Ingbord sniffed once, miserably, and adjusted the shape tucked under her coat. Her hair clung damply to her cheeks, and her breath came slow through her mouth—nose entirely blocked.

  Skeld was a blur of wet cobbles and drizzling rain. The stone-built, low-slung docks were crowded with boats, busy with people, and stinking of fish and refuse. Even in the drizzle, the place pulsed with noise: creaking ropes, shouting porters, the slap of waves against hulls.

  They passed through the customs arch without trouble—barely noticed, barely seen.

  The dockmaster gave them the news with a shrug: a cog bound for Vardvik was departing on the evening tide. The captain might be willing to take them. Or not.

  It was more luck than they deserved.

  Eoin caught Ingbord’s glance—silent but urgent. They had to be on that ship. And quickly.

  She clutched the map under her coat with a stab of possessive reverence. He said nothing of it. But the geasa pressed at his chest like an iron band. It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. It was a rising urgency, sharp and bitter, that scraped behind his ribs and curled up his spine. Every breath felt tighter. The longer he stood here without those stones, the more the world seemed to tilt toward something inevitable and closing.

  And Skeld—Skeld felt wrong. Too many eyes. Too many strangers. Too many men with rings on their fingers and knives on their hips. If even one of them looked twice—just wondered why two damp, desperate Eysians were sniffing around the docks...

  It wouldn’t be today’s problem. It would be next week’s noose.

  He needed rocks. He needed boxes. And he needed to be on that godsdamned ship.

  “Keep your head down and your hood up,” he murmured, fingers clutching her wrist tightly, —as if stillness might hide them from view. He was trying to radiate nothingness, to fold them into the wet stone and fish-stink and go unseen.

  Ingbord sniffled and tucked her chin into her collar. Then stopped short, staring at a coil of rope for sale under an awning.

  She reached out and touched it.

  The boy at the stall barely looked up. "You want it?"

  She swallowed. “How much?”

  “Two silver.”

  Her heart sank. “I don’t have that.”

  He shrugged. “Then it’s not yours.”

  Her hand fell away.

  She turned her head as if the rain was bothering her. As if she hadn’t just been priced out of something she’d made with her own two hands.

  Eoin stood beside her, geasa prickling hot under his skin. He glanced once at the rope, then at her.

  “Do you want that?”

  “No,” whispered Ingbord. “I just thought... no. I don’t need that.”

  Eoin puffed out his cheeks, exhaling hard. Racing the tide, three geasa unanswered—and a sniffling magician pining for rope. Godsdamned rope.

  Rocks. Boxes. Time bleeding away.

  His eyes fell on a battered stack of salt boxes underneath the stall.

  “How much for three?”

  The boy scratched his nose. “Three copper.”

  Eoin dropped the coin into his palm without a word. He gathered the boxes under his arm—didn’t look at the rope, didn’t speak.

  Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

  And neither did she.

  There should have been rocks. Gods, there should have been rocks. Skeld was stone—cobble-laid, mortar-sealed, smoothed and nailed down tight. Too tight. Like the whole city had been scoured clean just to spite him. Solid. Immaculate. Nothing loose. No rubble. No scree. Not a single godsdamned pebble to pry from a wall or scoop from the gutter. Not one. Not one.

  Eoin ushered Ingbord and the boxes beneath the ship’s boarding ramp, quick and intent, not quite pushing but close. Just far enough into the shadows to be hidden. Just close enough to watch the tide creeping in, stealing time. He squeezed her shoulder, then turned away before he could second-guess the urgency in his bones.

  “Stay here. Keep your head down. Don’t talk to anyone.”

  When he let go, she seemed to take shape again. Just a girl in the wet with too much in her arms. She tucked her chin down, hood drawn tight, the boxes clutched in cold fingers.

  Eoin turned, heart hammering.

  He ducked into alleys, peered under carts, scraped along muddy gutters. Nothing. Not a single pebble worth its weight.

  Time slipped like water through his fingers. Too fast. Too slick. He couldn’t slow it, couldn’t stop it—every second a door slamming shut, every breath a step too slow.

  He crouched between two buildings, spine pressed to the wall, trying to breathe. To think.

  And then: voices.

  Low. Guarded. Just ahead.

  He crept forward.

