He awoke to rain that sounded like it was trying to claw its way through the hull.
Erin lay in his bunk, motionless. The ship creaked around him, swaying slightly with the choppy waters outside, but he didn't feel the movement. Not really. His whole body ached, every bruise accounted for and pulsing—jaw tight, ribs sore, lip cracked and swollen. His left eye throbbed with a dull, rhythmic pain that never quite settled.
He didn't remember getting back last night. Only the cold. Only the dark.
Only that look on Silas's face.
He stared up at the ceiling, the sound of the rain drumming like a heartbeat he didn't deserve to have. Something inside him twisted every time he replayed it: the alley, the fight, the blood, the shouting. The kid's final glare—betrayal and disbelief in his eyes, like Erin was supposed to be something more.
And he hadn't been.
He'd made a promise. Hadn't said it out loud, maybe, but it was there in the way he stepped into that alley. In the way he thought this time, he'd be the one who made the difference.
But when it counted, he'd hit the ground. Hard. The world had spun. Blood had filled his mouth. He could still feel the cold wood under his palms as he pushed himself up—just in time to see them vanish into the rain.
Silas was gone.
Because he hadn't been strong enough.
Fast enough.
Good enough.
He exhaled slowly, hands clenched into fists under the blanket.
The pain didn't matter. Not the bruises. Not the busted lip. Not even the shame.
It was the guilt. That hollow, splitting thing lodged in his chest, pressing into his ribs with every breath. The kind of guilt that didn't just sit with you—it redefined you.
You can't protect anyone.
You said you'd help.
You watched him go.
He sat up slowly. The movement sent a pulse of fire down his side, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. His fingers trembled as he reached for the side of the bed, grounding himself. The room swayed with the ship, but his balance came back in time.
He made it to the washbasin in three slow steps. A cracked mirror stared back.
His reflection looked half-dead. Eyes bloodshot and ringed with shadows. His hair stuck out in wild tufts where dried sweat and blood had matted it during the night. His lip was split open, the bruising already settling in a deep blue across his cheekbone and under his eye.
But it wasn't the bruises he hated looking at.
It was the expression. The way his own eyes looked hollow. Like they already knew something was lost.
He stared harder. Waiting for the mirror to blink first.
It didn't.
You couldn't stop them. You couldn't do a thing.
He lowered his head. The guilt surged again, this time hotter, sharper, flaring behind his eyes like something trying to escape.
He splashed his face with water. Cold. Icy. He didn't flinch. He scrubbed the dried blood from his temple, his jaw, his neck. It felt like trying to scrape off failure. It clung to him, no matter how hard he tried to wash it away.
You let him go.
He dried off with a rag, then changed. The fresh shirt pulled tight against bruised ribs, but he didn't care. He moved like he was trying to outrun something that had already caught him.
By the time he stepped out into the hallway and climbed toward the deck, the storm outside was in full swing. Rain hammered the ship's surface, and the wind howled through the rigging like something angry had taken root in the sky.
Erin didn't brace himself against it. He welcomed the cold as the wind met him halfway up the stairs, a slap of rain against his face as he pushed open the hatch.
For a moment, the sky was all he saw—low and grey, heaving with rain, the clouds curling like smoke above the masts. The wind dragged lines of rain sideways across the deck, the ropes groaning under the strain, sails tied down and soaked. The sea beyond churned like a beast with nowhere to go.
Erin stepped into it.
The storm didn't welcome him, but it didn't fight him either. It just was. Loud, relentless, everywhere.
And maybe that was fair.
He crossed the deck slowly, his boots slipping a little on the wet wood. The chill soaked through his shirt in seconds, but he didn't shiver. He just kept walking.
A few of the crew were already topside, rain-slicked and layered in cloaks. Routine work—checking the rigging, watching the waves, adjusting ballast. Normalcy in motion. But as Erin passed, eyes followed him. Subtle, but not silent.
Ariya stood under a tarp near the helm with a cup of tea in her hands, the steam rising lazily despite the rain. Her gaze lifted when he passed, and instantly, her expression shifted—first to surprise, then to worry.
"Erin," she said, stepping out from under the tarp, letting the rain soak into her shoulders without a second thought. "What happened to your face? Are you—?"
"I'm fine," he snapped, too quickly.
She frowned. "You're not. Your eye's swollen, your lip's split, and you're barely putting weight on your right leg."
"I said I'm fine." He turned away, hoping she'd stop.
Ariya didn't budge. Her steps were quiet over the wet wood, but determined. "Let me see. Just for a second," she said gently, as if coaxing a wounded animal. "You're bruised, and your—your shoulder's not sitting right. I can fix that, just hold still—"
She reached for his arm, But he smacked her hand away.
