The docks stank worse at night, a sour mix of fish guts, wet rope, and something burnt from a ship's fire earlier that day. Torren Vale trudged along the south end, his boots squelching in the mud, his cloak heavy with damp.
His arm throbbed where Mira's rough bandaging barely held, and his side stung from the mill scrap. Elara's deal—steal that iron and meet her crew—had landed him a shaky alliance, but the weight of it pressed on him like a wet sack.
Aldric's guards were sniffing around, and that gray-cloaked shadow kept popping up, making his neck itch. He wasn't sure if he was hunting profit or just stumbling deeper into a mess.
He'd stashed the iron on the River Wren with Mira and Kaelin's help, but Elara wanted more—tonight, at a rickety tavern called the Salty Gull, where her people gathered. Torren didn't trust her smile, that quick brush of her fingers on his cheek still tingling like a brand. Was she playing him, or could he turn her? He needed to know, and his gut said charm was his best shot—though his luck with women lately felt more like a dice roll than a plan.
The Salty Gull squatted near the water's edge, its walls leaning like a drunkard, the sign creaking with every gust. Inside, the air was thick with sweat, cheap ale, and the clatter of mugs.
Torren pushed through the crowd, dodging a sailor's elbow and stepping over a spilled puddle, his eyes scanning for Elara. He spotted her at a back table, flanked by two rough-looking men, her satchel on the bench. She looked up, her green eyes catching his, and crooked a finger.
"Vale," she said as he slid onto the bench, her voice low. "You've got guts bringing my iron. Sit—let's see if you've got brains too." One of her men, a scar-faced brute, glared, hand on his knife.
Torren leaned back, forcing a grin despite the ache. "Guts and brains, milady. That iron's safe on Mira's ship, and I'm here to talk terms. Though, I'll admit, your face makes this dive look almost cozy." He tried a wink, but she didn't bite, her stare cool.
"Terms?" She sipped her ale, unamused. "You stole my goods, Fox. Now you owe me. Deliver the iron to Corwyn's men at the north gate tomorrow, or I'll feed you to the river myself." Her tone was flat, but her eyes dared him to argue.
Torren's stomach dropped. North gate was crawling with Aldric's patrols—suicide. "That's a tall order," he said, scratching his neck. "How about I keep it safe instead, and we split the profit? You're too clever to waste on a fool's errand." He leaned in, hoping to soften her, but she slammed her mug down, ale sloshing.
"Split? You're in no position to bargain." Her man shifted, knife half-drawn, and Torren felt the room's mood sour. He'd misjudged—her crew wasn't here to negotiate.
Before he could backtrack, the tavern door burst open. Aldric's guards stormed in, the scarred captain leading, his sword out. "Torren Vale! Hands up!" The room froze, mugs pausing mid-air, as the guards spread out.
Torren cursed under his breath, sliding off the bench. Elara's eyes flicked to him, a smirk playing. "Your mess, Fox. Handle it." She stayed put, letting her men rise, blades ready.
He ducked a guard's lunge, his bad arm screaming as he rolled behind a table. "Not my finest hour," he muttered, grabbing a mug and hurling it at the captain's face. It shattered, buying a moment, but two guards closed in. He parried one with his dagger, the clash jarring his bones, when a figure shoved through—Kaelin, her scar glinting, a stolen sword in hand.
"Thought you'd need saving, you idiot," she growled, slashing at a guard. Her move was clumsy but effective, giving Torren space to breathe. He grinned, dodging another strike. "My hero, Kaelin! That fire in you's worth a kiss—if we live."
She snorted, parrying a blow. "Save it, Vale. Focus!" Her blade caught a guard's arm, and he stumbled, but the captain was coming, sword raised.
Torren scrambled, his plan unraveling, when a new voice cut through. "Out of my way!" Mira pushed in, her broad frame a wall, sword swinging. She cleaved through a guard, her strength a blunt force, and glared at Torren. "Rhea said you're in it again. Can't leave you alone, can I?"
"Mira, my savior!" Torren laughed, wincing as he blocked a thrust. "Your muscle's a sight—almost makes me forget the pain." She grunted, unimpressed, but her swing saved him from a fatal cut.
The fight turned chaotic—tables overturned, ale soaking the floor, shouts blending with steel. Elara's men joined, clashing with Aldric's crew, and Torren saw his chance. He tackled the captain, pinning him long enough for Mira to knock him out with a chair leg. Kaelin finished the last guard, panting.
Elara stood, brushing off her cloak, her smirk back. "Not bad, Vale. You've got friends. Bring them to the north gate tomorrow—iron included. We'll see if you're worth keeping." She tossed him a pouch—coin, by the weight—and slipped out with her men.
Torren slumped against a wall, blood trickling from his arm, his grin shaky. Kaelin glared, bandaging him with a torn rag. "You're a walking disaster, Fox. Next time, think before you leap."
Mira chuckled, wiping her sword. "Reckless fool. But you pull it off. Don't push it."
A girl slipped from the crowd—Rhea, her red hair wild, holding a broom like a weapon. "Saw the fight from the back," she said, grinning. "You're mad, Torren. I like it." She nudged him, her touch bold, and he caught a glint in her eye.
"Rhea, my little spark," he said, catching his breath. "You're braver than half this room. Stick around—I might need that broom." She laughed, staying close, and Torren felt a warmth amid the chaos. Number eight, he thought, her spirit hooking him.
As they limped out, the gray-cloaked figure watched from a rooftop, sword dull in the dark. A shadow lingered by the Gull, dagger glinting, tracking their retreat. Torren's game was a tangle now, his charm a net catching more than he'd planned.