Chapter 87: A Transaction of Souls

Narissa looked up, a plan forming. Her tone was flat, efficient. “We make him tell us.”


Slyvie’s face brightened like the flip of a coin. “Interrogation time!”


Ian blinked. “Wait, what are you going to—”


“Information gathering,” Narissa said, already winding the rope through her fingers as if it were thread on a loom. She moved with the practised calm of someone who’d seen worse than fear and decided fear could be used like any other tool.


The nearest guard lay unconscious where Narissa had dropped him; the other two thudded and groaned as they stirred, senses staggering back into the night. The moon pooled silver over them, throwing hard light on helmets, straps, and the dull sheen of service swords. One of the guards coughed; the other’s eyelids fluttered. They were city watchmen—uniformed, pragmatic, not fanatics—men who could be bought or frightened, depending on the price and the pressure.


Narissa wasted no time. She lashed one guard’s wrists with the rope and tugged until his hands were snug, then bound his ankles out of habit. She knelt beside him, face close to his, voice low and deliberate. “Tell me what’s going on,” she said. “Who sent you to collect those people?”


The guard’s breath came in ragged bursts. He blinked up at her, trying to piece the scene together—children, a knocked-out companion, a river too dark to be comforting. He tried to jerk his wrists free. The rope held. He swallowed. “I— I serve the city,” he said, voice rough. “Orders from— from above.”


“Above?” Slyvie asked cheerfully, tilting her head. She hopped lightly onto the fallen man’s chest as if playing a game, then hopped down again. “Like the sky?”


The guard flinched. He’d expected menacing strangers or a scolding. Not a child with too-bright eyes.


Narissa’s mouth twitched, but the rope’s knot tightened another turn. “Don’t play,” she said. “Who gave orders? Name. Rank.”


The guard’s jaw worked. He tried to keep his face stony but the moon showed every tremor. “Captain— Captain Sylas Marrow—” He spat the name like a bitter seed. “He— he told us to pick up people on the list.”


“A list,” Ian echoed, the word tasting like ash. “A sacrifice list.”


The guard swallowed. His gaze flicked to the dock, to the barge, to the shadow where the two robed figures waited, then back to the faces staring down at him—an angry woman who had just made three men unconscious, a small girl who looked like she’d been born to smile and learned too early to sharpen that smile into threat, and two boys who were not as small as they looked.


“We were paid,” the guard continued, the confession stumbling out now that the name had left his lips. “Compensation. Coin for each name we take. Families— they signed away names. It’s legal— paperwork—” His voice hitched on the last word.


“Compensation,” Slyvie repeated, sounding both fascinated and disgusted by the grown-up word. She set her hands on her hips. “You gave money for lives?”


The guard’s eyes dropped. “They promised coin. Enough— enough to cover food for years. For some families, it was the only way.”


Narissa’s hands tightened on the rope for a moment; then she let it slack a fraction, testing him. “Who pays?” she asked, quietly. “Who is the money from— a noble, a merchant, an office in the town hall?”


He tried to look worthy, to salvage some dignity, but the reality of the situation slid out like oil. “I don’t know who gives it directly. Captain Marrow organizes collection. The ledger—” He pointed feebly toward where the barge lay quietly, where horses’ hooves would soon no longer echo, where the river would take names away. “The ledger, the paperwork— we’re told to bring the people to the dock and wait until the shipment. The coin is distributed after.”


Slyvie made a face of exaggerated dismay. “That’s awful. People sell themselves for food.”


“It’s survival,” the guard said, voice small, as though pleading the point would make it tolerable. “We don’t choose. We don’t–”


“You do the hands of the city’s work,” Narissa snapped. “You could have refused.”


“We would be punished!” He spat at them suddenly, desperation flaring. “Refuse and you lose your position. Lose your home. The captain said we’d be tried for dereliction—”


Narissa’s eyes bored into him, calm and unblinking. “Was the captain here? Did he oversee this operation himself?”


