Stepping into Sunlit Grains felt like entering another world, one of subtle light and fragrant possibility. The scent of spices and dried herbs mingled in the warm air. Row upon row of barrels and jars stretched along the walls, each carefully labeled with neat handwriting. There were familiar staples—rice, barley, wheat—alongside exotic blends Tram couldn’t pronounce. His eyes drifted to the center displays, where glass cases held ornate weapons, intricate jewelry, and rare books brought in from distant islands. It all spoke of a wider world, one he could barely imagine.

  Behind the counter, Lizzy’s laughter rose like a bright melody. Tram smiled at the sound. He remembered when they used to work side by side at The Iron Hearth, swapping jokes between serving tables. Even though she’d found steadier employment here, he missed her daily presence. Still, it was good to see her happy in her new role.

  As Tram approached, Lizzy finished helping a pair of customers. She noticed him and beamed, her blue eyes lively beneath the few wisps of blonde hair that had slipped free from her tidy bun. Her apron bore the Sunlit Grains insignia, and though she looked modest and unassuming, there was a quiet confidence in her posture. It had always drawn people in.

  Tram hovered near a case of fine jewelry, entranced by a golden pendant carved with swirling patterns and set with a gleaming jade stone. For a moment, he felt an urge to pocket it—an impulse he knew better than to indulge. Just then, Lizzy’s whisper sent a playful shiver down his spine: “Tram. Caught you red-handed. Don’t even think about it.”

  He turned, grinning sheepishly. Her tone was light, but he knew the warning was real. “Relax,” he said, hands raised in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I know you’d never cover for me.”

  Lizzy rolled her eyes, still smiling. “I can’t lose my job just because you get sticky fingers. Now, what brings you here? Did Wayland send you, or are you just making trouble?”

  Tram managed a laugh, though her teasing warmed him more than he liked to admit. “I’m on a mission,” he said. “We ran out of flour up at the tavern. Wayland’s been swamped, and he sent me down to fetch four big bags. He’ll pay you tomorrow, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course,” she replied, her tone shifting easily from playful to helpful. “C’mon, they’re this way.”

  She led him to the stacks of flour bags, each nearly as tall as Tram’s waist. “They’ve been selling fast lately. Must be all the newcomers in town.” Her voice was casual, but Tram caught the note of curiosity there, an echo of what he’d felt himself—something was changing on the island.

  He bent to lift one of the hefty bags, muscles straining, but tried to hide it. “I’ve got it,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Just, uh, could you hold the door?”

  Lizzy darted ahead and propped the heavy door open while Tram hauled the first sack to his cart outside. The evening air cooled his flushed face. After a few more grunts and heaves, the flour was loaded.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Lizzy grinned. “I’m closing up soon and heading back to the tavern. Could you ask Wayland if he can set aside something simple for my dinner? I’m starving.”

  “Sure thing,” Tram said, leaning against the cart’s handle and catching his breath. “I’ll let him know.”

  They exchanged a warm look, a quiet understanding passing between them. Not working together every day had changed their routine, but not their friendship. With a quick wave, Lizzy disappeared back inside. Tram lingered a moment before turning his cart around, the sacks of flour rustling with his movement. The lamplight from within Sunlit Grains stretched across the cobblestone street, and he found himself smiling as he pushed onward into the deepening dusk.

  Tram pushed the cart back up the hill toward The Iron Hearth. The journey was easier now that the roads were quiet, and the flour sacks settled firmly in place. A few travelers meandered toward their lodgings, and a pair of merchants discussed tomorrow’s prices in hushed tones, but most folks had turned in for the night. Overhead, a pair of haulers drifted away from the docks, their running lights blinking like distant fireflies against the dim sky.

  By the time Tram reached the tavern’s door, he could feel a pleasant ache in his muscles. He parked the cart outside and hoisted a bag of flour over one shoulder. Inside, the tavern’s buzz had mellowed into a comfortable murmur. Lamps glowed warmly against wooden walls, and the scent of roasting meat and simmering broth lingered in the air.

  Wayland spotted Tram and waved him over, eyebrows raised. “About time!” he teased, though the corners of his eyes crinkled kindly. “Get that flour in the kitchen before the stew thickens into mortar.”

  Tram just grinned and hauled the sack through the door. The kitchen clanged and hissed as cooks tended pots and pans, but Tram only stayed long enough to drop off the flour. On his way back out, he noticed a ripple in the tavern’s atmosphere—patrons huddled a bit closer, some leaning in to listen. Following their gazes, Tram spotted the old man who had claimed a corner near the hearth. He was nursing a tankard of ale and spinning tales, voice low and conspiratorial.

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  “…I tell ya, I’ve seen it,” the old man said, tapping the side of his nose. “Islands that float so high, the air’s clean as mountain spring. Taller buildings than you can imagine—docks at every level, goods flowing like rivers of gold.” He paused for effect, and a few listeners murmured uncertainly. “The Authority,” he lowered his voice to a hush, “doesn’t want the likes of us to know. We’re cogs in their grand machine. They keep us down here, hauling and smelting. They take what we make and turn it into wonders.”