  Three men stood beneath a sagging oilcloth canopy at the edge of the warehouse row. Not dockhands. Not sailors. Well-dressed despite the rain. One carried a waxed satchel. One held a sealed parchment. The third wore chain beneath his coat and his hand rested on a sword at his side.

  “...private commission,” the man with the parchment muttered. “Marked for Ilroya. No manifest—just the seal. No questions.”

  “Still feels wrong, loading this late,” the guard muttered. “Roster’s off. Everything’s off.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Buyer’s waiting. Wants it quiet. No clerk. No records.”

  “What is it, exactly?”

  “Gems—opal, emerald, obsidian. Raw. Uncut. Bag stays shut, stays in your sight. Stays on you. Don’t open it for anyone.”

  The courier adjusted the satchel on his shoulder. Eoin saw it—dark leather, cinched tight. Rain slicked across its surface.

  Stones.

  Gems, stones, rocks. Not what Torsten had said exactly—but it would serve. It matched the command’s shape. In spirit, at least. The words could be damned. It was close enough. It would have to be. The geas was closing in like a fist. If he didn’t move now, if he didn’t make this work, he wasn’t getting off this dock.

  He let the world blur. Let himself fade. Not vanished, just wholly unremarkable.

  He moved. A tarp, half-loose. A rusted lantern. He flicked the knot. The lantern clanged against the post. The tarp snapped with a loud crack.

  The men startled.

  Eoin slipped in.

  One hand under the coat. One pouch. Then another. The third was tangled. He worked fast.

  The courier shifted. Eoin eased back.

  No sound. No breath.

  Gone.

  He walked back to the dock like any other man in the rain. Not hurrying. Not hiding. Just a thread of urgency masked in calm, every step a gamble he couldn't afford to lose.

  Ingbord sat where he’d left her, hood drawn tight, boxes in her lap.

  A voice cut through the drizzle—rough and distracted, from the lower gangplank.

  “You waiting for the Plover, girl?”

  One of the deckhands. Broad-shouldered and soaked to the elbows.

  Eoin stepped beside her and grabbed her wrist.

  He looked up, meeting the man’s eye.

  “We... yes. We’re trying to get home. To Vardvik.”

  The deckhand squinted. Looked them over. The boxes. The soaked clothes. The girl, pale and indistinct in her hood.

  “Wait here,” he said, and turned back up the gangplank.

  Moments later, the captain appeared. Not young – not old – weather tough with wind-reddened cheeks. He didn’t lean on the rail, just looked.

  He scanned them slowly. One heartbeat. Two.

  “You and your wife?”

  Eoin hesitated. Then nodded.

  “New to it, are you? Trade?”

  Another nod.

  The captain sighed. “Thought so. Payment?”

  Eoin put his lips close to Ingbord's hood, voice low. “Show him the ring in your pocket. Now.”

  Ingbord turned, startled.

  He didn’t explain. Just looked at her, steady and unblinking.

  She fumbled, drew out Rolly’s ring. Just a glint of gold before she closed her fingers around it again.

  “This?” she said, voice breaking.

  The captain’s tone softened. “That your wedding ring?”

  She said nothing.

  He looked again. Pale girl, soaked through. Shaking. Clutching three empty boxes like they were treasure. Her husband looked like the kind of idiot who’d sell his boots for passage and forget to ask where the ship was going.

  They probably sold their shirts for those boxes. Hadn’t the faintest idea what they were doing.

  The captain lifted a hand in dismissal.

  “Keep it. She’s riding light—I’ll run you home for free. No cabin. Deck space only.

  The captain jerked his chin toward the boxes. “What’s in them?”

  Eoin knelt in the rain, balancing one on his knee. The rope handles were wet and swollen, the lid snugged down with salt-stiff twine. He worked it open with his thumbs.

  He opened the second. The third.

  All three were bare inside—salt-stained, patched, and clean as a bone.

  He said nothing. Just closed them again, careful and deliberate, and stood.

  The captain huffed. Of course. Sweet-faced Eysians with nothing but hope and fish-stink in their pockets. The boy probably told her they could make a fortune. She probably believed him. She probably thought those boxes, being wood, were likely treasure enough.

  He turned, shaking his head, and called back without looking. “Get on board. Find a corner. Don’t get in anyone’s way.”