The fog lay thick and cloying over the Fischholme docks, a shroud woven from river damp and smoke that muffled sound and clung cold to the skin. It tasted of brine and decay, the perennial perfume of the city’s beating, waterlogged heart. For Adon Resha, it was the scent of opportunity, a cloak gifted by the sluggish River Maeve itself. She moved through it like a phantom, a creature born of the very shadows she now commanded.

  Perched precariously on the slick, moss-covered tiles of a warehouse roof overlooking Wharf 7, she was a study in contradictions. Barely five feet four inches, with a cascade of bright blonde hair currently bound tight beneath a dark, concealing cowl, she possessed a face that, in the flickering light of the street below, could seem innocent. Wide blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, features fine enough to belong on a porcelain doll – a tool she wielded as deftly as the dagger and dirk sheathed at her hips. But there was no innocence in those eyes now, only sharp, calculating focus. Below, the 'Rat Tail' crew were unloading contraband – smuggled spirits, judging by the shape of the crates – clumsy and loud, ripe for the picking.

  Amateurs, Adon thought, a flicker of disdain curling her lip. They get comfortable, sloppy. They think because the Night Guard avoids the Lower Wharves, they own them. Her own operation was leaner, smarter, quieter. She didn’t tolerate sloppiness.

  A low whistle, barely audible above the lap of water against slimy stone pilings, cut through the fog from her left. Jack. She gave a silent hand signal in reply – proceed. Another signal, a flicker of reflected light from a rooftop across the narrow, cobbled street – Tark, confirming position.

  Adon shifted her weight, the worn leather of her vigilante attire creaking softly. It wasn't opulent, this gear, nothing like the silks and velvets waiting for her back at the Resha Manor. It was practical, dark, built for silence and speed – the tools of a Rogue, the skills honed during years surviving the grimy back-alleys of Fischholme before… before everything changed.

  Below, three burly figures, their muscles straining against the damp wool of their tunics, heaved a heavy wooden crate onto a waiting cart. The wood groaned under the weight. The leader, a brute named Grok with knuckles like walnuts and a face like a smashed brick, barked a guttural order in the thick dialect of the River Maeve dockworkers. His breath plumed white in the chill air.

  Adon pushed off the roof, landing cat-light on a stack of empty barrels below. She barely made a sound, the fog swallowing the soft thud. Simultaneously, a thrown hook shot out from Tark's position, snagging the edge of the warehouse roof opposite Grok's crew, while Jack, a diminutive shadow even in the gloom, slid down a drainpipe like water, landing near the cart.

  Chaos erupted, orchestrated and precise. Adon drew her dagger and dirk, moonlight glinting briefly on honed steel. She moved low and fast, a dark blur slicing through the fog. The first Rat Tail thug turned, eyes widening in surprise as Adon’s pommel connected sharply with his temple. He crumpled without a sound.

  Jack was already at the cart, his small halfling hands a blur as he sliced the ropes securing the load. Tark, meanwhile, used his perch and the grappling line to create a distraction, swinging a weighted sack that slammed into the side of the warehouse with a loud bang, mimicking the sound of splintering wood.

  "What in the hells was that?" Grok bellowed, whirling around.

  It gave Adon the opening she needed to take on the second man who spotted her while Grok turned. She darted forward, ducking under a punch. The man stumbled forward, momentarily off balance. Adon capitalized on the mistake, a quick jab with her dirk handle to his kidney doubling him over, followed by a sweep of her leg that sent him sprawling onto the slick cobblestones. He landed hard, the air whooshing from his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath.

  Grok heard his friend's gasps and finally saw Adon. His piggy eyes narrowed: "You! The 'Dockside Specter'! Thought you were just a rumor." He hefted a heavy crate hook, its point wickedly sharp.

  Adon allowed a small, chilling smile to touch her lips. "Rumors have teeth, Grok."

