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Chapter 4 - Run Away

Mira sat back on her heels, letting the name settle in her head.

Solomon.

Names had weight in Ashport. A man's name could get you a drink or get you gutted, depending on how important he is.

"Never heard of you," she muttered, partly to herself. "That might be good, or bad."

He didn't answer—eyes closed again, his breath thin and uneven. The red paint of Harlow's shack peeled in curls beside her, catching the damp breeze. Behind those walls, voices rose and fell over the slap of cards on wood and the clink of coins changing hands.

Mira glanced toward the open channel. She didn't like how the Torrent-crew man had been watching her earlier. If he saw her bring in a half-dead man, they might decide it was their prize to claim.

She gritted her teeth. This was the kind of moment that decided whether you ate well for a week… or got found facedown in the shallows come morning.

Pulling the tarp halfway over Solomon, she stepped up onto the dock. The planks sagged under her weight, slick with moss.

Inside, Harlow looked up from a table where three men sat nursing cups of something dark. He was a broad-shouldered man with skin gone leathery from sun and salt, his left ear missing the top half.

"Mira," he said, voice like gravel. "Didn't expect you till next tide."

"I've got something for you," she said. 

Harlow's gaze sharpened. "What kind of rare is it?"

"Breathing," she said. "For now."

He leaned back, chair creaking. "Show me."

Mira hesitated. Bringing him here might have been a mistake. If he saw value, he'd want it cheap—or he'd simply take it.

Before she could move, the sound of boots on the dock made her turn. Two figures in long coats were walking toward the skiff. She recognized the serpent patch on one, the other with a pistol tucked loose in his sash.

"Damn," she muttered, stepping quickly out the door.

The taller one, the one with the silver serpent, stopped at the gunwale of her skiff and looked down. "What've you got here?"

"Cargo," she said, keeping her tone flat. "Nothing you'd be interested in."

He crouched, flipping the tarp back before she could stop him. Solomon lay there, pale against the dark planks, lips parted as if still murmuring something in his sleep.

The pirate's eyes narrowed. "I'm interested."

"You've got your own wrecks to pick over," she said. "This one's mine."

The man's hand dropped to the hilt of his knife. Not a threat, but a promise of how this would go if she pressed it.

"Cargo don't belong to anyone till it's claimed proper," he said. "By rights, anything found drifting in Ashport waters—"

"—belongs to whoever's fast enough to take it," she cut in. "And I was faster."

The shorter pirate stepped closer, looking Solomon over. "Looks half-dead already. Captain might not pay for meat already rotten."

The serpent man grinned, showing a gold tooth. "Or maybe he will, if the meat's special."

Mira didn't like that word—special. It meant they'd seen something she hadn't.

Solomon suddenly stirred, letting out a faint groan. He opened his eyes slightly, and for a moment, even in the dim light, she could see his crimson eyes before they closed again.

The pirates had seen it too.

"That's not just some wreck-rat," the shorter one said. "He's marked."

"Marked how?" Mira asked.

The serpent man straightened, suddenly all business. "Not your concern. I'm sure my Captain will want him."

Her gut twisted. If they took him, they'd wring whatever worth they could out of him, then toss him overboard without a thought. And yet—why should she care? She'd found him. He wasn't hers.

She stepped between them and the skiff. "If your captain wants him, he can pay me."

The serpent man's grin came back, wider this time. "Or we can just take him."

Boots thudded on the dock again—Harlow this time, his bulk filling the narrow space. "She's under my dock," he said. "Means she's under my watch. You want her cargo, you pay her… or you pay me double."

The pirates hesitated. Even serpent crews didn't like crossing Harlow without backup.

Mira glanced down at Solomon. He was watching her again, through slitted eyes. Just… watching.

It made the decision harder.

She could hand him over now, let the serpents drag him to whatever fate awaited, and be free of this mess. Or she could take him inside, let Harlow shelter him, and hope that didn't bring the serpent crew back in greater numbers.

In Ashport, every choice cost you something.

She looked at the serpent man. "Tell your captain I've got his 'marked' man. If he wants him, he knows where to find me."

The grin faded. "You're making a mistake."

"Wouldn't be my first," she said.

They backed off, slow, never turning their backs. Mira waited until their footsteps faded before kneeling in the skiff.

"You just became very expensive," she said to Solomon. "And I still don't know if you're worth the trouble."

His lips moved, barely audible. "…don't… hand… me…"

She froze, the words sharp as a blade in the quiet. He'd heard enough to know what she'd been weighing.

"Too late for that," she muttered, hauling him up under the arms. "If the serpents want you bad, I'm keeping you until I know why."

Harlow held the shack door for her, watching the dark channel where the pirates had vanished. "You've just made yourself a problem, Mira."

