The trick with Gavri Thorn was that you never approached her directly. You didn't knock, you didn't write, and you sure as hell didn't show up with your hands empty. You waited. Or you caused a problem loud enough that she couldn't ignore. We chose the second route.
The fog rolled thick across Crosshook Square that morning. It hung like wet wool in your lungs, making every breath a task. The kind of fog that made shapes into shadows and shadows into ghosts. The Wharf buzzed like a wire about to snap, but quieter today—like it was waiting to see who'd vanish next and how much blood it would take this time.
Hecate led the way, coat flapping like wings. She walked fast, but not urgent. She never gave anyone urgency to latch onto. Her heels clicked on the warped boards like punctuation marks in a dying man's sentence.
I trailed behind, scanning faces. Kids. Grifters. Street-preachers with their wrists chained to scripture boards. The odd Syndic pair in dull grey coats that shimmered faintly at the seams, a signal only fools would ignore. Eyes everywhere. You learned to look without looking, listen without reacting. The Wharf taught that fast.
We stopped in front of a meat stall, but we weren't buying. The butcher, a woman with one arm and a blade longer than my leg, glanced at us once, then nodded without a word.
"She's watching," she muttered, not looking up from her chopping. Blood pooled like soup at her feet.
Sure enough, on the roof above the apothecary, a figure stood. Lean. Wrapped in dyed leathers the color of old bruises. Watching. No expression. Just still. Like the city had given her one job and she'd become it.
"Now what?" I whispered.
Hecate handed me a paper-wrapped bundle. "Toss this into the canal by Saltpier. Loudly."
"What's in it?"
"An invitation."
I didn't ask more. You don't ask Hecate twice unless you enjoy disappointment. I walked to Saltpier like a bored errand boy. The planks wobbled underfoot, slick with old sea rot and yesterday's rain.
I reached the edge, unwrapped the bundle, and tossed it high. It hit the water with a splash that snapped heads around. No fire. No smoke. Just a scatter of shredded parchment, sealed slips, and one unmistakable copper coin. All marked with a burned symbol:
K-9
The crowd noticed. Someone shouted. Two boys jumped into the water, scrambling to grab floating scraps. A man cursed. A market guard pushed forward. And in the chaos—beautiful, lovely chaos—Hecate and I vanished.
We didn't wait long.
That night, just after eighth bell, someone slipped a note under our door at the ledger house. No knock. No sound.
Come alone. Arlen only. Pier Eleven. One hour.
Hecate scowled, reading it by the flicker of the lantern.
"You'll go," she said, already moving to pack. "I'll watch from above. If they try to grab you, I'll burn the pier down before they can blink."
I didn't ask if she meant it. She always did.
Pier Eleven was a graveyard pretending to be a pier. Half-sunk, boards slick with algae and time. Rats outnumbered birds. The wind bit harder there, pulling salt deep into your throat until it burned like old regret.
I stood near the edge, boots soaking through. Waiting. My breath made clouds I tried not to count.
She came out of the shadows like fog itself. Tall. Wrapped in heavy red wool. Her hair was white—not old-white, but bleached by powder or time or stubbornness. One eye was covered with a leather patch shaped like a sharp-winged moth. The other eye was cold, sharp, and very alive.
"You made noise," Gavri Thorn said, voice low and dry, like smoke from a fire no one admitted to starting.
I swallowed. "We had to. The clause is spreading. We need support."
She studied me, and there wasn't even a flicker of warmth. She could've been measuring a wall for a gallows.
"You've put the Wharf on fire with half a matchstick. What makes you think I'll let it burn further?"
"Because you can't stop it now. You can only choose where it spreads. And who gets burned first."
She circled me. Not walked. Circled. Like a hawk.
"I've had Syndic men in my stalls. Asking questions with blades instead of words. I've lost two couriers and a ledger-runner already. All because of this delay clause."
I didn't answer. She didn't want sympathy. She wanted calculation.
"But you..." She stopped in front of me. Smiled. Not kindly. "You didn't fold. That's interesting."
I reached into my coat and held up the third copper slip. "Protection clause. We want you to mouth it. Or endorse it. Publicly."
She laughed. A low, hoarse sound. "You think a name like mine means safety?"
"Yes," I said. "Enough to slow them. Enough to show others that someone big isn't afraid."
She looked toward the sea. The wind kicked up a squall of trash and salt.
"You have ten minutes," she said. "Tell me exactly what you want. And what you offer."
So I did. I laid it all bare: the clause, the plan to flip the priest, the hope of stalling the Syndic's rewrite of naming law. I told her about Bairn, about the whispers, the arrests, the fear starting to wrap the Wharf like smoke.
I told her we were already at war. We just hadn't fired the first shot yet.
She listened. Eyes unblinking.
Then she reached into her coat and pulled a slip. Copper. Marked.
"It's already done," she said. "Mouthed it two nights ago. Quietly. To a butcher who still remembers his real name. If the clause fails, he dies. If it holds, I get my proof."
I blinked. "You trusted it?"
"No," she said. "But I wanted to see what you'd do when the city started biting back."
She turned.
"One more thing, boy."
"Yeah?"
"If you come near me again without a plan that wins, not just screams—I'll hand you to the Syndic myself. Slowly."
She walked away without a sound. The pier felt colder once she was gone.
I walked back to Hecate shaking. Not from cold. From everything else.
"She mouthed it," I said.
Hecate exhaled through her nose. "Good. Then we burn the priest's name into the stars."
I didn't ask what that meant. I already knew.
Later that night, I stood outside the soup line in Hookburn Market. A boy passed me a note folded in half and dusted with ash. No words. Just a sigil: the thorn-moth.
Gavri's way of saying: It's begun.
In the distance, bells rang. Not the alarm bells. Not yet. These were prayer bells. High and cracked and old.
But even they couldn't hide the sound of footsteps coming. Many. Too many.
The Syndic was moving.
And the Wharf would have to choose who to follow next.