It wasn't forceful, but it was sharp—reflexive, like touching fire. Her hand recoiled instantly.
Rain spattered between them, loud in the silence that followed.
Ariya blinked, caught between hurt and confusion. Her lips parted like she meant to speak, but nothing came out.
"I don't need healing," Erin said. His voice was low now, coiled tight.
Her eyes lingered on him for a breath longer, then she stepped back. Her face was still soft, but something flickered behind it—hurt, maybe, or disappointment. She didn't press him again. Just turned, moving slowly back toward the tarp where her tea sat cooling.
The rain filled the silence that followed.
Then came Cidrin's voice from the port rigging—dry, sharp, as if cutting through rope. "Well, damn," he said. "If I knew the market had brawls that good, I'd have gone shopping with you."
He hopped down from a crate and sauntered over, hands tucked into his belt. He had that sharp smirk on his face, the usual lopsided mischief—though it felt a little forced.
"No way you tripped on a barrel and woke up like that," he said, circling around to get a better look at Erin's bruised face. "Unless the barrel had a vendetta."
Erin kept walking, brushing past him.
Cidrin whistled low. "Right. We're doing the silent, brooding thing now. Good, good. Love the classics."
But his humor faded as quickly as it came. He fell into step behind Erin, tone dropping with it.
"Y'know, you could've said something. If you got jumped. Or… I don't know. Needed backup."
Erin stopped just for a moment. His eyes flicked over his shoulder.
"I didn't," he said.
"Could've fooled me."
The words didn't sting, but they carried weight. Cidrin watched him a second longer, like he wanted to say more, but he stepped back and let it go—at least for now.
From his place on the lower deck steps, Fenrick leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching the whole thing play out with the patience of a storm anchor. His beast-marked eyes narrowed slightly.
"Y'know Scrap," Fenrick said, "some of us actually care if you're walking around half-dead."
Erin's brow twitched. "I'm not."
"You snapped at Ariya. Swatted her off like she was pestering you." Fenrick tilted his head. "She's got every right to take that personally."
"I didn't mean to—" Erin cut himself off, jaw clenching.
"Didn't look like it," Fenrick replied. "But hey, I get it. You don't want help. Fine. But if you're gonna act like a cornered dog, expect people to treat you like one."
That one landed. Erin didn't show it, but something in his shoulders shifted—tightened.
A moment later, the steady thud of boots approached from behind the helm.
Thalor descended the stairs, rain trailing off the edge of his cloak like oil down steel. He didn't speak at first. Just looked at Erin—long, steady, unreadable. Then his gaze shifted across the crew, taking in the tension like checking wind pressure.
He stopped beside Erin and folded his arms.
"If you've got something you're dealing with, that's yours," he said plainly. "I won't pull it out of you."
There was no judgment in his voice, no softness either. Just grounded, deliberate leadership.
"But we're a crew. Your silence becomes our weight if you let it fester."
Erin didn't move.
Thalor didn't wait. He nodded once—to him, to the others—and moved on, vanishing back toward the helm like a shadow breaking against the rain.
For a moment, it seemed the air might settle again.
Then Narza spoke.
She hadn't moved from where she leaned against a coil of rope near the aft rigging, arms folded, scarf drawn high. Her voice was calm, but clipped at the edges—like someone choosing their words carefully.
"You left for that walk after we talked last night," she said, loud enough to cut through the rain. "Didn't come back till late."
Erin didn't answer.
She didn't let that stop her.
"Was it like this?" she asked, nodding toward the side of his face, the bruises that bloomed under one eye. "The walk, I mean. Did it end with someone throwing you into a wall, or did you dive into one on purpose?"
Her tone wasn't mocking. It was dry. Neutral. But underneath it, there was something else. Not softness, exactly—Narza didn't do softness—but concern, threaded thin like smoke.
Erin turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her.
"Does it matter?" he said.
"It might." She met his eyes. "If you came back worse than you left, then yeah. It matters."
He looked away again.
Narza stepped forward a little, her boots splashing through the shallow water pooling on the deck. She didn't get close, but closer than anyone else had. The rain matted her hair to her forehead, her expression unreadable under the scarf.
"You left to go clear your mind," she said. "Now you're back, and carrying something heavier than before. Except now you're limping and bleeding and glaring at everyone like we're the reason why."
He clenched his fists.
Narza's gaze didn't waver.
"If you don't want to talk about it, fine. I've got no right to pull it out of you either." She stepped back again. "But don't pretend we're blind."
