The tide was shifting, tugging at the pier's bones with a rhythm that seemed older than the village itself. Ira stood silent beside Rust, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if trying to summon clarity from the fog. Rust, of course, couldn't sit still. He drummed his fingers against the damp wood, hummed half a tune with no melody, and cast sidelong glances at his old commander.
"You've gotten quieter," Rust said at last, breaking the silence. "Didn't think that was possible."
Ira's mouth twitched—not a smile, but something close. "And you haven't changed at all. Always filling the silence, afraid it'll swallow you."
Rust gave a short laugh. "Well, someone's got to talk. Otherwise you just stand there brooding like the sea owes you money."
"I'm not brooding," Ira said, though the words were flat enough to prove Rust right.
"Sure. That face says 'serenity itself.'"
Despite himself, Ira let out a breath that could have been mistaken for a laugh. The sound was brief, cut off as he turned his gaze back to the mist. Rust saw it anyway, and the faint satisfaction in his grin lingered.
For a moment they stood like that, silence tempered by the familiarity of men who had spent long nights together in stranger, harsher places. Rust shifted his weight and finally said, softer:
"You really thought I betrayed you."
"I didn't think," Ira replied, his voice low. "I knew what they told me. And I didn't have the luxury of doubts."
Rust studied him, grin fading. "And if you did? If you had that luxury?"
Ira's eyes flicked to him—sharp, searching. "Then maybe we wouldn't be here."
Rust accepted the words without flinching, though his jaw tightened. He pulled a flask from his coat and held it out. "Peace offering?"
Ira hesitated, then took it. The burn of cheap liquor rolled down his throat, sharper than he remembered. He passed it back. "Still drinking gutter swill."
"Still pretending you're better than the rest of us," Rust shot back, smirking.
Before Ira could answer, footsteps cut through the fog—measured, deliberate. Not careless like Rust's, nor weighted like Ira's. A different rhythm entirely.
Both men turned.
The mist thinned just enough to reveal a figure approaching, her silhouette tall, her stride unhurried. The first detail to emerge was the glint of metal—buckles, clasps, the edge of a dagger at her hip. Then came the dark braid over her shoulder, bound in copper wire, and the sharp planes of her face. Her eyes, when they caught the dim light, seemed almost luminous.
Zadie Merrin.
Rust straightened instinctively, though he tried to mask it with a lazy posture. Ira's hand lingered near his belt—not in threat, but in habit, as if he were bracing for whatever she might bring with her.
"Merrin," Ira said at last, voice carefully neutral.
Her lips curved, not quite into a smile. "You still say my name like it's a curse."
"Depends who's listening," Ira replied.
Rust raised his brows. "Well, this just got awkward. Should I be worried you two are going to start stabbing or flirting?"
Zadie ignored him. Her eyes stayed on Ira, unblinking. "Didn't expect to see you again. Not here. Not after… the river."
Ira's shoulders stiffened. The memory surfaced—the stench of blood in the water, Zadie's voice cutting through the chaos, her hand dragging him back from a death he hadn't asked to be spared from. He said nothing, but the silence carried the weight of recognition.
"You know each other?" Rust asked, glancing between them.
Zadie's gaze slid briefly to Rust. "Once. In places better left forgotten."
"Which means yes," Rust muttered, then added with mock solemnity, "Gods save me from soldiers and their cryptic nonsense."
Zadie's lips twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement. She looked back at Ira. "You've been carrying something that doesn't belong to you."
Ira's jaw tightened. "You mean this old thing." Ira said tossing her the compass he had at his side
"Never thought id get to return it after the shit u pulled in Gashton."
Rust spread his hands, baffled. "Hold on. How Much shit have y'all done without me? And here I thought this was just going to be a reunion full of hurt feelings."
Neither of them answered him.
The gulls screamed overhead. The tide slammed against the pier, rattling its chains. In the mist, the world seemed to shrink until there was only the three of them—bound by history, suspicion, and the promise of something darker on the horizon.
Zadie took a step closer. "You'll need me, Ira. Whether you admit it or not."
For a long moment, Ira didn't respond. Then, with a voice like a blade drawn from its sheath, he said, "The Only thing i need is information. But not the sort you bring Ms. Pattern reader." He said turning on his heel as the voices from the map rose once more this time not in its normal intensity but in a low mocking chuckle.