The room filled with the soft crackle of firewood, the spicy scent of crisped chicken fat battling the salve's foul tang in the air. For a moment, they were just three idiots in a tower that shouldn't still be standing, licking grease off their fingers and pretending they weren't already planning the next stupid risk.
Kazan tore another strip off the sizzling chicken and handed it over. "You really gonna fight again tomorrow?"
Darian took the meat, biting through grease and skin like it owed him something. "Yeah."
"That's madness," Bren muttered.
"It's momentum," Darian replied. "It's here. I feel it. The crowd's watching now."
"And once the crowd watches, someone else always watches," Kazan said, voice briefly serious.
Bren squinted. "Like… eyes?"
Kazan blinked at him. "Yes, Bren. Like literal eyes. On your back. Possibly attached to a person."
Bren nodded sagely. "I hate those."
The door thudded open, less a knock, more like a slammed boot, Sefra strode in like a storm with a body in tow. "Tracked your whisper all the way down the alleys behind the old shrine at Pig's Cross. Thought I had something. Turns out I did... just not what I expected."
"Let go of me, you Basstdamned brute!" screeched Jossa, flailing wildly as Sefra dragged her by the collar like a sack of fish guts. "I said I was gonna pay! I said!"
"After you ran," Sefra growled, voice like a whetstone. "Again."
The others looked up.
Kazan leaned back, chuckling. "Looks like someone got dragged through the mud."
"Not enough mud in the city," Sefra muttered, giving Jossa one last shove. The girl stumbled forward and landed hard on her rear, still hissing like a feral cat.
Jossa was small, wiry, with a round face and more dirt than skin showing. Her hair was a matted thicket of brunette tangles, eyes sharp as glass shards. She wore a tunic two sizes too big, held together by string and sheer stubbornness, and a pair of boots that didn't match.
Darian leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "So, you finally show your face."
"Didn't have a choice," Jossa muttered, rubbing her shoulder. "I was getting followed."
"By who?" Bren asked, looking genuinely concerned for once.
Jossa looked up. Saw all three of them staring.
She swallowed.
Then: "Alright, alright. I'll talk. But none of that shoulder-snapping shit, yeah? It's still clicking from last time."
Sefra raised her eyebrows. "Talk."
Jossa exhaled, loud and dramatic, like a performer warming up for the stage. "So. You know Dock Nine went sideways."
"We know you were there," Darian said. "We don't know what happened."
"Why'd you run?" Kazan asked. "That whole district's still locked down tighter than a noble's daughter."
"I didn't run," Jossa said, sitting upright, brushing herself off. "I evacuated. Urgently. With speed."
"Talk," Sefra repeated, tapping her knife on her belt.
"Fine, fine. So, Dock Nine. I was doing a little ledger job. Quiet. Just sniffing around. Old shipping logs, little cook-the-books job for a fence named Tolla. The usual. But then... then I see this crate."
She paused. Waited. No one interrupted.
Jossa held up both hands like she was surrendering to the gods themselves. "Didn't even touch it. I swear on every piss-soaked coin I owe you all, I was just there to copy some ledgers. Quiet job. In, out, maybe skim a name or two, nothing fancy. But this crate…"
She shook her head, face going pale beneath the dirt. "It wasn't like the rest. Sat in the corner of Warehouse Three, sealed up tighter than a nun's arsehole. Triple-waxed, banded in steel, and covered in Church glyphs. Real ones, not those temple street scams, I mean sanctioned seals. The kind that crack your teeth if you say the wrong thing near them. Should've been locked up somewhere holy, not sitting between fish crates and salt barrels."
"What was inside?" Darian asked.
"That's the thing. I never found out. Some bastard, big fella, red vest, dressed like a dock foreman, starts sniffing around the same time I'm counting boxes. Has this twitchy look, eyes always moving. Says the crate's flagged for 'special reclamation' and tells the boys to roll it open. No key, no clearance, just pries the locks like he's opening lunch."
Jossa paused, her voice dropping low. "The moment the seals cracked, guards came out of nowhere. Black tabards, no insignia, moved like trained dogs. Not harbor security, not magistrate levy. Quiet. Efficient. Dead serious."
"And?" Kazan leaned in.
"And that's when all hells broke loose," Jossa muttered. "The fake foreman? Not a dockhand, not even close. The second the guards moved in, he tore through the first two like butter on a forgeplate. Straight up gutted one from navel to neck, other one he just… twisted something in his wrist and the guy dropped without a sound."
Bren blinked. "Magic?"
"Something like it," Jossa said. "Didn't see the whole thing, I hit the floor and crawled under a slop cart. More guards rushed in, shouting about heresy and breach protocols. I heard someone yell to seal the yard. The air went thick, like Glacium smoke, but colder. My breath started freezing on my lips."