And with that, she turned away.
No one else spoke. The rain returned to dominance—soft and endless over the deck, the wood creaking under the weight of silence and storm.
He stood there a moment longer, eyes unfocused. His heartbeat still hadn't slowed. His jaw ached. His side burned.
But worse than all of that was the weight in his chest.
The part he couldn't walk off.
The others had left him alone. The deck had quieted. Only the storm stayed with him—steady, uncaring. And maybe that was fair. He let the rain hit him. Let it soak through, wash down the lines of his face and cling to his lashes. But it didn't cleanse anything. Not really.
The image kept replaying—Ariya flinching back, hand recoiling like she'd been burned. The way she blinked, lips parted like she might say something… but didn't.
She hadn't deserved that. She'd just wanted to help.
And he'd hurt her for it.
Erin clenched his teeth, guilt settling in just under his ribs. He hadn't meant to do it. It wasn't about her—it wasn't even about the pain. It had just been too much, and she'd been too close.
But that didn't make it right.
He was only making things worse.
So do something better.
The thought came uninvited, rising up like a tide from somewhere deeper than anger or shame. He couldn't fix what he'd done to Ariya—not yet—but there was still something he could fix.
The boy.
That memory hadn't left him either. Silas, wild-eyed and defiant even when the world closed in on him. That spark in his voice. That stubborn will to survive. Erin had seen it, even if it had slipped away into the dark.
And he'd promised—at least to himself—that he wouldn't let it end there.
But he could find the boy.
He would find him.
Erin wiped at his face, but it didn't help. The rain kept falling, washing the heat from his skin and leaving only the cold behind.
He turned from the railing and made his way down the steps, boots thudding against the soaked wood. He passed the door to his quarters without a glance. He didn't need rest. Didn't deserve it.
Not yet.
Erin didn't know when he started walking.
One minute he stood on the deck, the storm washing over him like penance. The next, his boots were on the gangplank, and then the gangplank gave way to the shifting bones of Brackton Cay. The city sprawled out before him like a wound half-healed—grime slicked streets, uneven cobbles, and buildings hunched close together like they were whispering secrets the rain couldn't wash away.
Erin had no leads, no plan. Only that promise burning in his ribs, and a bone-deep need to make it right. He didn't even know the boy's full name.
Silas.
It was all he had.
That, and the flash of his face. That determined, bruised expression. The way he'd stared those thugs down like he'd grown up learning that the world would always come for him—and that he'd spit in its eye anyway.
Most people were gone. Sheltered inside or vanished altogether. Brackton Cay wasn't the kind of place that stayed up late when it stormed. The kind of folks who lingered were either desperate or dangerous.
Erin didn't care which.
Somewhere in this maze was Silas.
Rain slicked every surface, turning the deckwood to glass. Rope-bridges swung overhead, and barrel-lifts creaked on pulleys between platforms. The storm had chased most folk inside, but a few figures braved the downpour—sailors in hooded oilskins, runners darting with crates, weathered faces peering out from canvas-flapped stalls still stubbornly open for business.
He passed a rickety dive called the Keelhaul Cradle, its front hatch propped open by a rusted anchor. A soft, discordant tune drifted out from a one-stringed fiddle. No one looked up when he passed.
He tried asking. Once.
A squat old man in a faded naval coat shook his head at the description of Silas, replying with a thick drawl, "Plenty lads like that round here, aye? Half th' Cay's got bruises an' no family name. Yer lookin' fer smoke in the wind, boy."
Erin moved on. He stopped a few sailors clustered under an awning, sharing a pipe and passing a jug between them.
"You seen a kid?" he asked, keeping his voice steady. "Young. Bruised face. Might've been with three men last night."
They barely glanced at him.
One squinted, lifting the jug in half-offer. "Plenty of bruised kids, mate. You'll have to be more specific."
Erin moved on.
Next was an older woman sweeping rainwater off a shop's stoop with a bristled broom, muttering to herself as she worked.
"No," she said sharply, not even letting him finish the question. "Don't get involved in that mess. Best if you keep walking."
Then a street vendor packing up crates of wilted fruit beneath a sagging tarp. He gave a half-hearted shrug. Could be Kerran's lot. Could be anyone. Look around the Black Span if you're that eager to get stabbed."
Erin didn't stop.
The Black Span. He didn't know where it was, but he made a note of it. Tucked it away like a breadcrumb.
He stopped asking questions.
It wasn't working anyway. People gave him shrugs, side-eyes, and gruff warnings to keep his nose out of things that didn't concern him. Even the ones that looked kind wouldn't talk once he mentioned a kid being dragged off.
