The streets recovered their life with startling swiftness. With the ceremonies ended, the inhabitants of Bruma's Port resumed their routines, and the whole town stirred awake like a beast shaking off sleep. What had been dark and cold now blazed with lantern light and voices, the sacred hush replaced by the rough commerce of a working harbour.
This new rhythm came to their aid. Still keeping to secondary streets and avoiding direct observation, it became easier to blend into the flow of traffic, to become just another group of travellers navigating the maze of alleys that threaded between warehouses and taverns.
Rashid guided them through the improvised roads with the confidence of someone who'd walked them before, his boots finding purchase on treacherous, rain-slicked stones while the others slipped and stumbled behind him. He led them as close to the Silent Raven as possible without crossing into the harbour proper, finally stopping behind a weathered warehouse whose walls still bore the scorch marks of some long-ago fire.
From their vantage point, they could see that no more cargo was being loaded. Two crew members stood guard at the gangplank, their postures alert despite the late hour, hands resting casually near weapons that weren't quite concealed.
"Now what?" Zyren asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You create a distraction," Rashid answered, his eyes scanning the harbor with methodical precision. "I get aboard, find what we need, and share whatever I bring back." His tone made it sound simple, reasonable—a fair exchange.
Tasya's low chuckle carried no humour. "You're not going alone."
The harbour had grown increasingly volatile as the night progressed. A stocky dwarf with a braided beard gestured angrily at a Tiefling whose crimson skin seemed to glow in the lamplight. The Tiefling spat at the ground between them, his yellow eyes locked on the dwarf with undisguised contempt. A group of rough-looking human sailors laughed and called out provocations, their voices slurred with drink, urging the dwarf to throw the first punch.
Someone shoved. A crate toppled, spilling salted fish across the wet stones. More shoving followed, a growing circle of bodies pressing close, voices rising.
A cluster of Brumar dockworkers watched with barely concealed disdain, their grey-skinned faces twisted in disgust at the sailors' lack of discipline. One called out something in their guttural language—Zyren couldn't understand the words, but the mocking tone was universal.
Through it all, the Brumar guards stood motionless as statues, their spears held at perfect attention, their eyes tracking the chaos without intervention.
"Hisoka will go with you," Tasya stated, her gaze fixed on the escalating confrontation.
"I'll take Zyren," Rashid countered smoothly, not looking at her. "Won't do it with either of you."
Zyren froze. Until that moment, he'd been relieved to remain on the sidelines, content to let Tasya make the decisions while he observed from safety. Now Rashid was pulling him back into the centre of it all. The sailors watching over the Raven suddenly looked larger, more alert, their eyes sharper as they scanned the docks. How would they possibly get past them?
"No," Tasya replied, the word emerging almost as a growl. Her eyes flicked to Zyren—not with contempt, but with the cold assessment of someone calculating acceptable losses. "He's not ready."
"How long do you think we have?" Rashid asked, leaning against the warehouse wall with studied casualness, looking away from her with that infuriating grin. "The Raven sails soon. That's one hour, maybe two. I won't allow you to do this without me—"
Tasya moved like a striking snake. One moment Rashid was leaning against the wall, the next her hand was locked around his throat, slamming him back against the scorched wood. His grin vanished, replaced by a flash of genuine alarm.
"—and I'll only take the kid," he managed to rasp out, his voice strained but steady. His hand had moved just as quickly, and now a thin blade pressed against Tasya's ribs, positioned precisely where it could slip between bone and find her heart.
They stood frozen, locked in a tableau of mutual threat. Hisoka's hand had gone to her own weapon, her body tensed to intervene. Zyren found himself holding his breath, certain he was about to witness a killing.
The shoving in the harbour had escalated to punches now. Someone's nose broke with an audible crack. A barrel rolled free and splashed into the water between two ships.
Still, the guards didn't move.
"Listen," Hisoka interrupted, her voice cutting through the tension as she grabbed Zyren by the shoulder. Her grip was firm but not unkind. "Follow Rashid's lead—he knows what he's doing, even if we don't trust why he's doing it." She pressed a roll of paper and a piece of charcoal into his palm, the coal leaving black smudges on his skin. "The captain's quarters will have charts, logs, manifests. Copy anything with routes or destinations. Draw what you can't write."
