"The crown doesn’t have to care about the southern coast for us to care about you," Zavi said, his voice dropping into a flat, level register that carried more weight than any shouted threat. He leaned closer, the scent of wet leather and sea salt rolling off him. "Now, let’s try this again without the amateur dramatics. Where is the syndicate’s regional drop point? The real one. Not the decoy warehouse you losers stash your rotten grain in."The syndicate runner’s Adam’s apple bobbed hard against the edge of Serafia’s blade. A thin line of crimson beaded where the steel bit into his skin, dark against the pale stubble of his neck."I don't know what you're talking about," the runner choked out, his hands twitching against his sides before freezing as Zavi’s fingers curled into a loose, punishing hook near his collarbone. "There's only the docks. Everyone knows the docks. You ask anyone in Oakhaven about the drop point, they'll point you right at the fish market pier.""The fish marke

"A fortress made of dry stone and damp ledgers," Zavi muttered, his thumb tracing the jagged edge of his scarred knuckles as he stared down the narrow, salt-crusted alleyway. "Which means it has a foundation. And foundations on this coast are built to breathe with the water."Serafia kept her hood pulled low against the stinging mist blowing off the harbor, her shoulder pressed flush against the slimy, stone-built wall of a shuttered fish-salting shed. Across the choked, narrow lane, the High Tides counting house loomed like a great, square monolith of gray granite, its iron-barred windows dark against the pre-dawn gloom."You aren't thinking of walking through the front door, are you?" Serafia asked, her voice dry, laced with the sharp edge of exhaustion and pragmatic caution. "Even if the mercenaries inside are half-blind from last night's smuggled ale, there are iron drop-gates on every ground-floor archway. Alaric’s royal seal wouldn't buy us ten seconds before they filled us full

"The water tastes like old pennies and harbor sludge," Zavi muttered, his teeth clicking together as a sudden shiver wracked his frame, vibrating straight through the marrow of his bones.He hauled himself forward over the slick, weed-draped lip of the subterranean stone basin, his boots squelching loudly against the ancient mortar. The darkness here was absolute, thick with the heavy, suffocating stench of rotting kelp, damp ledger paper, and stagnant bilge. Every inch of his skin felt raw, frozen stiff by the merciless grip of the southern tide that had just spat him out like driftwood. He raised his right arm, wincing as a sharp, familiar throb radiated outward from the half-healed slash along his bicep. The saltwater had done its work, stinging the healing tissue until it burned like a fresh brand.Serafia didn't answer right away from the gloom behind him, though he heard the distinct, metallic scrape of a leather boot heel sliding cautiously against stone, followed by the soft,

"They're on a fixed rotation," Serafia whispered, her breath brushing the damp stone of the stairwell as she stepped closer, adjusting the strap of her leather satchel with a soft click of a brass buckle. "Ten minutes for the western perimeter, five for the inner courtyard, and two minutes of absolute dead air between the guard post swap on the second-floor landing. We have precisely ninety seconds before the next pair clears the corner. Move."Zavi didn't hesitate. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest against the lingering dampness of the tidal sluice, the salt biting deep into the healing tissue of his bicep with a dull, persistent ache that needed no magical status bar to remind him it was there. He took the steps two at a time, his boots making almost no sound against the worn granite treads. The air changed as they ascended, shedding the heavy, rotting stench of harbor muck and replacing it with the dry, suffocating aroma of dried ink, melting tallow, and centuries of acc

"I wouldn't touch that," Malakor said, his voice smooth, laced with a dangerous, oily amusement that grated against Zavi’s raw nerves. "The ink on those pages is worth more than your life, friend. Though, judging by the state of your clothes, life hasn't been treating you particularly well to begin with."Zavi didn't turn around immediately. His fingers lingered over the worn leather binding of the master ledger, feeling the dry, coarse grain of the calfskin under his fingertips. Every drop of blood in his veins pumped with a sharp, electric rhythm. There was no system interface flashing warning notifications across his field of vision, no glowing red text to tell him his agility stat was insufficient for a two-on-one fight in a confined space. There was only the physical reality of the room: the smell of expensive Turkish tobacco, the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner, and the heavy, metallic breath of the two armed bodyguards flanking the doorway behind the syndi