"Storm's bad luck enough," one man muttered, adjusting a tarp over crates of rope. "Don't go temptin' worse, aye?"
So Erin gave up on asking.
Instead, he walked.
He let the island speak to him in its own language—through the tilt of shutters, the chipped paint on old inns, the way certain streets funneled wind like whispers. The rain had eased into a damp mist now, soft but clinging, casting a haze over everything.
Brackton Cay wasn't big. But it felt big. A dozen corners could hide a dozen secrets.
He passed a crumbling archway with names carved into the stone—hundreds of them. No context. Just names. Some fresh, others nearly worn smooth. The kind of place people went to leave things behind.
Beyond it lay a silent courtyard with a ring of standing stones. A dog slept in the middle, tail twitching in its dreams.
Further into the maze of Brackton Cay, he crossed a rope bridge that swayed with every gust—beneath it, a churning canal split the island's south end in two. Someone had built a series of ramshackle watermills down there, their wooden blades creaking with the tide. Rusted machinery leaned half-forgotten behind gates. A boy darted past Erin barefoot, clutching a sack of clams. Never even looked up.
He passed a shrine carved into the hollow of a stone pillar—copper coins placed in a circle around it. A burnt offering still smoldered at the base. A slip of parchment had been wedged between two stones, soaked through but still legible.
"Guide him home. I swear he don't deserve the sea."
Erin stared at it for a long time.
He didn't take the coin. He didn't touch the paper.
He just kept walking.
Time stopped meaning anything. The light didn't change—gray and endless—but his legs did. They grew heavier. His steps slower. He wandered past the same lantern three times before realizing he was looping.
In one quarter, the air stank of salt-cured fish and rot. In another, it reeked of old engine oil. In a third, incense curled out from a row of windows like painted smoke. Some walkways hung suspended by ropes from above, creaking with every step. Others floated freely, lashed together by nets and prayer flags.
He passed a narrow square where a trio of children huddled around a glowing shell, trading turns whispering secrets into it. They didn't look up.
Further in, he saw a man with a bandaged head shouting at his reflection in a broken pane of glass. A group of masked women danced barefoot on a slick roof nearby, their chants carried away by the wind.
And still—no sign of Silas.
No voices calling for help. No mention of a captured boy. No trace at all.
Erin's search grew slower, more aimless. He took wrong turns, found himself at dead ends where planks had collapsed into black water below. He turned back. Climbed stairways that led nowhere. Walked down bridges that dipped underfoot like they might snap at any second.
His boots sloshed with every step. His hood sagged with water. His fingers ached. His shoulders curled in. But he didn't stop.
The image wouldn't leave his mind—Silas being dragged off, fighting tooth and nail until there was nothing left.
Eventually, he reached the outskirts—where Brackton Cay gave up pretending to be civilized. Here, the buildings were little more than lean-tos, metal and canvas draped between shattered stone. A distillery's stink clung to the air—sharp, fermented, toxic. The alleys narrowed. He passed a market street so narrow he had to squeeze sideways through it. Empty stalls, crates overturned. Broken glass glinted on the planks like tiny teeth. A lantern swung above him, and the shadows moved in dizzy patterns.
It felt like he had stepped into another world. One that had always been here—beneath the surface of Brackton Cay, hidden between the tide and the rain.
But even that world held no answers.
Eventually, his pace faltered. Not from doubt—though that gnawed at him too—but from sheer exhaustion. His body ached in a dozen places. The storm had soaked him through hours ago. He could feel blisters forming in his boots. His stomach growled, unanswered.
And still—nothing.
No sign of Silas.
No way to fix what had happened.
He stopped when his body made him.
He found a crate near the edge of a tilted walkway where three ship-hulls met. The rain fell harder now, and though he was partially under a jutting ledge, water still dripped down the back of his neck. His hood drooped, heavy and useless.
He sat anyway.
And breathed.
For a while, that was all he could do. His chest rose and fell. His breath fogged in front of him. His fingers twitched from the cold, but he didn't move to warm them.
It was hopeless, wasn't it?
The Cay was too big. Too twisted. A hundred thousand places for a child to vanish into. If Silas had been taken by a group… Erin didn't even know what kind of group. Slavers? Gangs? Or just a pack of drunk bastards with too much time and too little soul?
And what did he think would happen if he did find them?
He'd gotten the hell beaten out of him trying to help once already. He couldn't even stand up to three men. Couldn't protect a boy with more courage in his pinky than Erin had in his whole damn spine.
The ache behind his eyes grew sharp. He gritted his teeth.
"I'm not strong enough," he muttered, and hated how true it sounded.