  She circled him, light on her feet, letting him commit. He lunged, the hook whistling through the damp air. Adon used his momentum, deflecting the hook with her dirk, she drove the pommel of her dagger up under his jaw. His head snapped back with a sickening crack of teeth. He staggered, momentarily stunned.

  That was all Jack needed. He darted in, quick as a mouse, and relieved the stunned Grok of the coin purse hanging heavy at his belt. Tark, meanwhile, had already secured two of the smaller, more valuable-looking crates from the cart with a secondary line, hoisting them swiftly towards his rooftop perch.

  Adon didn't kill Grok. Dead men caused investigations, complications. A broken jaw and a concussion, however, sent a clear message: Wharf 7 was no longer Rat Tail territory. It was her territory now. Or it would be, once her own crews were ready to fill the vacuum. This wasn't about justice, despite the whispers she carefully cultivated among the city's hopeful poor. This was about consolidation. Clearing the board before making her own move.

  She stepped back, melting into the fog as Jack scampered back up the drainpipe and Tark hauled in his prize. Horns blared faintly in the distance – the Night Guard finally alerted, but they'd be too late. By the time they arrived, Grok and his remaining conscious thug would find their leader incapacitated, their cargo partially looted, and only the swirling fog as a witness. The 'Dockside Specter' struck again, another blow for the 'common folk' against the cruel smugglers. Adon almost laughed at the irony.

  She met Jack and Tark two streets over, in the relative anonymity of Cleaning Alley, a narrow passage rank with the smell of stale fish guts and desperation.

  "Smooth as eel slime, boss," Jack chirped, tossing the heavy coin purse into the air and catching it with a grin. His curly brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and fog-damp. "Barely broke a sweat. Though Grok might have broken a tooth or two."

  Tark landed silently beside them, lowering the two secured crates gently. He was taller than Jack, lanky and perpetually serious, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he peered at Adon through thick-lensed spectacles he only wore when needing fine detail work, usually back at the manor. "Minimal complications. The Guard response was standard timing. Estimated value of procured goods is substantial, focused on the imported Sivarian Brandy."

  "Excellent," Adon said, pulling down her cowl. Her blonde hair spilled free, catching the faint moonlight filtering through the fog. She ran a hand through it, pushing it back from her face. The doll-like features were back, softening the sharp edges of the Specter. "Divide the coin, Jack. Standard shares. Tark, get the brandy back to the workshop. Secure it well. We'll move it through Old Man Fitzwilliam next week."

  "And Grok?" Jack asked, his cheerfulness fading slightly. He knew her methods.

  "He'll wake up with a headache and a lesson learned," Adon replied coolly. "He's small time. An example, not a target worth eliminating. Not yet."

  Tark nodded, already hefting one of the crates. "Understood. Efficiency dictates removing competition systematically, starting with the weakest links." His academic phrasing always sounded odd juxtaposed with their line of work, a remnant of the dusty libraries he'd practically lived in before life threw him onto the streets and into Adon's orbit.

  "Precisely," Adon affirmed. "Now, get moving. I need to be home before dawn."

  They nodded, accustomed to her abrupt dismissals and the double life she led. They knew parts of it, anyway. They knew Adon Resha, the street rat turned adopted merchant's daughter. They knew the Specter, the ruthless vigilante clearing the docks. They'd helped her with… other things. Difficult things. They didn't ask questions they didn't need answers to. Loyalty, bought with shared history and the promise of future wealth, kept their mouths shut.

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  Adon watched them disappear into the labyrinthine alleys of the Wharf district before turning towards the wealthier part of town. She would see them back at the manor, but best not to travel together. The walk home was always a strange transition. She shed the skin of the Specter with each step, melting the ice in her eyes, smoothing the hardness from her jaw. She had tucked the dagger and dirk away into hidden sheaths beneath the practical traveling cloak she wore over her vigilante leathers. By the time she reached the Merchant's Quarter, where the streets were cleaner, the torches burned brighter, and the fog seemed hesitant to intrude, she had become someone else entirely.

