(Aethelgard Dockside Slums, early morning)
Aethelgard never woke up gently. Morning didn't arrive—it intruded, already irritated. Rotting fish, damp rope, the scrape of chains dragged across wood still slick from the tide. TSUF opened his eyes with a dull ache at the base of his skull. Not pain. Just the quiet reminder that he'd slept wrong and skipped water again.
He sat on the edge of the cot longer than he meant to. The pillow had gone flat months ago, its stuffing bunched into the corners like it was trying to escape. The room smelled of old lamp oil and sleep that never quite settled.
A mosquito bite burned on his calf. He scratched it once—too hard—hissed, then reached for his waistcloth. The fabric was stiff with salt and sweat. He tied it, loosened it, retied it sloppier.
Good enough. It only had to hold while hauling.
In the corner, his father's breathing rattled unevenly, like air forced through something cracked. His mother coughed once in her sleep. TSUF froze, counting the seconds that followed. When silence returned, his chest eased.
He knelt beside her anyway.
The basin water was colder than he expected. It bit into his fingers fast, making his joints ache. He worked slowly over her cracked heels, careful, as if too much pressure might worsen things instead of helping.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath.
The rings on his left hand knocked softly against the basin—ten dull bands, heavy and ugly, stained with grime and water. No shine. No sign of anything special.
"TSUF?" his mother murmured, half-awake.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Northern ships docked early."
She shifted. "You don't have to—"
"I'll be back," he cut in, gentle but firm. "Sleep. I'll try bring bread."
She made a sound that might have been agreement. Or just exhaustion. Either way, she drifted off again.
Outside, the docks hit him hard. Salt. Old grease. Sweat soaked into wood that never fully dried. His right sandal slipped—the strap half given up. He cursed under his breath and kept walking.
No time. No coin to fix it.
He felt the eyes before he saw anything. Ten presences. Watching from warehouse shadows, broken rooftops, places he refused to look toward.
He didn't glance up. Looking never helped. Let them stare.
I don't need witnesses, he thought. I need the shift done.
"One copper per ten sacks!" the foreman barked, tobacco-yellow teeth flashing. "Slack off and you eat air!"
TSUF took his place. The first sack scraped his shoulder raw. Grain dust crawled straight up his nose.
"Hatchii!"
The sneeze rang his head. Someone nearby laughed.
"Easy, TSUF," a laborer said. "You'll load the wind instead."
"Mind your own back," TSUF muttered. The edge of his mouth twitched despite himself. No energy for anger. Plenty for work.
Plank by plank, he crossed the dock. Slick boards. Warped edges. The constant threat of slipping. Overhead, the watchers murmured among themselves.
This was the one?
This sweating dock rat with a loose sandal and shaking legs?
Their Left Hand of God.
TSUF didn't care what they called him. His father couldn't sail anymore. His mother needed medicine. That was the math. Everything else was noise.
He dropped the last sack and let his breath out slow. His fingers brushed the rings once.
"Not today," he whispered, to the metal, to himself.
"Just a man."