When her eyes opened, I almost wished they hadn't.
The boathouse was already drowning in shadows, every corner sagging with mildew and the weight of Rodrick's blood soaking into the floorboards, so the last thing I needed was one more pair of eyes snapping wide in panic.
But of course that's exactly what happened. Nara stirred with a shiver, her long ears twitching as though they were tugged awake before the rest of her body. A small gasp rattled through her throat, and then suddenly she was bolt upright, eyes darting about the boathouse like some trapped animal about to gnaw off its own leg just to get away.
"Where—where am I?!" Her voice cracked against the damp rafters, words tumbling into panic before any of us could muster an answer. "What happened—what's going on—"
She stopped mid-breath because her gaze had found me. Not Salem, not the knight, not even poor Dunny trembling in his barrel like an anxious squirrel. But me.
Her pupils dilated, and in the same instant she folded in on herself like a paper doll being crushed by the weight of invisible hands.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice cracked, breath hitching in frantic sobs as she pulled her knees tight against her chest. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I didn't—I tried to stop it, I swear—please, please forgive me—"
The apologies came like water bursting through rotting wood. Over and over, the same frantic rhythm, until the words blurred together in a choking cascade. She didn't even look human in that moment; she was more like some trembling beast trapped in a snare, waiting for the hunter to lift the knife. And all of it directed at me, as if I'd been the one holding her leash in the dark.
I should have felt triumph. Or resentment. Something sharp, something righteous. Instead, I just felt tired.
"Stop," I cut in, my voice cracking louder than I intended. She flinched at once, ears folding down, her apologies shriveling into silence. I dragged a hand over my face, exhaling through my teeth, and forced myself to meet her glassy eyes. "It wasn't your fault."
Her lips trembled. She shook her head, whispering, "But I tried to kill you—"
"And failed spectacularly," I interrupted, sharper this time. "Which is the important bit. Besides, you couldn't kill me even if you wanted to."
Which was, of course, an outright lie. A bald-faced, shining, gallant lie. I could still feel the phantom brush of the rabbits' teeth, still hear the squeals, still remember how close their snapping maws had come to tearing me apart.
But none of that mattered now. I couldn't have her collapsing into hysterics when we were still knee-deep in danger, so I let the lie roll from my tongue as smoothly as possible, hoping it sounded like certainty rather than desperation.
She sniffled, hugging herself tighter, and for the first time since waking her breathing began to steady. Which should have been a small victory—except that the silence gave our knight exactly the space he'd been waiting for.
"My lady!" he exclaimed, voice booming with the subtlety of a parade horn. He bent low, still entirely and horrifyingly unclothed, one arm sweeping gallantly across his bare chest. "You're awake at last! May the heavens rejoice!"
Nara blinked up at him, confusion cutting briefly through her tears—and then, inevitably, her gaze slid lower. Much lower.
Oh no.
Her cheeks ignited then, the panic in her eyes evaporating in a rush of scarlet heat, her breath hitching into a soft, involuntary pant as though her body had swapped one crisis for another without consulting her brain.
Her gaze lingered far too long on regions I had spent the past hour desperately trying to avoid looking at, and in that moment I knew without doubt that my life had become the setup for a bawdy tavern joke.
"Gods help me," I muttered under my breath.
The knight, naturally, took her blush as encouragement. He laughed—a loud, ridiculous bark of laughter that made the rafters quiver—and clapped his hands together. "Ah! You see? Even in the throes of peril, beauty finds me irresistible. Truly, fate is generous."
I wanted to die. Or at least strangle him with one of the moldy ropes coiled by the dock.
Nara stammered something incomprehensible, burying her face in her hands, her ears twitching wildly like sails caught in a storm. And just like that, the two of them had launched into their own private comedy act, a performance I had no intention of watching unfold. My patience was already thinner than parchment, and my sanity wasn't far behind.
So I looked down. At my hand. At the ring.
Two hundred and sixty-seven.
The number glowed faintly, carved into the band like some cruel countdown, reminding me of the game we were still very much prisoners of. Each drop meant another death, another body gone, and each step forward meant the opposition would grow stronger, crueler, more desperate.
What monsters waited further down the line, I couldn't guess, but my stomach had no trouble answering with knots of dread.
My thumb worried at the band. I told myself I didn't mind. That it was only natural. That I would bend the odds until they broke, just as I always had. But the truth was, the weight of that number pressed down upon me with the weight of finality.
Rodrick's groan pulled me back to the present. He shifted against Salem's steady hands, blood still seeping through the makeshift bandages. The air smelled like iron and salt, a cocktail of misery that no one in the room seemed to notice anymore.
"We need a plan," Salem said flatly, his voice the sharp edge that cut through our scattered thoughts. He didn't even glance at Nara or the knight, as though their ridiculous flirtations were beneath acknowledgment. His gaze was locked on me. Always on me, as if daring me to falter.
He wasn't wrong, of course. Without direction, we were just a handful of bleeding animals hiding in a rotting shack. And in this city, bleeding animals were nothing more than bait.