Her eyes met his, and for a moment he saw something unexpected there—not confidence in his abilities, but a desperate hope that he wouldn't fail.
"And Zyren," she added quietly, "just survive."
Tasya's grip loosened incrementally. Rashid's blade withdrew with equal caution. They separated like two wolves backing away from a contested kill, neither willing to show their back first.
"Get ready, kid," Rashid said, adjusting his collar where Tasya's fingers had left red marks. He grabbed Zyren's arm, his grip surprisingly strong for someone so lean.
"I'll pull the guards away from the Raven," Tasya said, her tone making clear how much she disliked this arrangement. She moved around the buildings, positioning herself with a better angle on the harbour, her form melting into the shadows with practiced ease.
The fight had reached a critical mass. What had started as shoving and insults had become genuine violence. A human sailor swung a belaying pin, connecting with a dwarf's shoulder with a meaty thud. The dwarf roared and charged, tackling his attacker into a stack of crates that exploded into splinters.
Blades were drawn now—not many, but enough. A Tiefling’s curved knife caught the lamplight as he slashed at a human who'd grabbed his horns. Blood spattered across the wet stones, black in the dim light.
Cargo tumbled into the sea. Bodies grappled and fell. Someone was screaming—pain or rage, impossible to tell which.
And still, impossibly, the guards stood motionless.
Then Tasya's knife flew from the shadows.
It struck a crew guard in the knee with surgical precision, the blade burying itself to the hilt. The guard's howl of pain cut through the chaos like a bell. He collapsed, clutching his leg, his sword clattering across the stones.
The second guard's head snapped toward his fallen companion. His face twisted with fury as he drew his sword and charged into the brawl, not caring who he struck. His blade rose and fell, scattering sailors and dockworkers alike.
But it was what happened next that truly changed everything.
A Tiefling, emboldened by drink or rage or both, turned away from the human he'd just knocked out and moved toward a Brumar dockworker, his blade still wet with blood.
The nearest guard moved with terrifying speed. His spear left his hand in a blur of motion, crossing thirty feet in a heartbeat. The weapon struck the Tiefling in the chest with such force that it lifted him off his feet and carried him backward, pinning him against the hull of a nearby ship with a sound like a butcher's cleaver striking a cutting board.
The Tiefling’s scream died in a wet gurgle. His body hung there, suspended by the spear, blood running down the ship's hull in dark rivulets.
The harbour fell silent. Even the most drunk and violent sailors froze, staring at the corpse.
The guard who'd thrown the spear walked forward calmly, placed one boot against the ship's hull, and wrenched his weapon free. The body crumpled to the stones. He turned to face the crowd, spear held ready, his message clear: Touch a Brumar, and die.
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"Now!" Rashid hissed, pulling Zyren forward.
If there was a moment, this was it. Every eye in the harbour was fixed on the dead Tiefling and the guard standing over him. The Silent Raven's crew had moved to the rail to watch, their backs to the gangplank.
Getting aboard meant crossing twenty feet of open space—the moment of maximum exposure. Zyren's heart hammered against his ribs so hard he thought it might crack bone. His mouth had gone dry, his palms slick with sweat despite the cold.
They moved together, keeping low, their footsteps masked by the resumed chaos as the brawl reignited with fresh fury. Rashid went first, his movements fluid and confident, each step placed with precision. Zyren followed, trying to mirror him, feeling clumsy and exposed.
The gangplank creaked under their weight. Zyren was certain the sound would give them away, but the crew remained focused on the violence below, some laughing, others calling out bets on who would fall next.
Then they were aboard, and Zyren found himself kneeling behind a cluster of barrels. His breath came in short, panicked gasps, each one threatening to give him away. The sounds of the brawl faded to a distant roar, drowned by the rushing in his ears.
"One at a time," Rashid whispered, his lips barely moving. "Stay low, use the shadows. Follow my path exactly."
The humans aboard were attending to final preparations for departure. They tied knots with practiced efficiency, secured cargo with quick, economical movements, occasionally glancing over at the brawl and laughing at their fellow sailors for getting caught up in it. Their routine was so ingrained they barely needed to look at what they were doing—which meant they might notice anything out of place.
