The pawnshop crouched at the end of a crooked alley, half-buried under crumbling masonry and draped in the stink of fish and rust. Its sign swung in the saltwind, little more than a piece of scrap iron with a handprint carved into it — no name, no welcome.
Ashem hesitated at the door, the artifact tucked under his cloak. His ribs still ached from the thugs' boots. His mind still echoed with the beggar's strange words.
Inside, the shop was a warren of clutter: tarnished cutlery, broken compasses, faded silks. Behind a battered counter sat a woman with a hawk's gaze and the shoulders of a dockworker. She didn't look up when he entered.
Ashem approached, laying the artifact on the counter with careful hands — the small, intricate shard the beggar had pressed into his palm.
The woman finally looked up, narrowing her eyes at the object.
"Old trinket," she muttered, poking it once with a thick finger. "Could be an imitation. Not worth much."
"It's ancient," Ashem said, urgency sharpening his tone. "Look closer."
She grunted, unimpressed, and turned it over in her hands without ceremony.
"I've seen better hauled up in fishing nets," she said. "I'll give you three coins for it."
Three coins. Enough for stale bread and cheap wine, not nearly enough to buy freedom, not nearly enough to pay the debt that gnawed at his doorstep. Behind him, the door chimed softly. A man entered, hooded, without paying attention to the other two. He moved quietly to one side, pretending to browse, but Ashem caught the way his gaze lingered at the counter.
His hands balled into fists.
"Three coins?" Ashem said, disbelief burning through him. "You're joking."
The woman frowned. "If you want charity, there's a temple down the street. If you want coin, that's the price."
The walls of the little shop seemed to close in around him. The air smelled of damp stone and desperation. Without another word, Ashem snatched his cloak tighter around him, leaving the artifact where it lay. The door banged open in his wake as he stormed into the street, the worst of frustration taking over him.
The air outside the pawnshop was thick with brine, mist and smoke, encaging Ashem deeper into his spiraling thoughts anywhere he went. His mind roared with curses, despair gnawing at him harder than the cold. He walked blindly, not caring where. Away from the pawnshop. Away from the crumbling hope he had carried like a dying ember.
He sat on the harbor wall, his feet dangling above the rocks and crashing waves... and looked down.
"Leaving treasure behind?" a voice called.
Shock almost threw him, he spun, heart leaping. The man from the shop stood under a sagging awning, the artifact cradled casually in one hand.
"You forgot something," the stranger said.
"I don't want it," Ashem snapped, turning away.
"But you should," the man said, stepping after him. "The shopkeeper didn't know what she had."
Ashem halted, glowering. "Three coins says otherwise."
The stranger grinned.
"It's old," he said. "Real old. Not just Pre-Dark Age — First Civilization, maybe. And it's not just pretty. There's something... humming in it."
"Even if it were," he said bitterly, "doesn't matter if no one will pay for it."
The man's grin widened.
"Maybe not here. But upriver, past the delta — there are collectors. Scholars. Mad kings. People who'd trade a ship's hold of silver for something like this."
"And you think I can afford a ship up river?" Ashem let out a sarcastic laugh.
"I can take you there for a cut from this, I'll board a ship leaving tonight," the stranger said, lowering his voice.
Ashem hesitated. All of this seemed eerie. His ribs ached. His daughter's cough rang in his ears. He had no coin, no options, no time.
He extended the artifact to Ashem, palm open.
"Come on, sailor. You look like a man who's got something worth saving."
For a long moment, Ashem stared at the artifact, waves calling in the background. The taste of blood from his busted lip mixed with that of salt trapped in the sea mist, bringing back fresh memories of last night.
Then he reached out.
Ashem pushed the door open with his shoulder, careful not to wake the street with the rusty hinge. The smell of damp wood crept into the small, flickering room. His wife sat in the worn chair by the hearth, their daughter cradled in her arms. She rocked her gently, humming a broken lullaby that barely covered the rasp of the child's breath. She looked up, her face a pale painting of fear and hope mixed together.
"Ashem...?" she said, almost afraid of the answer.
He crossed the threshold and knelt beside her, taking her hand.
"We're leaving, Nareen. Tonight," he said, voice low and rough.
She searched his eyes for the truth, for the weight of false promises he'd made before — but found something else this time: desperation, and a kind of wild hope she hadn't seen in him for years.
"How?" she asked, her voice trembling.
He glanced at their daughter, sleeping but not peacefully. Then he spoke in a hush.
"I met a man. His name's Sahir. He knows someone upriver who'll pay for something I found. Enough to pay the debt... and more. Enough to start over."
Nareen squeezed his hand, uncertain but sensing the urgency.
"You trust him?"
Ashem gave a grim smile.
"I don't trust anyone. But if we stay..." Nareen put a hand on his lips before he could finish, then planted a dry kiss.
Outside, in the maze of alleys, the haze from the docks crept through the cracks. Somewhere, bells rang — not cheerful, but heavy, like the last warning before a ship was swallowed by the tide.
He stood, gathering the small bundle of things they could carry: a worn blanket, a leather satchel, a silver hairpin — relics of better days.
"Wake her gently," Ashem said, nodding to their daughter.
Nareen nodded, silent tears tracing down her cheeks as she leaned over to rouse the child.
Ashem looked once around the room, at the cracked walls, the empty shelves, the forgotten dreams — and then he opened the door to the night.