It wasn't fair. That he could try, and fail, and try again, and still—still—be left with nothing but bruises and guilt and the hollow knowledge that he wasn't enough.
A gust of wind cut through the alley, rattling a loose board nearby. Rain swept across the crate, soaking his legs. He didn't move.
Then—
Voices.
Not close. Not clear. But something about the sound drew his attention.
Erin looked up, slow. His legs ached as he pushed himself to stand again, shoulders slouched, hood heavy with water.
Two men passed the corner of the alley across from him.
And something in his chest snapped upright.
He didn't know how he recognized them—not their faces, not fully—but it was them. The way the shorter one moved, heavy steps like he was still drunk from the night before. The taller one had a bandage on his temple. Erin remembered it's from when Silas whacked him in the head with a pipe.
It was them. Two out of the three thugs from before.
His breath caught. The rain no longer mattered. The cold peeled away like dead skin.
Erin stepped off the crate. His pulse surged. Lightning flashed above, white streaks spilling over the layers of wet metal and old hullwood, casting everything into stark relief. He didn't hesitate.
And followed.
They were fast—but not cautious. Like they didn't expect to be watched. Erin kept his distance, weaving through the maze of the Cay, sticking to the quieter routes—under hanging tarps, behind cargo crates, across a shifting beam bridge that swayed beneath his weight. The storm muffled his footsteps. Each boom of thunder masked the quickened pace of his breath.
Brackton Cay changed as he moved deeper. Gone were the messy rows of stacked homes and market shanties—now it was older. The planks here groaned like they hadn't been replaced in decades. Signs hung half-broken, written in glyphs he didn't recognize. He passed a half-sunken galley turned into a taphouse where no one was laughing. Bare lanterns lit the way—dim, flickering, like the place had been stitched together and left to rot.
Still, the thugs kept moving. And so did he.
By the time they slipped into a narrow corridor between two gutted ships—wedged together so tightly the walls almost touched—Erin's hood was soaked through and his legs ached. But the fire in his chest burned hotter than the cold could reach.
He reached the end of the alley just in time to see them vanish through a narrow gap in the hull of an old ironclad repurposed into something bigger. The place didn't look abandoned. No broken windows. No signs of decay. Lights burned inside—low and steady. A few figures lingered near the front entrance, half-shadowed by a broad awning of tied sails.
It wasn't empty.
It was active.
And that made it worse.
The structure loomed three decks tall, bolted into place with huge rusted chains. Its name had been scratched off long ago, replaced by a sigil painted in black and red—a wave breaking over a circle of teeth.
Erin stared at it. The feeling in his gut twisted.
Something about the place felt wrong. Like he was being watched, even though no one was looking at him. The wood beneath his boots was warped with old burn marks. There were no signs, no windows, no laughter or music. Just the sound of the storm… and his own ragged breath.
He crept closer. One step. Then another.
His fingers twitched at his side. He could hear movement inside. Low voices. A clatter of something metal.
This is where they took him.
He was almost to the threshold when—
Something yanked his hood.
Erin's heart lurched. He whirled around, hand halfway raised in reflex, plasma itching at his palm.
Narza stood there, soaked, hood down, eyes narrowed.
Her hair was plastered to her cheeks and her scarf clung like bloodied silk. She said nothing at first. Just stared at him like she'd already seen everything he'd done—every step he'd taken—and was waiting to see what he'd do next.
"…You followed me?" Erin whispered, still trying to catch his breath.
She tilted her head, expression unreadable. "Wouldn't have had to if you didn't suck at sneaking."
Erin blinked.
Before he could answer, she glanced past him toward the strange building.
Then her voice dropped, quiet but firm: "You don't go in there alone."
Erin's shoulders sagged slightly, the rush of adrenaline fading just enough to let the weariness slip back in.
He let out a slow breath. "You don't even know what this is."
Narza didn't blink. "I don't need to. You've been acting off since this morning. Skipped out, came back looking like someone chewed you up and spit you out, and didn't say a damn word to anyone."
Her voice wasn't angry. Just steady. Observant. Like she was building a picture out of pieces he thought he'd hidden.
"I'm fine," Erin muttered.
"No," she said plainly. "You're not. You're drenched, limping, and you're standing outside a sketchy, torchlit deathtrap like it's your destiny."
He looked away.
"I'm not leaving," she added. "So you can stop hoping I'll just turn around."
"I'm not hoping that," he said, jaw tight.
"Could've fooled me."
Her scarf hung limp, soaked to the color of dried blood, clinging to her collar. Wet strands of her hair stuck to her cheekbones, and yet she stood as if the rain meant nothing. Eyes sharp. Shoulders squared. Ready.
