A Ripple in the Cesspool

The reason for one's fight was only a justification for one's act of violence.

The eastern warehouse district at dawn was a maze of damp alleys. The air smelled of salt, fish, and rust. It was the city's gut, the place where the real work got done. Boru's men were waiting for us at Dock 7. They weren't smiling merchants like their boss; they were hard-faced men in practical armor, the golden scale of the Merchant Council dull under a layer of grime.

They led us to a large, covered wagon, its heavy wheels silent on the damp cobblestones.

"The cargo is secure," the lead guard said, his eyes cold and empty. He wasn't reassuring us; he was handing over the problem. "Get it to the eastern checkpoint. A second team takes over from there. No stops, no questions. Got it?"

"Perfectly," Asverta replied, her voice smooth as always.

One of the guards pulled back the heavy canvas flap for a final check. I got my first look at Boru's "historical art."

It was people.

A dozen of them, chained at the ankles, sitting silently on the wagon's floor. Their clothes were rags, their faces smudged with dirt. But it was their eyes that caught me. Hollow. Empty. They weren't people anymore; they were cargo. Boru had called them specialized laborers. A nice word for slaves.

Look at them, Nora's voice was a faint, aching whisper inside me. They've given up. There's no fight left in them.

Weaklings, V sneered back. The strong take, the weak are taken. That's how the world works.

I pushed their voices down. Just noise. The mission was simple: this was the package. My feelings didn't matter. The world was what it was. Arguing with its fundamental cruelty was a waste of energy.

Next to the slaves were three large, iron-bound crates. A strange, sweet, metallic smell drifted from them. Unnatural. It smelled like preserving chemicals mixed with something cloyingly floral, a scent that tried to mask something rotten underneath. Potent alchemical components, Boru had said. Another lie. What was he really transporting?

The guards sealed the wagon, and we started moving. We took the back alleys, a winding path meant to keep us hidden. Asverta and I walked on either side of the wagon. Mu stayed close to her, his small hand occasionally brushing against her robes. The high walls of the warehouses blocked out the rising sun, plunging us into a world of long, damp shadows. It was quiet, except for the rumble of the wagon wheels on the cobblestones and the distant cry of gulls from the harbor.

We were about halfway there when a sharp whistle cut through the morning air.

Boots clattered on stone. From a narrow lane ahead, a group of figures in dark cloaks emerged, blocking our path. They held cheap swords and rusty axes, but their eyes burned with a fire I recognized. Conviction.

"For justice! For freedom!" one of them roared. The words sounded both heroic and pointless. "Release them, Council dogs! This vile trade ends now!"

Another faction. Another pointless fight. The guards drew their swords instantly, their movements drilled and efficient. They formed a circle around the wagon, a wall of steel. The fight was fast and ugly. The guards were a defensive shield, their goal to protect the cargo at all costs. The attackers were a storm, passionate and wild, swinging their blades with desperate energy.

Asverta moved like a ghost. She didn't attack. A gust of wind pushed an arrow off course. A subtle gesture made an attacker trip over his own feet. She was a master of doing just enough, and no more. She was conserving her energy, observing.

I did something similar. I hardened the air into invisible shields, deflecting stray hits that came too close to Mu. I wasn't fighting their war; I was just keeping the chaos from touching us. An attacker broke through the guards' line, his eyes wild, his sword raised to strike at the wagon. I didn't even think. I sent a sharp, invisible push of wind into his chest. It wasn't strong enough to injure him, but it sent him stumbling back, off balance, where a guard quickly and brutally finished the job.

Then, something strange happened.

Mu, who had been a silent statue beside me, flinched. He wasn't scared of the swords or the shouting. He flinched when two guards moved one of the heavy crates to use as cover. It was a full-body shudder, a tiny gasp almost lost in the noise of the fight. He grabbed Asverta's cloak, pulling himself away from the crate, his white eyes wide with a distress I could feel in the air.

What's in that box?

His senses, which could feel mana, had picked up something. Not from the fighters, but from the cargo. Something that scared him on a deep, fundamental level. An interesting new variable.

The fight ended as quickly as it started. The attackers, outmatched and losing their element of surprise, pulled back, leaving two of their own dead on the cobblestones. Two of the slaves had vanished in the chaos—a small, acceptable loss for the Council, I was sure.

The lead guard walked up to Asverta, his face annoyed. He kicked one of the dead rebels. "Trash," he spat. "Another incident," he grumbled, turning to Asverta. "These rebels are getting bold. Don't worry, we'll deal with them. Permanently." He handed Asverta the second half of the payment. The clink of gold coins felt wrong in the sudden quiet.

Asverta just nodded, taking the money as if it were nothing. The fight, the dead, the morality of it all—it didn't seem to bother her in the slightest. But I saw her gaze flicker for just a second towards the crate that had scared Mu. A quick, unreadable calculation flashed in her eyes before she looked away.

"Our part is done," she said to me and Mu, her voice calm again. "Let's find a place to rest. The day is still young, and Lenspear has many more of its tedious plays to perform for us."

Her words were light, but her eyes held a new, calculating weight. The mission was over, but the data she had just gathered—Mu's strange, violent reaction to the hidden cargo—felt like the beginning of a new, more complex equation.