of Ren’s wound blood together with the shirt. He kicked away the boots and wiggled out of the shirt. There was so much blood on him that he looked like someone had stabbed a knife into his side. And it wasn’t even a fraction of what Ren had lost that night.

He itched to see how Ren was faring, but Ann would’ve probably dropped him unconscious if he showed his face again, so he settled for aggressively scrubbing the blood off him with a clean cloth. As much as she hadn’t been born with Healer powers, and as much as her education at the Little Palace had been cut short due to the civil war breaking out, in circumstances like this, even a slight education could make all the difference in the world. Goro couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if he’d awakened to his powers before his mother’s death. What if he had had real training? He’d always said a hard no to Ann… but with so little of his potential within reach, being a Grisha was beginning to constitute a liability more than a resource. With the natural skill limit that came with the lack of training, the threshold of how much his powers could bring profit rather than problems was also beginning to show.

He rolled the freshly dirtied cloth into a bundle, then collapsed on a bed that, to his shoulders and back, felt more like a glorified bunk than a proper mattress. Coming up with hypothetical scenarios was no use, especially not when he had more concrete and pressing problems at hand besides his Phantom risking death from blood loss.

Junya Kaneshiro. He rolled on his side and clenched his fingers on instinct. It always, always came back to Shido’s circle. Kaneshiro, discontent with already being the spring of Shido’s stream of cash, now stood between Goro and the biggest heist any Ketterdam gang had ever attempted.

Whether Kaneshiro had sent someone in his place or embarked on the mission personally, Goro couldn’t say. But there was some joy to be found in the news of Kaneshiro’s presence, at least: Goro’s doubts about Okumura’s true loyalty had been cleared. He hadn’t put past the merchant to hire more than one gang for the job to double his odds, but to pit Goro and Kaneshiro against each other like that would’ve been a suicide move. If both gangs died before getting to Wakaba Isshiki, then Okumura would’ve ended up with no scientist and no crew fit for the job. Which, he reasoned, could only mean Okumura wasn’t working with Shido. He was on his own. And there was comfort to be found in that.

Now, the fact Kaneshiro had been involved at all could only mean Shido was determined to get his hands on the parem, whatever it took, and despite whatever direction the rest of the Merchant Council wanted to take. Goro didn’t put acting behind everyone’s shoulders past him, either.

But that only meant snatching Shido’s loot would be even sweeter.

“Brick by brick,” he repeated under his breath. Payback for his mother was sure to come, and Goro was sailing closer to it with each roll of the ship.