"…Why did you follow me?" he asked.
Narza's eyes narrowed, not in anger but focus. "Because I've seen that look before. When someone decides they've got to fix something alone, no matter what it costs. You walked off the ship like you were never coming back."
Erin stared at the building's entrance, the sigil glaring through the rain like a warning. "I met a kid last night, on my walk. I guess he was in some trouble because some guys came outta nowhere and beat the shit out of both of us, then took him."
She looked at him for a long moment. "So now you're planning to walk into a building full of who knows what to what—get him back?"
"I have to," Erin said. "He's just a kid, Narza. No one else is going to look for him. Not in a place like this."
"And you didn't think to ask for help?"
"I didn't want to drag the rest of you into this."
Narza's expression finally cracked—just a little. Not anger. Not even annoyance. Something closer to disbelief.
"You really think you're carrying something we haven't carried before?" she said. "You think we don't get it?"
Erin looked away.
"You want to be stronger," she went on, voice low. "Fine. But walking in alone doesn't make you stronger. It makes you stupid."
The words stung. But not unfairly.
Erin let his breath out slow through his nose. "I didn't expect you to come after me."
"I didn't expect you to sneak off like an idiot. But here we are."
They stood there for a few seconds, rain pattering quietly around them. The building pulsed with low, muffled noise—voices rising and falling, metal shifting. A dangerous place with dangerous people. And somewhere inside, a scared kid waiting for someone to give a damn.
Narza didn't speak right away. Then: "I hope you know dying in there isn't going to make up for it."
His head snapped toward her. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. I've pulled people out of that kind of mistake before, Erin. You're not the first to carry guilt like it's a weapon pointed at your own feet."
"You think this is about guilt?" he said, sharper now. "It's about doing something. If I wait, if I tell someone, if I go back and plan and talk and wait—he's gone. Maybe forever."
"You're not wrong," she said. "But you're not invincible either."
Erin clenched his fists. "Then why are you here?"
"Because I've seen people do stupid things with the right reasons." Her voice softened—not weak, just… lower. Less guarded. "And because you're not him."
That made him blink. "What?"
"You've been walking around all day like you're someone else. Head down. Not looking anyone in the eye. Not talking. You don't even move the same." She looked at him like she was trying to find something beneath the layers of wet clothes and shaking shoulders. "I don't know if you think you're broken, or if you're just trying to be someone tougher. But I followed you, Erin. Not the version of you trying to pretend he doesn't care."
Erin's breath caught.
He hadn't realized that's what he looked like. Hadn't even thought about the way he'd walked, or carried himself. But she was right—he had been making himself seem like someone else. Someone colder. Someone less shaken. Less vulnerable. Not because he wanted to be—but because he was afraid showing anything else would make him crumble.
And maybe, on some level… maybe he had hoped someone would follow him.
"I wasn't pretending," he said quietly, "at least, not on purpose. I just… didn't want to feel anything."
Narza didn't answer right away.
"But I'm glad you came," Erin added, eyes meeting hers. "Even if I acted like I didn't want anyone to. I think… I was hoping I wouldn't have to go through this alone."
Narza's expression didn't change much. But something in her stance eased. Her hand, which had been resting on the hilt of one of her blades, dropped back to her side.
"You're not," she said. "Not right now."
The storm was still coming down in curtains. The metal walls of the alley shimmered with runoff, and that sigil above the door stared back at him like a dare. But something Narza said stuck, snagged on the guilt in his chest and held it fast.
You're not him.
He realized, in that moment, that holding everything in didn't make him stronger. It made him smaller.
He let out a slow, uneven breath. Then he met Narza's gaze.
"…Thanks," he said quietly.
She shrugged. "Don't make me say it again."
A beat passed. The tension between them thinned, softened by the weight of rain and unspoken things.
"Still think I suck at sneaking?" he asked.
"Absolutely," she said without missing a beat.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Just for a second.
Then her hand brushed his arm, a quiet signal. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"I wasn't just tailing you for fun."
Together, they moved into the dark—this time, not alone. He followed her to a side door near the back of the place. The door let out a low groan as Narza pushed it open just wide enough for them to slip inside.
The air changed immediately.
Gone was the sound of rain, swallowed by a deep, humming stillness. Lanterns set in iron sconces along the walls cast flickering light across warped floorboards and mismatched furniture. The smell hit next—sweat, smoke, alcohol, something burnt. And under it, a sour tang of blood barely masked by pipeblossom.