  Tram edged closer, heart pounding. Could any of it be true? Ever since the raid eight years ago, he and Declan had dreamed about escaping these smokestacks and cramped alleyways. Every mention of distant islands, cleaner skies, and secret trade routes tugged at him. His fingers tightened around the damp rag he’d meant to take to a table. He almost forgot his chores—almost.

  “Oi! Tram!” Wayland’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Wipe down those empty tables, lad. Lizzy’s coming by soon, and I won’t have her tripping over crumbs.”

  Shaking himself, Tram moved to comply, but his ears stayed tuned to the old man. Snippets of phrases—“fabrication quadrant,” “dangerous mines,” “monsters in the west”—sparked his curiosity. He wanted to ask questions, press for details. He wanted to know how to get away from here, how to rise above what everyone called fate.

  Just then, the door slammed open. A handful of new arrivals strode in without so much as a nod. They wore mismatched leathers, some with patched jackets, others armed with short blades clacking at their hips. They smelled of sweat and stale booze, and one of them shoved a patron aside as if making a point. The tavern’s murmur died, cut short by a tension that spread like spilled oil on water.

  Tram recognized trouble by the set of their shoulders and the sneers curling their lips. These had to be pirates—or at least some rough crew from off-island. The biggest among them snagged a mug right out of someone’s hand, draining it in one gulp before slamming it onto the table, foam flying.

  The tavern fell silent, everyone waiting. Tram’s heart hammered. He glanced around for Wayland, who stood behind the bar, jaw tight, but quiet. Best not escalate things just yet.

  The big scary fellow from before—the one Tram had spilled ale on earlier—rose slowly from his seat. He said nothing at first, just faced the intruders with a heavy-lidded stare. His knuckles cracked as he flexed his fingers. Without warning, he kicked a chair aside and stepped forward, making it clear he wasn’t going to tolerate their behavior.

  The pirates paused, eyes flicking to one another, sizing him up. A hush stretched thin.

  Before anything could happen, another trio entered the tavern. The effect was immediate. Faces went pale, and some patrons drew back. Tram’s breath caught.

  A hush settled over The Iron Hearth as Victor Thorne stepped into the lamplight. At his side stood Tarley, lean and watchful, and Barrel, his cybertech arm gleaming with menace. A few of Thorne’s crew slunk in behind them, shoulders tense and hands drifting near their blades.

  Across the room, the big man—still bearing a faint ale stain on his trousers thanks to Tram’s earlier mishap—straightened to his full height. He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck once, a deliberate gesture. Where others shrank from Thorne’s presence, this man showed not a hint of fear.

  Thorne’s single good eye swept the tavern. Murmurs rippled through the patrons; some recognized him, some only sensed trouble. Either way, the moment crackled with impending violence.

  The big man cleared his throat, voice rumbling like distant thunder. “Victor Thorne,” he said, testing the name. “Didn’t expect to see you slumming down here. I take it you’re lost?”

  Thorne’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I go where I please,” he replied smoothly. “Question is, what are you doing here, Captain?” He emphasized that last word ever so slightly, drawing a few nervous looks. The big man didn’t flinch.

  “Enjoying my drink,” the big man said, taking a step closer. His crew—rough, steady types—rose from their seats around him, spreading out to flank their captain. “You and yours would be wise to move along. I don’t fancy cleaning blood off these floors tonight.”

  Tarley’s eyes narrowed, and Barrel flexed his metal arm. Thorne studied them all with a calm, calculating air, as though weighing the cost of a scuffle. He gave a slow shrug, as if to say they weren’t worth his time. “I have better things to do than brawl with your sorry lot. We’re due elsewhere.”

  The big man’s mouth curved into a half-smile. “Smart. See, around here, we respect Wayland’s place. Anyone who can’t manage that gets shown the door… or the edge of a blade.” He flicked his gaze to Thorne’s men, and they stiffened.

  For a beat, no one moved. Then Thorne made a small, dismissive gesture. He and his crew backed toward the exit, never taking their eyes off the big man. The tension unwound just enough for the air to feel breathable again.

  As soon as the door swung shut behind them, a low buzz of murmurs filled the tavern. People swapped glances, relieved but still rattled.

  Tram stood rooted near a table he’d half-heartedly wiped down, heart hammering in his chest. They were here. Victor Thorne, Tarley, and Barrel—living ghosts from his past. He could let them slip away into the night… or he could do something.

  He thought of Declan, of Lizzy, of the old man’s tales about other islands and other lives. He thought of his parents, years ago, lost to the very man who’d just walked out that door. He thought of his missing brother, Gin. Rage and a strange, desperate hope sparked inside him.

  Without stopping to think it through, Tram darted across the room. Wayland called his name, but Tram barely heard him. He burst outside, the night air cool on his face, and caught a glimpse of Thorne’s crew retreating down the hill.

  He didn’t hesitate. He ran.

  Lizzy was just cresting the top of the hill, expecting a warm meal and a quiet evening. Instead, she saw Tram tear past, face set with fierce determination. “Tram?” she called, startled, but he was already gone, flying down the slope in pursuit of the pirates who had shaped his destiny—and perhaps might shape his future.