“No.” The man’s shoulders sagged with relief at that small lie, then tightened as Narissa’s stare remained steady. “No— Captain wasn’t here. He wasn’t present for the arrests. He had men watching— we received the list. We were told names and told to collect. Those who payed got their names removed— those who could not—”


He left the sentence trailing. It didn’t need completion.


Slyvie hummed and began humming a silly tune, a lullaby of sorts. She dropped to her knees, letting her head tilt as an audience and then, with the disarming directness of a child, she reached toward the guard’s ear and pretended to whisper secrets. “Do you like stories?” she asked in a sing-song voice. “Do you want to hear mine? If you tell us, I will tell you one back.”


The guard’s panic, raw and immediate, contorted his face. He was a man who’d seen weather and debt and the thin cruelty of official edicts—but he had not practiced lying to a child who could swing a rope like a weapon and smile as if tagging him into a game. He stammered, “Please— just—” He tried to scramble backward but the rope kept him pinned.


Narissa’s method was a study in deliberate contrast: blunt question, then childish distraction. “Where are the captives held?” she asked. “Near the docks? A warehouse? A cellar?”


“Hold—” The guard licked his lips, counting untrustworthy breaths. “There’s a holding place close to the docks. An old warehouse— the one with the broken roof. They said it’s secure. They said there’s a ledger— names— time of shipment. Tomorrow night— after dark it sails.”


Slyvie clapped. “Tomorrow? So soon?”


“Yes!” the guard whimpered. “Tomorrow night. They’ve already taken names. Twenty people. The captain— he set the number. Twenty adults. They’ll be moved.”


Narissa’s jaw tightened. “Who keeps the ledger? Who signs the papers?”


The guard’s eyes flicked sideways, panic making him clumsy with direction. “Merrick— Merrick Solane in accounts. He tallies. Captain organizes the watch. We— we were told to take them quietly, or else—”


“Or else what?” Narissa pressed, watching his face for the flinch that admitted too much.


“Or else the captain says the magistrate will press charges! Says it’s for Arkwyn’s safety.” He said the last as if to convince himself. The river breathed around them, indifferent.


Ian’s voice came quiet but cutting. “So the city sells its own people.”


The guard’s mouth twitched, an unsteady shrug that was part shame and part acceptance. “The money is a compensation. For the watch, for the town’s expenses. I don’t know more. We just follow orders.”


Narissa drew a slow breath. She measured his words like a blade, testing the edge. “You said families ‘signed away’ names. Who compels them? Who arranges the payments?”


The guard’s shoulders rolled, exhausted. “There’s an office at the town hall. Some families— desperate— they go there themselves. Others are guided by men in plain clothes. Contracts. Papers. They think they’ll eat for a year if they sign. The captain doesn’t force them in public— it’s negotiated behind closed doors.”


Slyvie’s boots thudded on the planks as she hopped up and down, singing in a whisper: “Contracts and papers and coin in the hand— barter of breath across the land!” Her childish rhyme twisted the guard’s stomach with every line.


The man finally broke. He blurted, “If you want names— the ledger is kept at the administrative office. Merrick Solane handles payments. Captain Sylas gives the order. He says it’s necessary— the Weeping Cycle— it—”


At that name the guard’s voice thinned into a frightened edge. Narissa’s eyes flashed for a heartbeat— Weeping Cycle. The words were small and huge at once; they carried the weight of ritual and threat. But she didn’t lean into superstition. She prodded coldly. “Who pays the ledger? Who signs the checks?”


“Merchants. Nobles who want their relatives kept safe. And sometimes families who can pay. The town council—” He swallowed. “They’re the ones who arrange the removal of names. There’s money. The captain distributes it.”


Slyvie’s face softened like sugar melting. “So someone pays, someone gets saved, someone else goes. Like a terrible trade.”


“Exactly,” the guard said, a bitter whisper. “A trade.”


Narissa unfastened the knot at his wrists enough to slide a finger through and drag the rope around the man’s arm like a leash. Her movements were efficient, devoid of theatrics. She was, in that moment, the cold logic to Slyvie’s warm absurdity.


“Where is this warehouse?” she asked, a final, clinical question.


