The pier groaned under the tide's pull as Ira walked a few paces away, the map's phantom chuckle slithering in his ears. It was faint, like a memory of laughter pressed against his skull, but it gnawed all the same. Each step seemed to rattle the planks as though the sea itself disapproved of his presence. He drew his cloak tighter, the damp mist seeping through wool and bone, and forced his breathing steady.
Behind him, Zadie's footsteps followed—measured, deliberate, as if she'd long since learned that patience could be a blade sharper than steel. She didn't rush to catch him, didn't call out. The rhythm of her boots on the old boards was enough, steady as a heartbeat, until he stopped, knowing she would not let silence settle.
"You went to the Drowned City," she said at last. Her voice was low, calm—too calm. It was not accusation but inevitability, as if she were naming the shape of the fog around them.
Ira's shoulders tensed. He didn't turn. "You've been listening to too many dockside rumors."
"No rumor could describe what clings to you." Zadie's words cut clean, without flourish. "It's in your eyes. In the way you keep your hand too near your belt. In the way you wake when the gulls stir, as though something waits in your dreams."
Rust lingered a few paces back, watching with restless curiosity. His voice broke the tension like a poorly timed jest, though unease coiled beneath it. "Drowned City? What, some story about fishmen and lost gold? You two keep talking like the world's a riddle only you know the answer to."
Zadie ignored him. She stepped forward, her cloak brushing mist, until she stood directly before Ira. Her eyes searched his face with an intensity that made the damp air heavier. "You found something there," she said softly. "Or it found you."
For a moment, Ira let the weight of her stare press against him. Then, with a subtle shift, he let his cloak fall open just enough for the hilt of his blade to glint dully in the thin light. His voice was rough, stripped of ornament. "I found what I needed."
"No," Zadie murmured, shaking her head with the kind of certainty that came from knowing the taste of curses. "You found what should have stayed buried." Her gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, to his weapon, then rose again to meet his eyes. "You carry yourself like a man expecting attack. Every moment. Every shadow. That's not survival instinct—it's guilt. Or fear."
The words stung sharper than Ira let show. His jaw locked, silence becoming its own confession. The phantom chuckle in his skull swelled briefly, as though mocking his restraint.
Rust gave a short, nervous laugh, trying to cut through the tension but failing. "Gods, the way you two talk, it's enough to make a sane man drink." His hand drummed against the pier railing, then stopped when he realized the rhythm no longer comforted him.
Zadie didn't break her focus. "Tell me what you woke beneath those waters."
The air between them grew colder. Ira's gaze slid to the horizon, to where the mist bled into the restless, grey sea. For a long moment, it seemed as though he might not answer at all. Then he spoke, voice quiet and hoarse, every syllable dragged through gravel.
"I found what all men of my trade seek. History. Knowledge."
But even as he said it, the words rang hollow—like a prayer spoken without faith.
The tide slammed harder against the pier, sending spray up through the gaps in the boards. Rust's fingers froze against the railing, his mouth tightening. Zadie's expression hardened, but there was something else in her eyes now—recognition. Not of the words he'd spoken, but of the truth he had withheld.
"You're armed," she said again, this time not as accusation, but as grim acknowledgment. "And not against men."
The map's laughter stirred again, faint and cruel, and Ira felt its weight pulse faintly at his side like a second heartbeat.
He turned to meet her gaze at last, his own dark, unreadable. "Then you know why your words weigh less than the air you still breathe."