The Shard-Bearer

The market always smelled like something dying. Not just rotting fish or meat crawling with flies though there was plenty of that, but a deeper stink, like the whole city had given up and decided to rot along with it. The stench clung to your hair, your clothes, even the back of your throat.

I should’ve been used to it by now. I wasn’t.

“Keep moving,” Corin muttered at my side, his shoulder brushing mine as the crowd pressed in around us.

I shoved past a woman waving a basket of grayish apples in my face. “I am moving. You’re the one dragging your heels.”

Corin’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. That was as close as he came to amusement these days. He nodded toward a fat merchant shouting about smoked eels. “Purse,” he whispered.

I caught the gleam of brass coins on the man’s belt, hanging loose. Easy pickings.

“Your turn,” I murmured back.

Corin’s hand brushed mine briefly, a signal and then he slid into the flow of bodies like smoke. I kept walking, pretending to study a stall of rusted knives. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Corin bump the eel-seller’s elbow, laugh like he was apologizing, then melt away before the man even noticed his purse was gone.

A moment later, Corin was back, slipping the coin pouch into his coat. He didn’t even look at me. Just said, “Too slow.”

I snorted. “You rehearsed that line.”

“Still true.”

That was our rhythm, the only game left to play in Drakemire. Who could lift the better prize, cleaner and quicker than the other. It kept us sharp. More importantly, it kept us fed.

The bells of the high towers tolled noon, rattling the cracked stone arches overhead. The sound rolled through the market, mingling with gull cries from the river and the constant hiss of vendors hawking half-rotten goods. Somewhere behind us, a fight broke out, the meaty crack of a fist, then a scream. No one turned to look. In Drakemire, blood was just part of the background noise.

Corin’s voice dropped low. “We’ve got red cloaks.”

My gut tightened. The Ash Guild. They’d been crawling the market all week, “taxing” the stalls, dragging anyone who didn’t pay into the alleys.

I didn’t look back. Rule one: never let them see you notice.

“How many?” I asked, keeping my tone flat.

“Two. By the spice seller’s stall.”

Spice? That was a joke. The only thing in those sacks was colored dust and rat droppings.

I adjusted my pace, casual, hands loose at my sides, heart kicking against my ribs. If the Guild had noticed us, it could mean a beating, a cut throat, or worse, conscription into whatever filthy job they had lined up that day.

But Drakemire was good for one thing. If you knew the alleys, you could vanish faster than a curse.

I muttered, just loud enough for Corin to hear, “If they follow, we cut left by the tannery.”

Corin gave a small nod, eyes forward. The stink of boiling hides wafted through the air already. Good cover.

The market pressed in tighter, the noise swelling until it was all I could hear. I risked the smallest glance back, enough to catch a flash of crimson cloaks through the crowd.

And just like that, my mouth went dry.

They weren’t “taxing” stalls. They were hunting.

My first thought: wrong place, wrong day. My second: we needed to vanish fast.

“Don’t run,” I muttered, keeping my jaw tight so my lips barely moved. “Running’s a beacon.”

Corin didn’t answer which was good. He never wasted words when it mattered. Instead, his eyes flicked toward a flour merchant’s stall, where a cluster of housewives argued over who’d get the least-moldy sack. The crowd was thick there. Cover.

I slid in that direction, letting the push of bodies carry me. The trick was to look like you belonged, even when you were trying to disappear. My hand brushed the knife tucked in my belt, not to use, just to remind myself it was there.

A shout rose somewhere behind us. Deep, harsh. A Guild voice.

Corin leaned close, voice like breath. “We need a lift. Blend in.”

He was right. Two gutter rats trying to melt away would be obvious. Two thieves pulling a quick job? Just another day in Drakemire.

I scanned the crowd. Fat merchant, red sash, leather pouch bouncing against his thigh. Too obvious. A drunk leaning against a barrel with coins spilling from his boot. Too risky. Drunks could scream louder than anyone.