She shifted Solomon's weight and stepped inside. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Harlow's shack swallowed the light, its single window covered with burlap that smelled faintly of mold. The air inside was thick with sweat and old rum. Dice clicked in a corner, and the men at the table barely glanced up as Mira shouldered through, Solomon's deadweight dragging at her arms.

She dropped him into the nearest chair, ignoring the way it creaked. He sagged forward, head lolling like a rag doll.

"Water," Harlow said, jerking his chin toward the counter. "You'll break the toy before you figure out what it does."

Mira fetched a dented tin cup from the shelf, dipped it into a barrel, and held it to Solomon's lips. She told herself it was practicality—keeping him alive meant keeping her investment alive. Still, when he drank in slow, greedy swallows, she had to look away.

His hands trembled against the cup. The scars on his knuckles weren't sailor's scars—too clean, too deliberate.

"You saw the eyes," Harlow said quietly.

"Yeah," Mira replied. "So did the serpents."

That earned her a grunt. "Then you've got less time than you think. The captain they run under… he doesn't take kindly to competition."

She hated how easily her mind went back to that grin the serpent man had given her, the casual confidence of someone who'd already decided how the story would end.

"Then I'll move him fast," she said. "Find a buyer before the serpents double back."

Harlow poured himself a drink, swirling it before taking a slow sip. "Or you find out what he's worth before you sell him. Could be you're carrying something more valuable than coin."

"Could be I'm carrying a plague," Mira shot back. "Or a curse."

Harlow didn't argue. That worried her more than if he had.

She crouched beside Solomon, tilting his chin so she could see his face in the dim light. There was a line of bruises along his jaw, and a gash above his temple that looked like it had been stitched shut at sea—rough, hurried work. His hair, damp and tangled, caught faint silver in the lamplight.

"You remember what happened?" she asked.

His lids fluttered. "Storm…Screaming and blood everywhere." His voice rasped like sand on stone. "Then i only see water and water again."

That wasn't much, but it was something. Enough to make her gut twist again. Ships burned plenty, but the way he said it—it sounded less like an accident and more like a memory he couldn't scrape out.

"You were on a ship?"

His lips twitched upward. Not a smile. Not really. "Not anymore."

Before she could push further, a knock rattled the door. Too light for the serpents, too fast for a drunk.

Harlow motioned to one of his men, who cracked the door just enough to peer out. A voice came through—low, urgent. Mira couldn't make out the words, but the tone was enough to make her hand drift to her knife.

The man shut the door again. "Serpents are in the main square. Asking after a man with red eyes."

Mira's stomach sank. "They move fast."

"They smelled blood the second they saw him," Harlow said. "If you want him out of Ashport, you take him now. Wait another tide, and you'll be hauling a corpse."

She glanced at Solomon. His eyes were open again, fixed on her in that unnerving way—as if he could hear every word and was simply waiting to see what she'd choose.

She hated that look. Hated that it made her feel like she owed him something when she didn't owe anyone anything.

"I'll take him," she said. "But not to sell. Not yet."

Harlow gave her a long look, then shrugged. "Your funeral. I'll stall the serpents if they come sniffing here. You owe me for that."

"I always pay my debts."

"Make sure you live long enough to."

She pulled Solomon to his feet. He wavered, nearly toppling them both, but somehow managed to stay upright. His weight was still dead-heavy, but there was strength under it now—enough to make her keep a firmer grip on the hilt of her knife.

They slipped out the back, through a narrow alley that stank of fish guts and rotting rope. The water lapped against pilings just beyond.

The night was colder now, the wind sharper, carrying with it the faint clang of the serpents' voices calling questions across the docks.

Mira kept moving, her hand wrapped around Solomon's arm, guiding him down the slick boards.

"You could've handed me over," he said suddenly. His voice was still rough, but steadier now.

"I still might," she replied.

"Then why didn't you?"

She didn't answer. Mostly because she didn't have one she liked.

When they reached her skiff, she shoved him into the bow and dropped the tarp over him. "Stay down. If you so much as cough when we pass someone, I'll throw you overboard myself."

He didn't argue.

Mira untied the skiff and pushed off, the tide carrying them into the dark channels between Ashport's crooked teeth of dock and reef. She kept her course erratic—doubling back, slipping between shadows—anything to shake the feeling of being hunted.

Only when the lights of the main docks faded behind them did she let her shoulders ease.

"Where are we going?" Solomon asked from under the tarp.

"A place where the serpents won't follow right away," she said.

"And then?"

She glanced at the dim outline of the open sea ahead. "Then we find out what makes you worth dying for."

The wind caught the sail, and the skiff surged forward, cutting through the black water toward whatever came next.

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