Darian frowned. "What was in the crate?"
"No idea," she said, shaking her head. "They never opened it. The fight broke out before anyone even touched the interior case. But I'll tell you what I saw, before I ran, I got one good look at the top layer. There was writing, etched into the steel. Old script. Church tongue. Couldn't read it, but I seen the symbol."
Jossa glanced around like someone might be listening. She swallowed hard. She hesitated, then traced a rough shape in the air with her finger.
"Circle inside a triangle. And in the center? A crooked eye, turned sideways, like it was watching something it wasn't meant to. Eye had no pupil. Just… a spiral. Like it was falling in."
Darian's brow furrowed. Kazan leaned back slowly. Bren muttered something under his breath in gutter-cant and crossed himself with ink-stained fingers.
"That's not Church standard," Sefra said flatly.
"No," Jossa whispered. "But those guards? They treated it like it was more sacred than the Prophet's own bones."
Darian's brow furrowed even further. "Why'd you take the job in the first place?"
"Didn't know what I was poking, did I? Just a dusty job, like any other. Ledger work. Who checks every seal?"
"That's all nice and well Joss, but you owe us coin," Sefra said flatly.
"I know," Jossa said, holding up her hands again. "And I swear I've got something lined up. Real job. Quick score. I just... needed to stay off the streets a few days. And maybe borrow your floor. And some bread. And Kazan's knife."
"You're not touching my knife," Kazan said.
Sefra cracked her knuckles. "Twenty-four hours. You're out or you pay."
"I'll get it," Jossa muttered. "One job, that's all I need."
"You said that last time," Darian said.
"Yeah, well," she sighed, brushing dirt from her pants, "last time the box didn't bleed fire and whisper scripture. And that one time with the bones? That wasn't my fault either. Okay, maybe it was humming. But the one three months ago doesn't count, that goat was already dead!"
Kazan leaned in and whispered toward Bren. "We're never letting her pick a job for us."
"Seconded," Bren muttered.
Jossa laid back on the floor with a groan. "Gods, I hate this city."
Kazan leaned in with a smirk. "You've got the spine of a leaf and the mouth of a sewer grate."
"At least I don't wear my dead uncle's boots."
Kazan, clearly offended. "These were his dying wish!"
"Probably wanted to die faster seeing you in 'em." Sticking her tongue out towards him.
Sefra didn't move. She turned instead to Darian and jerked her chin toward the far wall. "Need a word."
Darian rose from the crate, wiping grease from his fingers onto his trousers. They moved a few steps away, enough for privacy but not out of earshot.
"I ran the Black Gate lead," Sefra said, low and quick. "Didn't find the runner, but I found something else, couple crates buried under old tarps in a sideyard near Pier Six. No markings except fresh seal wax and a single stamp."
"What kind?"
"Old Viceroyal charter," she said. "Stenciled faint, like they were trying not to be noticed. New crates, though. Packed for long travel."
"Smuggling?" Darian asked.
"Could be," she said. "But the timing lines up with your whisper. And the guards were watching that section real close. Not posted, lurking. That ain't normal."
Across the room, Jossa suddenly sat up straight. "Wait... wait, wait," she blurted. "Crates near Pier Six? Stamped with a viceroy seal?"
Sefra turned around, her eyes narrowed to slits. "You know them?"
Jossa nodded fast, too fast, like her thoughts were outrunning her mouth. "I've seen those crates. Glacium! No doubt in my mind. Heavy as sin and locked tighter than a nun's knees. They're Church-bound, or supposed to be."
The room fell into a sudden hush, thick and sharp as a drawn blade. Even Kazan stopped chewing.
Glacium.
Not coin. Not weapons.
Glacium.
Gold didn't sparkle like that. Gold didn't burn cold or twist the air around it with that quiet, unnatural hum. And Glacium didn't just go missing, not without someone's head rolling.
Darian's jaw tensed. Sefra slowly set her knife down. Kazan muttered, "Well, fuck me sideways."
Jossa pressed on, the desperation sharpening into fire. "Real shards. Five crates, maybe more. It was meant for the Church, sealed and sanctified. But the run got hijacked. Transport master decided to go rogue, rerouted it, sold the ledger, planned to move it under the guise of fishing equipment. New crates, new seals, same fire inside."
"You talking about stolen church tithes?" Darian asked, eyes narrowing.
"Yes," Jossa said. "And the best part? It's clean. The bastard who hijacked it? He's dead."
"Dead?" Sefra's tone went flat and sharp.
"Real dead. Got into a tangle at The Blue Lady," Jossa said, lifting her chin. "Silk Veil took offense 'cause he wouldn't pay double for some whore he liked. Slit his throat right in the bath. Heard they had to mop chunks out of the pipework."
Darian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And you were there… why?"