Narza moved first, slow and silent. She didn't draw her weapons, but her posture shifted—lower, ready. Erin followed close behind, forcing his breathing steady. No more hiding. No more pretending. Just one step at a time.
The entry opened into a wide common room. A handful of people lounged at crooked tables, some playing dice, others murmuring over drinks. A wiry man in a patchwork vest was passed out in the corner, bleeding from the nose, and no one seemed interested in helping him. A woman with missing teeth snored against a keg. Another man hunched by a stove, feeding it what looked like broken chair legs.
But no Silas.
A thickset man behind the bar glanced up, eyed them both, and went back to polishing a glass. The place had the feel of a space people passed through, not one they stayed in—like the real business was happening behind the doors no one pointed to.
Narza angled her head toward the left hallway and whispered, "You recognize any of them?"
"No." Erin scanned the room again. "But one of the guys is wearing a bandage around his head from when the kid hit him in the head with a pipe."
A low voice cut through the haze. "You lost, sweetheart?"
They turned.
A tall man with a cruel smile had stepped away from the wall, his boots thudding on the floor like punctuation. His arms were bare, showing corded muscle and ink along one shoulder that twisted like thorns. The tattoo was old, faded—but there. A broken chain link.
Narza didn't blink. "No."
"Then maybe you're lookin' for company. But you're not exactly dressed for it." His eyes slid to Erin, then back. "Unless you brought the kid to watch."
Erin clenched his jaw but said nothing. The man's gaze lingered a moment too long, smug and sizing.
Narza stepped forward.
The man held out a lazy hand, half a gesture, half a dare. "Easy now. No sudden moves, sweetheart."
She didn't respond.
Then her body shifted—shoulder tilting, weight sliding with the grace of a coiled wire snapping free.
The blade at her hip flicked out in a blur.
A sharp shhk of steel.
The man screamed.
A deep slash bloomed across his face, from cheekbone to brow. Blood gushed down his jaw and over his lips. He staggered backward, one hand clawing at the cut, the other reaching for the wall like it might stop his world from spinning.
"Sh—shit! Kill that bitch!"
The whole room seemed to exhale at once—and then exploded into motion.
The thug with the club rushed in first, roaring as he swung in a heavy arc meant to cave her ribs in.
Narza pivoted on her heel, the club narrowly missing as she drove her fist into his stomach—once, twice—then grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him forward.
Smoke hissed between her teeth as she exhaled—literally.
A tight, focused stream burst from her lips like a smoke lance and hit the man square in the face. He choked, screamed, and stumbled back, swinging blind. Narza ducked and kicked the inside of his knee hard enough to make it buckle, then slammed her blade down against the back of his neck. He collapsed like a bag of meat.
Another man came from behind—knife flashing low.
Narza spun to meet him, letting smoke trail from her boots with each sharp footstep. She vanished mid-turn, slipping into a rolling cloud and bursting out behind him.
He didn't even get the chance to look surprised before her blade caught the back of his knee.
He screamed and dropped—only for her to twist his own arm behind his back and shove him forward, using his falling body as a shield against a shot from the pistol across the room.
CRACK.
The bullet ripped through the man's shoulder with a spurt of red. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Narza raised her blade again, catching the faint gleam of the pistolman's second shot. She didn't dodge—she sliced it from the air with a flick of her sword, smoke trailing in the arc like a comet's tail.
Erin stared, wide-eyed. Still unmoving. But watching.
A second thug came barreling in, ducking low with a broken bottle and a chain. Narza stepped back—
—then kicked the nearest table leg. Her foot ignited in a coiling spiral of smoke, which launched the wooden table upward with force unnatural for its weight.
It smashed into the man mid-charge, knocking him clean off his feet and into the bar.
"Damned freak—!" the bartender tried to draw something from under the counter, but Narza reached out and clapped her hands together—
BOOM.
A sudden shockburst of compressed smoke detonated from her palms like a thunderclap. The pressure-wave cracked mugs, flipped chairs, and flung the bartender against the far wall like a ragdoll.
The room was now dim and writhing in twisting gray. Narza danced through it, not just hiding—but controlling it. The smoke obeyed her like a trained beast.
She lashed out with a shortblade in one hand and let coils of smoke wrap around her other arm like a living ribbon. When the final remaining thug came charging from the side, she whipped the smoke strand forward—it snaked through the air, wrapped around his neck, and yanked.
He stumbled—gagging—and she closed the gap with two steps, drove her elbow into his gut, then her knee into his jaw. He hit the ground and didn't get up.
A moment passed.
Only the sound of blood dripping from her blade and the soft rasp of her breath.
Then came the heavier footsteps in the hall.