Rashid moved like smoke, staying low against the ship's rail, using every shadow and obstruction for cover. He flowed from one hiding spot to the next with such smoothness that Zyren almost lost track of him. When he reached the stern, near the captain's quarters, he paused and signalled for Zyren to follow.
Zyren's feet wouldn't move. His whole body had locked up, muscles rigid with fear. Looking at the guards moving around the deck reminded him viscerally of Regismere—the efficiency at the gates, the fear in visitors' eyes, the casual ruthlessness the guards had shown at the docks when that Gnari had refused to surrender his weapon. He remembered the sound of the creature being dragged away, the indifference on the guards' faces.
The world narrowed to a tunnel, everything beyond the guards' backs fading to grey.
Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe.
A guard turned his back to Zyren's position, bending to check a rope. It was his chance—perhaps his only chance.
He moved, forcing his legs to obey, staying low as Rashid had shown him. Silent. Controlled. Through the shadows.
His boot caught on a coiled rope.
Zyren stumbled, barely catching himself, his hand slapping against a barrel to keep from falling. The sound seemed impossibly loud. He froze, certain he'd been discovered, and threw himself behind a pile of netted cargo, his muscles locked rigid, waiting for the shout that would end everything.
He waited, not breathing, listening for the alarm.
Nothing came.
A quick glance around the netting showed the guards still focused on their tasks, oblivious to the intruder crouched ten feet away.
Zyren forced himself to move again, covering the remaining distance in a desperate, graceless scramble that was nothing like Rashid's fluid competence.
"That looked painful," Rashid greeted him with a whisper and that insufferable grin. "But you made it. The captain's quarters—no one's inside."
There was no time to rest, no time to let his racing heart slow. Rashid eased the door open with careful pressure, testing for squeaks, then slipped inside like water flowing through a crack.
Zyren followed, pulling the door closed behind them with trembling hands.
The captain's quarters were larger than he'd expected but felt cramped nonetheless. The space was dominated by a heavy wooden desk bolted to the floor, its surface covered with charts and papers held down by a brass sextant and an empty mug. A narrow bunk was built into one wall, its blankets military-neat. But what drew the eye were the crates—at least a dozen of them, stacked along the walls and even under the bunk, taking up space that should have been living quarters.
"They even loaded cargo inside the captain's room," Rashid said, genuine surprise colouring his voice. He moved to one of the crates, running his fingers along its edge. Strange symbols were burned into the wood—geometric patterns that seemed to shift in the lamplight. "This isn't standard procedure."
Zyren wondered why as well, but there was no time to investigate. Rashid had already moved to the desk, his fingers dancing across the papers with practiced efficiency, sorting through them with the speed of someone who knew exactly what he was looking for.
"Keep watch, kid," he ordered, not looking up from his search.
Zyren positioned himself by the door, peering through the narrow gap at the deck beyond. The guards continued their preparations, their movements routine and unhurried. He could hear their voices now, casual conversation about the brawl, about their next port of call, about a woman one of them had met in the last town.
Normal. Everything was normal.
He remembered Hisoka's instructions—to note down everything he could. The piece of charcoal was still clutched in his hand, and he realized he'd been gripping it so hard it had split in two. He pocketed one piece and kept the other ready.
Behind him, he could hear Rashid moving papers, the soft rustle of parchment, the occasional satisfied grunt.
"We have to go," Rashid said suddenly, moving toward the door.
"No!" Zyren replied, slightly louder than he should have. Several emotions crashed together—frustration at being ordered around, determination to complete his mission, and a desperate need to prove he wasn't useless. "Now it's my turn."
He moved past Rashid, deliberately bumping his shoulder against the troubadour's chest, and pulled out the paper Hisoka had given him. His hands were shaking, but he forced them steady as he focused on the desk.
There were several maps spread across the surface. One he recognized—the Pelagos archipelago, with Thalpharos marked in the centre. Another showed Brumel in detail, with notations in the margins about tides and currents. But it was the third that caught his attention.