“Warehouse three. The one with the broken roof at the old north pier. The ledger’s kept at the town hall’s southern office— Merrick keeps it in a locked chest— key on his person sometimes, other times in the captain’s private box.” The guard’s answers came faster now, as if filling in the gaps would make the danger less. “They bring them at night, whispering. The ledger records names, fees, and who pays. Tomorrow night. The barge sails at dusk. Twenty people.”


Slyvie clapped again, delighted. “So the shipment is tomorrow night. We must act.”


Ian’s fists tightened around the dagger at his side. The blade was cold against his palm. He tasted urgency—fear with a metallic tang that set his teeth on edge.


Narissa rose, the rope coiling between her fingers like a snake returning to its place. “Good. You’ll remember this.” Her voice suggested storage rather than mercy.


The guard swallowed. “Let me go. Please. I have a family.”


Slyvie’s grin returned, a bright, unsettling thing in the moonlight. She hopped closer, peering at the man’s face with the kind of eager curiosity children reserve for insects and secrets. “If you try to run, we’ll simply—” She held up her hands and made a comic show of tying a tiny knot, her tongue peeking through her teeth as if concentrating on a difficult puzzle. “We’ll tie you like a present and leave you under the bridge. Do you like bridges?”


The guard’s face went pale. Whether from shame or genuine fear, he nodded furiously. Narissa’s expression did not change, but she made a small, almost invisible gesture at Ian—a nod that said the conversation was over and the guard’s information would be used.


“Tell no one,” Narissa said softly. “If you speak of this to anyone, it will be worse for you. You understand?”


“Yes,” he whimpered.


Slyvie hopped back, satisfied with her work. “That was fun. Next time we should try tickling.”


Narissa’s mouth twitched in a way that could almost be a smile. “We’ll see.”


“Well, first of all—” Ian exhaled, the edge of adrenaline still cutting through his voice. “Let’s free Lio’s father.” He crouched beside the nearest guard, pried the key ring from the man’s belt, and stood. The metal clinked softly, cold and heavy in his palm.


They moved quickly—quiet steps across the damp wooden floor toward the prison cell at the edge of the dock. Moonlight slipped through the cracks of the old warehouse roof, pooling over iron bars and dust. From inside one of the cells came a faint cough, a low groan, and then a voice—familiar, hoarse, and shaking.


“Lio?”


Lio froze mid-step. His breath caught, eyes wide as if the sound itself had pierced him. “Father…” he whispered.


Behind the bars, a gaunt man lifted his head. His face was pale under the bruises, eyes hollow but still burning with recognition. His wrists were chained to the wall, but he managed a tired, trembling smile. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he said, voice a mixture of disbelief and fear.


Ian knelt, jamming the first key into the lock. It didn’t fit. He tried another—then another—until the final one clicked. The lock snapped open with a sound louder than it should have been. Lio rushed forward, nearly stumbling as he reached his father.


“Father, we’re getting you out.”


But the man’s expression darkened. He didn’t move. “No… you can’t.”


“What do you mean?” Ian asked, confused, his hand still gripping the open door.


The man’s jaw clenched, his tone suddenly sharp and cutting through the cold air. “Why are you here?” he snapped, glaring at Lio with a mix of anger and disbelief. “I told you before I left—don’t follow me. Take care of your mother!”


His voice rose, rough and commanding, echoing off the damp stone walls. “Do you think this is a game? You should’ve stayed home! What part of that did you not understand?”


Lio’s lips trembled, his fists clenching at his sides. “You think I could just sit at home while they dragged you here?”


“Yes!” The man’s shout echoed off the damp walls. His eyes, sharp with anger, hid the pain swimming beneath. “That’s exactly what you should’ve done. You’re a fool for coming here. You should’ve let me rot!”


Silence fell for a moment, broken only by the creak of chains and the distant rush of river water. The man’s anger wavered—just slightly—as he looked at his son’s trembling hands and the stubborn fire still burning in his eyes.


The man’s jaw tightened. He looked away. “Go,” he said harshly. “Before they find you. I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.”