Narza turned to Erin without looking winded. "Reinforcements."
Erin nodded, silent, but there was fire in his eyes now. Not panic. Focus.
Then the wind mage and brawler showed up—Aerosyne and the man with the pressure-charged gloves. But now the fight's already earned its weight. Now Narza's a storm in human form.
The next pair that entered were different.
One was wiry, with streaks of white ink spiraling down his forearms and a current of wind curling lazily around his shoulders like a pet snake. Aerosyne. Wind magic.
The other—thick-necked, thick-skulled—wore a reinforced vest and gauntlets humming with visible pressure coils. His knuckles sparked with stored kinetic force.
"Looks like we missed the warm-up," the wind mage said, cracking his neck.
The brawler rolled his shoulders. "You the bitch that sliced Loro's face?"
Narza tilted her head. "I've sliced a lot of faces tonight." She barely ducked as a slicing gust of wind tore through the space where her head had been—splinters exploded from the wall behind her. The gust continued, knocking a table over and nearly taking Erin off his feet.
The other one—the one with the sparking gloves—cracked his knuckles.
Then lunged.
Narza dropped low, rolled under a wide haymaker, and kicked his knee out. He grunted, stumbled, swung again. This time she caught the edge of his glove with her blade—metal on metal. Sparks danced up the hilt and hissed against her gloves, singeing smoke into the air.
She growled, kicked him hard in the ribs, and turned just in time to avoid another air-blade hurled from the mage.
"You sure this is the right place?" she muttered as she dodged behind a post.
Erin didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on the mage, watching how his fingers curled, how the wind gathered.
Learning.
The brawler didn't wait. He charged with both fists glowing—a low, heavy slam that cracked the floorboards where Narza had been a moment earlier.
She shifted left, a blur of red scarf and smoke—but the wind mage snapped his fingers, and a blast of compressed air slammed into her side. Not strong enough to break bone, but it knocked her off balance mid-step.
She recovered fast—but they were already flanking her.
The brawler came in low, hammering her guard. The wind mage circled from behind, his hands drawing tight arcs in the air—each gesture summoning slicing wind like invisible blades. One grazed her side. Another clipped her thigh.
Narza hissed.
Still moving. Still calculating.
She dropped a smoke bomb at her feet—more instinct than plan—and vanished in a burst of gray.
"Smoke and mirrors," the wind mage muttered, eyes scanning. "She's scared."
"No," Erin said under his breath.
She wasn't.
The smoke tightened around their legs like fog being sucked into a storm. A shape blurred within it—then flickered twice.
She came out swinging.
First, a low kick that staggered the wind mage back. Then a brutal follow-up: a blade slice across the brawler's forearm that sparked off his gauntlet. He swung in retaliation—and she used the momentum to vault off his arm, flipping over him and hurling a smoke dagger into the wind mage's chest.
It stung—not fatal, but enough to piss him off.
"You little—!"
He whirled both arms in a cross-sweep. A whirlwind burst outward, tearing chairs from the floor and scattering debris through the room.
Narza took a chair to the back and stumbled. A second later, the brawler's elbow cracked into her ribs.
She grunted, slid across the floor, and skidded to a stop beside the wrecked bar.
"Come on," the brawler growled. "Get up so I can put you down again."
Narza rose slowly.
She exhaled, blood trickling from her lip, then wiped it with the back of her glove.
"…Fine."
Then came the smoke.
Not a cloud—a surge, erupting from every part of her like she'd burst a seal on her own body. It didn't choke the room this time. It moved with her.
She blurred forward—and vanished.
Erin blinked.
The wind mage flinched as a line slashed across his chest—then another opened along his leg. He spun, but she wasn't there. She was everywhere.
Blurs of red scarf, of blades catching the lantern light.
It wasn't illusion.
It was speed. Precision. Afterimages etched in smoke.
The brawler swung wild, unable to keep up. One moment she was in front of him—the next, behind. A boot to the back of his knee dropped him. A spinning kick sent his helmet flying.
The wind mage cried out as a slash scored across his ribs—and Narza appeared just long enough to grab his collar, flip him over her shoulder, and slam him into the nearest table. He bounced once and didn't move again.
The brawler, bruised and barely conscious, tried to lurch up.
Narza stood behind him. Her blade slid across his throat in a smooth, final gesture.
He fell without a sound.
Silence reclaimed the tavern.
Rain whispered faintly from outside. Lanterns flickered. Smoke curled like slow-moving ghosts around broken chairs and spilled drinks.
Then—
Clap. Clap.
A slow, mocking rhythm from the darkened hallway.
"Well done," a voice drawled.