The bloated clouds crawl north in time for the aurora to peek above the eastern horizon—ten luminous silver ribbons wiggling into view, moving to their own hypnotic beat. The world comes alive with the distant screech of Moltenmaws, their scratchy yawns threatening to split the sky.
I push up from the skybridge, groaning, my legs a little stiff from disposing of Tarik’s body and lying in the snow. Yawning, I make for the north side, trekking down thirty-three levels of steep stairways until I step onto the ground level and into the already churning crowd.
The Ditch bustles with folk completing their early chores: clearing snow gathered before doors, chopping kindling, and fetching bottles of colk milk left beneath the eaves of those who can afford the run. Merchants roll by on colk-driven carts laden with tinctures, runed gadgets, and crates of exotic food, setting up shop for the dae.
A plethora of parchment larks flutter about, darting between folk and landing on outstretched hands, though some have no direction at all. Ghost larks—perhaps meant for somebody lost—that now spend their existence dancing with the fluffy sowmoths I’m feeling far too tired to chase.
“Please have jars of dust,” I murmur, jostling through the crowd.
Pausing by a store that’s yet to open, I pretend to window-shop while I check I’m not being followed, using the opportunity to ensure my veil still thoroughly conceals the lower half of my face. That there’s no bloody stains anywhere on my gown that’s cinched at my waist, the gathered bustle emphasizing my round hips.
The tight bodice makes my already full breasts almost spill from the neckline, and though that played the part last slumber, I look entirely overdressed amongst the freshly woken folk churning about the Ditch at my back. Not ideal.
I grab the tail of my veil, rearranging it so it’s draped across my bust, hiding all my perky, pale flesh.
Much better.
I weave through the crowd until I reach a north side shop tucked beneath a wind chute. Pink, powdery sunlight shoots through with a blow of fresh air, rustling the plants that dangle from the store’s eave, its name crafted on a stone plaque set amongst the stained glass window fashioned to look like a montage of Moltenmaw plumage.
I yank the door open, taking a step into the long, lofty store lined with rows of ceiling-high shelves packed to the brim with everything a Runi could possibly require: stacks of flat parchment squares with pre-drawn activation lines, small tincture jars choked by dangly labels, leather-bound books dyed an array of colors to match their painted edges. There’s an abundance of quills, jars of various etching sticks, and lumps of different ores and gemstones.
Halfway through the doorway, I pause, watching a vibrant flock of parchment larks churn about the shelves with feathers attached to their ends, looking like miniature Moltenmaws.
Every time I come, the flock has doubled in size. I’m sure of it.
“Close the door before my pets escape,” Ruse yells from the back of the shop, “or you’ll not be doing business here for the rest of your existence.”
I tug the door shut and weave between the shelves. “You know I’d catch them for you, Ruse.”
“Don’t sweet-talk me, Raeve. I’m eyeball-deep in inventory and a hair’s breadth away from losing my ever-loving mind.”
I round the final shelves, coming to a stone counter that dominates the store’s back end. Ruse is seated behind it, slouched over a bowl brimming with bugs armored with brown interlacing shells that can wrap around their wriggling bodies and contort them into tiny balls of stone.
One by one, Ruse is tucking them into bottleneck jars stuffed with a sprig of greenery and half an inch of rust-colored dirt, scoring lines on a scroll to the side with each weighty plop.
I watch her work, her wild tangle of curls such a bright shade of orange. “Looks tedious.”
“I want to impale myself with this quill,” she mutters, then corks the bottle she’s currently filling and places a lid on the bowl. She clasps her hands together, slaps a wide smile on her face, and beams at me through pretty, sunburst eyes. “How can I be of service?”
I pass her Essi’s list.
The white tuft of an otherwise lanky tail rises from behind the counter, waving back and forth, making me smile.
“Hi, Uno.”
The tuft wiggles faster before brushing Ruse’s jaw affectionately, an adoring softness spreading across Ruse’s face as she reaches beneath the counter, no doubt to rub Uno behind the ears.
I wonder how big she’s gotten. Miskunns are so scarce and greedily coveted I rarely glimpse more than the expressive tail of the creature who dotes on Ruse like a mother. Which is a shame.
She’s such a sweet thing.
Ruse hums, gaze still skimming the script. “Can’t help with whatever’s supposed to be beneath the splat of blood,” she murmurs, lifting her hand to scratch at it. “Messy job?”
“Unfortunately.” I shrug. “He was a squirter.”
“Ah.”
“Do you have any of the other things in stock?”
“You’re in luck,” she says, winking. “I have it all.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful I don’t have to repeat the jar debacle.
Ruse grabs a cloth bag and moves around the counter, humming while she shifts between the shelves. Returning, she lumps the laden bag before me and sits again, sliding a large leather-bound ledger into sight. She lifts the front cover, flicking through until she settles on a page titled:
RAEVE
Dragon Bloodstone: 721 BKTS
My eyes widen.
I had no idea I had so much currency, the swelling digits a running commentary on how many bodies I’ve shoved off the wall to be picked apart by the predators that dwell beneath.
“I see your numbers have grown since—”
The inky scrawl stating my well of wealth bleeds off the page like watery ink blown off a slippery surface, before new digits appear in their place.
Smaller digits.
I frown.
Guess Sereme decided to charge me for the mission I begged the Elding for support on, and only because there was no possible way I could save all those younglings by myself.
Lovely.
A stark reminder that the hand that gives can just as greedily take away.
Ruse clears her throat, sliding her pink spectacles further down her nose, glancing up at me from beneath a fan of orange lashes. “Busy slumber?”
“Not the sort of busy they like, apparently.”
She gives me a rueful smile, then recomposes herself back into the vision of stoic storekeeper. “Well, besides your purchases from the list, would you like to spend any more of your six hundred and ten buckets of dragon bloodstone?”
I chuff.
“Actually …” I look at my gown, brushing my hands over the thick ruddy panels. “I had to toss a layer of this to the trogg. Am I able to replace it?”
“Won’t be a problem.” Her gaze flits over my ensemble, then back to her book as she lifts a curly blue quill, dips it in a pot of ink, and scratches something on my page. “Anything else?”
My mind tunnels back to the moments following Tarik’s disposal. To the quiet allure I experienced toward a heavily accented male I probably should’ve slaughtered. But I didn’t. Because he smelled good.
“Got any sawtooth blades?”
She pauses, looking at me from beneath an arched brow. “Planning to hack somebody up?”
Hope not.
I shrug.
Humming again, she spins in her chair and pushes to a stand, snatching at the stone wall behind her. What’s actually a runed drape ripples as she rips it wide, revealing the full, gloomy expanse of the store that goes so deep it’s hard to see the end, the real walls lined with vaults of bloodstone, weapons, armor, and various infantry.
She unlocks one of the many grated repositories, retrieving a small saw she carries my way, tugging the curtain shut before she passes me the weapon.
I weigh it in my hand, tossing it to the other. “Good shape, but a little less weight in the handle would be better.”
She nods, scratching something else on my page. “Hiding place?”
“Thigh.”
“Sheath?”