The rain had been falling since dusk, soaking the wharf until every plank gleamed black under the lanterns. It was the kind of rain that got into everything—your boots, your bones, your patience. Kael Draven leaned into it as though pushing back could keep the night from sliding out from under him.
The crate between him and Jori creaked under its own weight. They dragged it across Pier Thirteen inch by inch, the rope biting into their palms. The dock was warped and uneven; nails jutted like broken teeth where planks had split years ago. Every time the crate jolted over one of those ridges, the iron fittings inside clinked together like coins in a greedy man's fist.
"Nearly there," Kael muttered. His shoulders ached, but he kept his voice low, the kind of calm you borrow for someone younger.
"You've been saying that since we left the warehouse," Jori shot back, grinning through rain-slick hair. The boy's face gleamed pale in the lanternlight, eyes too wide and eager for someone who should have known better. "Feels heavier every step."
"That's because you're stumbling. Keep your feet steady."
The kid laughed again, too loudly. The sound carried over the water, bouncing between moored hulls. Kael winced. Noise on the docks at night was an invitation, and not the kind you wanted.
Jori was sixteen. Maybe. He lied about his age whenever it suited him, and Kael had stopped trying to pry the truth out of him. Too many like Jori drifted around the city—dock rats, market thieves, orphans of backlashes no one bothered to contain. Boys with nowhere to go but into someone else's trouble. Kael had tried to keep him clear of this job, but Jori had insisted, stubborn and bright-eyed, until Kael relented. Now, with the crate threatening to pull them both into the river, Kael wished he'd chained him to a tavern bench instead.
The barge waited at the far end of the pier, low in the water, its deck as shadowy as the river itself. If they could get the crate aboard, the night would be clean. The fittings would fetch coin on the black market, enough to keep Kael's creditors quiet for a week. That was all he ever bought these days: time, rented in pieces.
But his gut had been sour since they left the warehouse. The ward-stones that lined the pier were humming again. Three tall monoliths, slick with rain, carved with Tribunal sigils that glowed faintly whenever crimes stirred nearby. Tonight they thrummed low and steady, like a hive disturbed. Kael had worked the docks long enough to know their moods. Hungry stones were never good.
"Kael," Jori whispered, glancing at the nearest one. "You hear it too?"
"Eyes front. Just walk."
They shuffled forward, water sloshing in their boots. The rain pooled between the boards and leaked through the cracks into the black river below. Kael counted each breath, each step, willing the city not to notice.
The crate bumped against the barge rail. Almost safe. Just a final heave—
Jori slipped. His boot skidded on a slick patch of algae, and he lurched forward. The crate tilted dangerously. Kael yanked the rope, but one of the brass fittings—small, round, stamped with the Tribunal's spiral-and-scales—rolled free.
It clattered across the planks, the sound sharp as a hammer strike. Then it tipped neatly into the river.
The splash was small. The silence that followed was enormous.
The rain faltered, thinning to mist. The gulls that had been shrieking above the fish market went quiet all at once. Even the river stilled, ripples freezing in place.
Kael's stomach dropped. He had heard the stories all his life. A blacksmith cheats his guild, and the forge fire consumes his shop overnight. A thief hides her spoils, and vermin infest the house where she sleeps. The Law didn't wait for judges. It saw. It weighed. It answered.
The water below them began to boil.
At first Kael thought it was the rain hitting the surface harder, but the pattern was wrong—too deliberate. Then wings broke free. Thin, papery wings, glowing faintly green. A moth the size of his hand fluttered upward, then another, then a dozen. Soon the air was thick with them, spiraling upward in a living storm. Their wings brushed his face, leaving trails of bitter dust on his tongue. The taste was copper and ash.
"Gods," Jori whispered, swatting at them. His voice cracked. "Kael, what is this—"
"Don't—"
Too late. The boy staggered back from the rail, coughing, clawing at his throat. Moths clung to his lips, crawling over his skin, their glow seeping into him like mold spreading through fruit.
"Jori!" Kael dropped the rope and lunged. He caught the boy under the arms, tried to haul him upright. But Jori's body had gone stiff, his breath rattling. His eyes rolled white, mouth opening in a soundless cry.
Kael shook him once, twice. "Stay with me! Just breathe, curse you, breathe—"
The moths swarmed tighter, wings beating in a hiss like parchment tearing. Kael tried to brush them away, but his hands passed through them like smoke, his fingers tingling with static. Jori's chest rose once, shuddered, and fell. Then nothing.
Kael froze. The boy's head lolled against his arm, rain pooling in his dark hair. His lips were flecked with dust that the rain was already washing away.
The ward-stones glowed faintly, satisfied.
Kael wanted to spit at them. He was the one who planned this theft, who should have paid the price. But the Law had reached for Jori's clumsy hands, not his.
The moths hissed one last time, then collapsed all at once. Hundreds of fragile bodies rained onto the planks, twitching faintly before the storm drowned them. The air stank of wet paper and smoke.
Kael rocked back on his heels, clutching Jori's body. The boy felt light, too light, as though the Law had taken more than breath from him.
Rain fell steady again. The gulls cried once more. The world pretended to go on.
A voice cut through the storm.
"Step away from the body."
Kael's head snapped up. A woman was walking down the pier, her boots steady on the slick planks. She wore a long black coat, collar turned up against the rain, silver clasp glinting at her throat. The Tribunal's seal.
Her face was pale, carved sharp as a knife. Rain streamed down her cheekbones but didn't seem to touch her eyes. She raised one hand, fingers splayed. The last twitching moths shriveled to ash and vanished into the puddles.
Kael's arms tightened around Jori.
The officer stopped above him. Her voice was calm, cold. "Your name."
Kael's tongue stuck to his teeth. Behind her shoulder, in the deeper dark, he thought he saw movement—a tall shape, another smaller beside it—but the rain veiled them before he could be sure.
The officer's eyes held his like nails pinning cloth. "Your name," she repeated.
Kael's throat worked. The rain pattered. The river swallowed its fitting.
The city had seen. The city had judged. And it had killed the wrong boy.