It wasn't a map of land at all, only a circle made of small X marks, with lines connecting them in patterns he didn't understand. Notes were scrawled around the edges—directions, calculations, references to specific dates, star positions. This was a navigation chart, he realized, but for a destination that wasn't marked on any conventional map.
Zyren did his best to copy it, his charcoal scratching across the paper as he traced the pattern of stars and the cryptic notations. His hand cramped from the speed and tension, but he forced himself to be accurate.
An open book lay beside the maps, its pages covered in dense text in a language he didn't recognize. The script was angular, precise, almost mechanical in its uniformity. But one word jumped out at him, from when he was at his parents' tavern: "gnome."
He took another piece of paper and copied what he could from the open pages, reproducing the strange script as accurately as possible even though he couldn't read it. Perhaps Tasya or Hisoka would recognize it.
Before checking the rest of the documents, a sound like thunder hit Zyren's ears—the mainsail snapping taut as it caught the wind. He glanced toward the door.
The doorway was empty.
Zyren's stomach dropped. He rushed to the door, pressing his eye to the crack, and caught a glimpse of Rashid's form disappearing over the rail.
The troubadour had abandoned him.
The crew was pulling ropes now, raising the mainsail, the canvas snapping as it caught the wind.
The anchor was already up, secured to the ship's side, water still dripping from its iron flukes.
The ship was about to depart.
Zyren's first instinct was to follow, to run for the rail and jump before it was too late. But even as the thought formed, he heard voices growing louder, footsteps approaching.
He pressed himself against the wall beside the door, hardly daring to breathe, as two sailors passed within feet of the captain's quarters, their conversation casual and unhurried.
"... can't wait to get back to Regismere. This job gives me the creeps."
"Almost done. At least here there aren't any crowds."
Their voices faded as they moved toward the bow.
Zyren's jaw tightened. Regismere. Of course the Silent Raven was bound for the city that had nearly swallowed him whole.
He waited until he couldn't hear them anymore, then moved. He used the same route he'd taken before, staying low, moving from shadow to shadow. But everything felt different now—more exposed, more dangerous. He was alone, and every sound seemed amplified, every movement felt clumsy and obvious.
They were moving. The gap between the ship and the dock was widening—slowly at first, just inches, but growing with each passing second.
He made it halfway across the deck before he had to stop and hide behind a stack of cargo. A guard passed within arm's reach, so close Zyren could smell the tobacco on his clothes.
The dock was ten feet away now. Then fifteen. Then twenty.
When the guard moved on, Zyren started forward again—and froze.
He watched in growing horror as he saw the injured guard from the harbour aboard, his leg wrapped in hasty bandages, his face twisted with pain.
Zyren's mind raced through his options. Jump now? But the guards would see him, and surely grab him before he made it to the rim. Hide aboard and hope to slip away at the next port? But how long until they discovered him? And where was the ship even going?
Too far to jump. Even if he survived the fall into the cold water, he'd never make it to shore before hypothermia took him. And the guards would fish him out—or shoot at him.
He was trapped.
The realization settled over him like a weight, crushing and absolute. He'd failed. Not just failed to escape, but failed to get the intelligence back to Tasya and Hisoka. Everything he'd risked, everything he'd copied—it would all be lost.
Unless...
The idea came to him with sudden clarity. He pulled out one of his daggers, the blade catching the lamplight. Working quickly, his fingers clumsy with cold and fear, he tied the papers around the handle with a strip of leather from his belt, wrapping them tight and securing the knot.
He tried to orient himself, to remember where he'd been standing when he'd watched from the warehouse. Where would Tasya and Hisoka be now? He couldn't see them in the darkness, but he knew roughly where they should be.
Another glance at the guards. They were focused on the sails, on the ropes, on getting the ship properly underway. None of them were looking toward the stern.
Zyren closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the ship's motion, judging the distance. His father's voice echoed in his memory: "The arrow is your intent made physical." Then, in a single fluid movement, he stood, drew back his arm, and threw.
The dagger spun through the air, the papers fluttering like wings. For a moment it seemed to hang suspended, and Zyren was certain it would fall short, would splash into the water and sink with all the intelligence they'd risked so much to gather.
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