"I was his girl, alright?" she snapped. "Off and on. More off, lately. But when he got drunk, he spilled things. Told me the crates were rerouted, marked clean. All fishing gear on the manifest, salted cod and netting, middle tier cargo, Pier Six. Church seals on the inside, but the Goodyear Fishing company's labels slapped on top meant for the Viceroyalty of Strandcliffe"
"Strandcliffe? That's one hell of a distance to go just for some cod and netting... and the crate's still sitting there?" Kazan asked, skeptical.
"Three days 'til the scheduled pickup," Jossa said. "Martin's crew's watching it. Playing dumb. Pretending to sort nets. But I saw them cart it in. Word must've slipped from one of the dockhands, or maybe one of the whores. Doesn't matter. Martin hears there's unclaimed cargo with blackwax seals and no one to check the weight? He jumps. Crew rolled in that night, bribed the night clerk, switched the manifest, and started moving the shipment into a holding cell like it was theirs from the start. Real Glacium, I'd swear it. No iron rings like that, not even Church steel. And I saw the wax. Black. Deep-pressed. The old Church crest, Basst's wingspan over the twelve-pointed flame."
Sefra's eyes narrowed. "How'd you get that close?"
Jossa smiled smug. "Tyler let me linger. What can I say? The boys love a bit of bounce, and I got plenty." She gave her chest a pointed shake. "Drop-dead gorgeous, if the mud washes off. Don't hate me 'cause I'm marketable."
Kazan nearly spat his drink. "Marketable? Gods, Joss, half the boys in Martin's crew are too blind from redleaf and the other half would fuck a carved log if it had a warm hole."
Jossa winked. "And yet they keep calling."
Bren, still fiddling with his satchel, muttered, "Wood don't talk back. That's why some prefer it."
"I give 'em more than wood ever could," Jossa said, smirking. "And in exchange, I hear things. Like when Tyler said, if this goes smooth, he gets a bonus from Martin's boss, and I'd get a roof and a warm bed and ten gold pieces."
"Who's Martin's boss?" Sefra asked, casually spinning her knife on the crate.
"Name's Carren," Jossa said. "Owns a shipping front out near Gutterhook. Not a pinned man himself, but he's tied tight to Gasto Varn, a soldier in the Sable Sons, fully pinned... untouchable unless you want a war. If Carren gets coin, Gasto gets his cut, and nobody asks too many questions."
Darian snorted. "So Martin's crew is just the bottom of the barrel."
Jossa didn't flinch. "Bottom of the barrel, sure. But still backed by a pinned man."
She glanced around the room, the half-rotted walls, the rusting cookpot, the scarred faces lit by firelight.
"Let's not pretend you lot are floating any higher. Four deep, a rat nest for a hideout, and no pin to your name. I've seen cellar crews with more muscle."
Kazan opened his mouth, likely to say something stupid, but Jossa cut him off with a raised brow.
Sefra's eyes narrowed. "And now you're bringing it to us?"
"Tyler's dead to me. I still got the keys." Jossa tapped the side of her head. "And I know where they stashed the manifests. You wipe my debt clean, let me in for five percent. I give you the route, the key, the forged manifest, the timing, everything."
Darian scratched at the stubble on his chin. "We clear you over seven silvers, and you want five percent of a Glacium heist?"
"You'll be buried in coin if you pull this off," Jossa said. "One shard's twenty-five gold. And I know there's at least five crates. I counted 'em myself. That's not a payday. That'll make a nun spread her legs."
Kazan snorted, cocking a brow. "Alright, what's with you and nun references? Everything's locked like a nun's knees or sealed like a nun's arsehole. You got a priest in your past we should know about?"
Jossa just grinned, wicked and unbothered. "What can I say? I like my metaphors chaste and traumatized."
Bren groaned from the corner, muttering, "One day she's gonna say that in front of an actual nun and we're all gonna get set on fire."
The room chuckled. Kazan whistled low. "So the bastard who snatched the cargo is dead, the Church doesn't even know it's missing yet, and Martin's boys are just babysitting crates full of Basstdamned magic money?"
"That's the pitch," Jossa said.
Bren looked up, blinking. "I vote we take it."
"You don't vote, Mole," Kazan said. "You hallucinate ballots."
Darian leaned back, folding his arms. "You swear on your life it's Glacium?"
"Every shard," Jossa said determined. "On my life."
Kazan leaned over and whispered to Sefra. "That's a pretty damn convincing pitch for someone who smells like fish and piss."
Sefra didn't respond immediately. She was watching Jossa, not just what she was saying, but how she said it. The fear, the swagger, the real hook of it.
After a moment, Sefra clicked her tongue and looked to Darian. "We bite?"
Darian exhaled, jaw clenched. "We bite."
Jossa's grin stretched ear to ear. "I knew you fuckers were smart."