We left the Trawl before the docks woke, slipping through the alleyways like smoke. The stink of fish and brine clung to us long after the tannery vanished behind us, but I barely noticed.
Dareth.
That name had been rotting at the edge of my memory for months, tied to whispered deals and the kind of disappearances that didn't make it into official records. And now Marrow had handed it to me on a silver platter.
"Councilor Dareth," Mira said as we moved. "We knew he was dirty. Now we know he's aiming at you."
"He's not aiming," I said. "He's probing. Testing the strength of the wall before he brings the ram."
Ryn's tone was almost amused. "And you're just going to let him?"
"No," I said. "I'm going to give him an opening he can't resist—and choke him with it."
The safehouse was quiet when we returned. Loran pulled the shutters closed while Mira lit the lamps. The room was a pool of warm light in a city that was already sharpening its knives for the day.
I spread a rough map of Valenport across the table, my finger tracing the inner market district. "Dareth's known for two things—control over the spice trade, and a fondness for laundering money through 'private auctions.'"
Ryn leaned over my shoulder. "The kind where slaves and contraband disappear without a trace."
"Exactly," I said. "Tomorrow night, there's a shipment coming into Pier Eleven. Dareth's people will be there to oversee the transfer before it reaches the auction hall. If we intercept it—not just take it, but leave a trail pointing to one of his rivals—it'll force him to move fast. He'll have to defend himself publicly, and the more public he gets, the more mistakes he makes."
Mira frowned. "And in the meantime, we'll have him trying to kill us."
I smiled thinly. "He already is."
By nightfall the plan was in motion.
Pier Eleven sat on the far east docks, quieter than the main port but more heavily guarded. We approached from the water, Ryn guiding a narrow skiff between the pilings until we were under the pier itself.
The waves slapped against the supports in a slow rhythm. Overhead, boots thudded across the boards, and the muted clink of chains carried down through the gaps.
"Two guards at the north end," Ryn whispered. "Three more by the cargo lift. All Council-trained."
I climbed the slick ladder, pausing just below the edge of the dock. Through the gap, I could see them—five men in dark leather, weapons at the ready, eyes sweeping the pier in disciplined arcs.
Good. This would be fun.
I vaulted up silently, my foot catching one man square in the chest. He stumbled backward into the lift railing, the air driven out of him in a wet gasp.
The others reacted fast, but my Resonance was already flaring, pulling at the threads of my muscles, sharpening every movement.
The second guard lunged. I caught his wrist, twisting until bone snapped. His blade clattered to the boards as I kicked him sideways into the third man, sending both sprawling.
Behind me, Ryn's knife flashed, catching the fourth in the thigh before she rolled aside to avoid his counter. Mira's bowstring thrummed, and the fifth man dropped without a sound, an arrow buried deep in his throat.
We moved fast. The cargo was in three heavy crates, each marked with Dareth's trade seal. Inside were silk bundles, lacquered boxes—and beneath them, smaller cages with human eyes staring back.
Slaves.
My jaw tightened. "We take them."
Loran was already prying open the locks. "And the crates?"
"They go to Verran's warehouse in South Market," I said. "With Dareth's seal still on them."
Ryn grinned. "Verran's going to lose his mind."
"That's the point," I said.
By the time the first shouts went up in the South Market, we were already gone. The freed captives were hidden in the lower city under Mira's contacts. The crates sat stacked outside Verran's gates like a declaration of war.
Word would reach Dareth before midday. He'd know it wasn't an accident. He'd know someone had stolen from him and framed a rival.
And he'd know exactly who was capable of it.
The next morning, the markets hummed with gossip. Merchants whispered about a feud between Council houses, about Verran's outrage, about Dareth's rage.
I was halfway through a bowl of broth in the safehouse kitchen when the knock came. Three sharp raps, a pause, then two more.
Ryn opened the door. A courier stood there, pale and sweating, holding a sealed envelope.
"For Kael," he said, almost whispering. "Direct from Councilor Dareth."
I took it, broke the seal, and read.
It wasn't long. Just a time, a place, and four words:
We should speak. Alone.
Mira read over my shoulder. "Trap."
"Obviously," I said.
Loran's eyes narrowed. "Then we don't go."
I folded the letter. "Oh, I'm going. If Dareth wants to talk face-to-face, it means I've rattled him. And the closer I get to him, the closer I get to Aric."
Ryn leaned on the doorframe, watching me. "You planning to walk into his den without backup?"
I smiled without humor. "I'm planning to make him think I am."