  Resha Manor stood on a corner overlooking the river, though much higher up the bank than the wharves she’d just left. It was a grand house, built of pale stone, with large windows and carved wooden eaves. Once, it had been a beacon of prosperity, echoing with laughter, the bustle of servants, the confident stride of Altin Resha, Merchant Baron. Now, silence clung to it almost as thickly as the fog clung to the docks.

  Adon slipped in through a side door she always left unlocked, the hinges perfectly oiled. She moved silently through the darkened halls, her bare feet making no sound on the polished wood floors. Dust motes danced in the slivers of moonlight piercing the tall windows. The air was still, stagnant with unspoken grief and the slow decay of fortune.

  A low light shone from beneath the door of the study. Her father's study. Donning a bathrobe from the hall closet to hide her leathers she approached the door. Adon paused, her hand hovering over the doorknob. She took a slow breath, composing her features into an expression of gentle concern, the mask she wore most often these days. Then, she pushed the door open.

  Altin Resha sat hunched behind his vast mahogany desk, though the ledgers and shipping manifests spread before him were untouched. He stared blankly at the wall, a half-empty bottle of brandy – ironically, not the expensive Sivarian kind Tark had just secured – at his elbow. He looked older than his years, his once-sharp features softened by sorrow, his dark hair streaked with premature grey. The vibrant, commanding merchant who had taken pity on a street urchin years ago was gone, replaced by this hollow shell.

  "Father?" Adon asked softly, pitching her voice to sound young, hesitant.

  Altin started, blinking as if rousing from a deep sleep. "Adon? Child? What are you… Is it morning already?"

  "Not yet, Father. I couldn't sleep. I heard you were still awake." She glided further into the room, her movements deliberately graceful, unthreatening. She perched on the edge of the desk, careful not to disturb the papers. "Are you alright?"

  He waved a dismissive hand, though the gesture lacked energy. "Fine, fine. Just… thinking." His eyes drifted towards a framed portrait on the wall – a family portrait. Altin, younger, beaming. Marineli, beautiful and sharp-eyed, her hand resting protectively on the shoulder of a dark-haired youth with a confident smile – Luan. And next to them, a smaller figure, Adon herself, perhaps ten years old, looking wide-eyed and almost lost in the borrowed finery of her new life.

  Adon felt a familiar pang, sharp and cold, pierce through her carefully constructed facade. Luan. The name echoed silently in her mind. Sixteen, full of arrogant certainty, already measuring the drapes in Altin’s office, or so Elf Montray had insinuated. “He’ll toss you back on the streets the moment he inherits, little rat,” the Dragonborn butler had rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. “Unless you secure your place.”

  The memory of mixing the tasteless powders, the slow, insidious work over months, Luan’s growing weakness, the feigned concern, the final, rattling breath… it was a scar tissue on her soul, thick and numb most of the time, but occasionally, like now, it throbbed.

  "Thinking about Mother? Or Luan?" Adon asked, her voice laced with sympathy that didn't quite reach her eyes. She rested a delicate hand on her father's arm. His skin felt papery, cold.

  Altin flinched slightly at the names, then sighed, a long, ragged sound. "Always," he whispered. "Marineli… she would have known what to do. About the business. About… everything." He looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them.

  Adon’s heart gave a painful lurch, but she kept her expression soft, sorrowful. He must never know the part she played in her mother's death. Her passing had also shattered Altin completely. Where he once was a powerful visionary bringing creativity and security to the shipping world, now he seemed to constantly lose himself in the maze of his mind. Always sifting the passing of his wife and son. It was no wonder the once great Resha Shipping Company was staggering under its own weight.

  "Father, please don't torture yourself," Adon murmured, squeezing his arm gently. Altin looked up at her, his eyes swimming with unshed tears and confusion. "Perhaps. Perhaps you're right, child. You… you are strong. Stronger than I am now." He patted her hand weakly. "You should get some sleep, Adon. You need your strength. We…we need your strength."