"We find a faction," I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. "From here on out, they'll control the flow of everything—supplies, movements, alliances. If we keep floating without an anchor, we'll be picked apart like carrion."
Salem gave a slow nod. Rodrick grunted agreement. Even Dunny, peeking nervously from his barrel, bobbed his head. The knight, for once, said nothing—probably too distracted by Nara's flushed cheeks.
"As for which faction," I continued, "we start with the woman. The one moving in shadows. She's already watching us. Better to find her than wait for her to find us."
It wasn't courage speaking. It was inevitability. Whoever she was, she'd brushed our paths too many times already. And the longer she lingered unseen, the deeper her claws would sink.
I turned back to Nara, who stiffened. Every gaze in the room was now laid upon her. Nara's ears drooped. Her lips parted, then closed, then parted again as though she were debating whether silence might save her. She already knew what we wanted...a name.
"I can't…" she whispered. "I can't give you her true name."
"Then give us what you can," I pressed, softer this time.
Her hands curled tight in her lap. "They… they call her the Lady of Fangs."
The words seemed to ripple through the air, a chill that pressed against the damp walls. Lady of Fangs. The title alone felt like a wound slicing deep into my thoughts.
"Have you seen her?" I asked.
Nara shook her head. "Never. I only ever… received orders. After the mark." She touched the scar on her back, the faint bite that echoed the stitched man's wounds. Her fingers lingered there as though afraid to leave it uncovered.
My sigh escaped heavier than I meant. No face. No true name. Only whispers and teeth. A shadow that commanded without showing its own. That made two things certain: she was clever, and she was dangerous.
Before I could speak again, Dunny's voice cracked through the silence.
"Uh… guys?"
We all turned. He was peering out the window, finger trembling as he pointed across the docks. "The ship next to us. It's—it's leaving."
I rushed to his side, following his gaze. Sure enough, the vessel moored beside the boathouse was drifting into the mist, its hull creaking, lanterns swaying faintly in the fog.
"Shit, the supplies!" Rodrick spat, his face darkening. "That ship was loaded with food, weapons, and relics. If it sails out, we lose everything I've been tracking."
I tightened my grip on the dagger at my hip. "Then we don't let it sail."
The next moments blurred into urgency. We slipped out of the boathouse, boots clattering against damp stone, chasing the drifting shadow of the ship along the canal walkways. The air was colder there, thick with mist that curled up from the black water like fingers reaching for our ankles. The echo of our footsteps bounced against the low stone arches, turning every sound into a warning bell.
That was when I saw them: faint chalk sigils smeared across the walls. Circles, rays, jagged suns etched by unsteady hands.
The Southern Sun Cult. Of course it had to be them.
The symbols multiplied as we moved deeper. Dozens, then hundreds, until the walls were scrawled with pale graffiti that seemed to glow in the mist. My stomach twisted. A territory marker, a warning, or perhaps a promise. Either way, we were walking straight into their jaws.
At last, we reached the ship where it had slowed in the current. A rickety gangplank led up to its deck, the wood slick with moisture. Salem went first, silent as a blade sliding free. I followed, then Nara, then the knight with his infuriating swagger. Dunny clung to the rear like a terrified shadow.
The deck was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that doesn't just rest on your ears but digs into them, making you wonder if you've gone deaf. Lanterns swayed from their hooks, their flames guttering with each slow lurch of the vessel, casting crooked pools of gold that slid across the warped planks like liquid shadows.
Every creak of the wood sounded exaggerated, unnatural, as if the ship itself were groaning in anticipation of what was about to happen. We spread out across the deck with blades drawn, our footsteps soft but still too loud for my liking.
Every corner looked wrong. The coils of rope abandoned in heaps were too neat, too untouched. Barrels sat unmarked and empty, lids loose as if they had never been nailed down at all. No cargo. No crew. Not even the stray rat that every sane ship carried like an unwanted passenger. Just emptiness, stretched so thin it seemed to hum.
Salem moved ahead of me, his blade tilted low, every muscle coiled in silent suspicion. His eyes cut over the deck like a razor, reading details the way lesser men read books. He came to the helm, his foot nudging the base.
The sound that followed was grotesquely soft, like meat shifting on a hook. A body slumped forward, spilling out of the wheel's embrace.
I froze.
He was a competitor no doubt, or rather he had been. His eyes were wide and glassy, staring blankly into nothing. His throat had been torn open, a ragged wound that dribbled dark crust down his chest. The blood hadn't sprayed or spattered—it had been drained with a precision that felt wrong, as though whatever had killed him wanted to leave behind a perfect little stage piece.
My gut twisted cold, and for once I couldn't mask it with a smirk. The whole thing reeked of arrangement, like a grotesque painting hung up just for us to admire. It was too clean. Too staged.
"This is wrong," I breathed, words sticking in my throat as I scanned the shadows. "It's—"
And then I heard it, the faint sound of tapping.
It was slow at first, but then the sound multiplied, weaving beneath us from all directions. It came from the waterlogged guts of the ship, slithering along the bilges, racing through the dark veins of the vessel itself.
"A trap..."