  "I will, Father," she said, standing up. "You should too. Please try." She leaned down and kissed his forehead, a gesture of daughterly affection that felt utterly hollow. "Everything will be alright. I'll make sure the Resha name remains strong."

  She left him there, slumped over his desk, adrift in his sea of grief. Back in the safety of her own room – lavishly appointed, a stark contrast to the squalor she began her life in – Adon finally let the mask slip. She stood before the ornate mirror, looking at her reflection. The blonde hair, the blue eyes, the face that people called innocent. A liar's face. A murderer's face.

  She stripped off the cloak and leathers, hiding them carefully in a false-bottomed chest beneath her window seat. She washed the grime and the lingering scent of the docks from her skin, the cold water a welcome shock.

  Luan. Marineli. Their deaths were the foundation upon which her current life was built. Guilt? Sometimes, a flicker. Regret? Only for the necessity of it all. It was Elephant, or "Elf" Montray, the Dragonborn Butler who’d plucked her from the gutter and inexplicably placed her with the Reshas, who had planted the first seed regarding Luan. He hadn’t explicitly told her to kill him, but pointed to a future where the biological son would cast out the elven adopted daughter. Elf taught her to observe, to listen, to find weaknesses. Poison had seemed elegant, deniable. It was, but Marineli grew suspicious over the years. Then, she was gone in a night.

  Now, Altin was fading, the business vulnerable. The vultures were circling – rival merchants, opportunistic gangs like the Rat Tails.

  Adon's nighttime activities as the Specter were only the first step, clearing the path, sowing chaos that only her crews, funded by Resha coin and led by Jack and Tark, could eventually control. She needed the docks. Control the flow of goods in and out of Fischholme, both legitimate and illicit, and you controlled the city's lifeblood.

  But it wasn't enough. The skills of a Rogue – stealth, subterfuge, a quick blade – were useful, but they wouldn't hold an empire, wouldn't cow board members or intimidate ministers. She needed more. Real power. The kind whispered about in hushed tones in the darker corners of the city, the kind that didn't rely on muscle or coin alone.

  A strange chill, unrelated to the damp night air, prickled her skin. Lately, she'd felt… observed. Not by guards or rival gangs, but by something else. A presence, lingering at the edge of her senses, like static electricity before a storm. And sometimes, in moments of extreme stress, like tonight facing Grok, she'd felt a surge of something unfamiliar, a cold certainty, a whisper of shadow deeper than any fog.

  She thought of the fragmented whispers Tark had gathered from ancient, texts – entities that existed outside the known pantheons, beings of immense, often terrifying power, willing to bargain. One name seemed to strike a chord deep in Adon's being: The Bandaged One. A name of secrets, of shadowed paths, of bargains struck in desperation or ambition.

  Adon walked to her window, looking out over the sleeping city, the river a dark ribbon winding towards the bay. Fischholme. The Riverlands. The Resha name. It was all hers to take, to protect, to own. Altin wouldn't understand the lengths she'd gone to, the lengths she was prepared to go to still. He saw his innocent, adopted daughter. He didn't see the poisoner, the murderer, the future queen of the underworld cloaked in a vigilante's guise.

  She needed more power to secure it all. Not just knives and shadows, but something… else. Something that would make people fear her name, not just the persona she wore at night. Something that could mend the fraying edges of her family's fortune with threads of undeniable influence.

  A bargain.

  The thought settled in her mind, cold and resolute. Whatever the cost, she would pay it. For survival. For control. For the inheritance Luan and Marineli would have denied her.

  The fog still clung to the city below, but Adon felt a different kind of shadow gathering within her, ancient and hungry. The Bandaged One. Perhaps it was time to seek out more than just rumors. Perhaps it was time to make an introduction.

  She finally turned from the window, the innocent softness gone from her face, replaced by a chilling determination. Sleep could wait. Planning could not. The Resha legacy would survive, even if it had to be rebuilt on a foundation of secrets, blood, and borrowed power. She would make it so.