Then I saw him. A minor clerk, robes ink-stained, fumbling with a ledger under one arm while he bartered for bread with the other. His coin purse was tied loose, hanging low at his hip. Perfect.

I nodded once. Corin caught it, then slipped wide to circle. He’d distract; I’d take. That was our rhythm.

The clerk was still arguing with the baker about the price of loaves when Corin bumped his shoulder, nearly spilling the ledger. The man barked something, too flustered to notice me ghost past, fingers quick as thought. The purse came free with barely a tug.

Weighty. Good coins.

I slid it under my coat and kept walking, never looking back.

A clean lift. Almost too clean.

Because when I risked a glance over the bread stall, I saw them, the red cloaks. Two of them. Big shoulders, scarred faces, Guild daggers at their belts.

And one of them was staring straight at me.

His hand rose, slow, deliberate, pointing through the crowd.

“Thief.”

The word cut through the market noise like a blade.

I didn’t think. I bolted.

I bolted. Feet pounding mud and filth, shoving through the crush of bodies. Behind me, shouts rose, Guild voices, low and brutal, barking orders.

“Stop them!”

“Cut them off!”

Corin was at my shoulder in an instant, matching stride. He didn’t ask questions. He never did in moments like this.

We tore past a spice stall, scattering powders into the air. Reds, yellows, choking dust that stung my eyes and burned my throat. The clerk we’d lifted bellowed after us, but his voice drowned in the chaos.

The market buckled around us. People swore, stumbled, cursed at being shoved aside. A fishmonger swung a cleaver at my head more for pride than the Guild but I ducked under, nearly tripping on the slippery cobbles slick with fish guts.

“Left!” Corin barked, yanking me toward a narrow gap between two stalls.

We burst into an alley that reeked of urine and boiled hides, walls sweating damp. My boots splashed through stagnant water, rats scattering ahead of us.

Behind, boots hammering stone, closer than I liked.

“They’re on us,” I spat, lungs already burning.

“No shit.” Corin’s tone was flat, but his eyes were sharp, scanning ahead. “Cut through the tannery. Smoke’ll cover us.”

The tannery. Saints, I hated that place. But he was right, nothing masked a scent, or a pair of running bodies, like the reek of burning lime and rotting hides.

We darted around a corner, nearly colliding with a cart stacked with barrels. I shoved it hard, toppling the load behind us. Barrels split open, brine spilling across the stones, slowing the boots that thundered after us.

A curse, guttural and angry, echoed close.

“They’re not giving up,” I said.

“Good,” Corin muttered. “I was getting bored.”

Despite myself, a short, ragged laugh ripped out of me. That was Corin all over, calm in the face of knives, bored with danger. Maybe that’s why I kept him close.

The alley narrowed, walls pressing in, light dying. We hurdled crates, ducked hanging laundry, tore through the stinking underbelly of Drakemire. Somewhere a dog barked, chained and snarling.

Then, a dead end.

A stone wall, slick with moss, rising high enough to make my stomach sink.

Corin didn’t slow. He just leapt, caught the jagged edge with his fingertips, and hauled himself up with the ease of long practice.

“Come on, rat!” he hissed down at me.

I threw myself at the wall, boots scrabbling on stone, hands catching where he had been. My muscles screamed, breath tearing my throat raw. For a heartbeat, I thought I’d fall, then Corin’s hand clamped my wrist and yanked me up.

We rolled over the top together, landing hard on the other side. Cobblestones bruised my ribs, but I was moving before the pain settled.

Shouts echoed behind. The Guild had found the wall.

Corin grabbed my arm. “Move!”

We staggered down another alley, smoke thickening in the air. The tannery was close now. The smell hit first, sharp, sour, choking.

I glanced back just once, just long enough to see a red cloak’s head and shoulders rise above the wall.

His eyes locked on mine.

And he grinned.

The grin stuck with me as we ran wide, jagged, hungry. Guild men didn’t chase for fun. They chased to hurt. To make an example.

The tannery district swallowed us in a haze of smoke and stench. Hides boiled in vats big enough to drown in, the air thick with ash and lime. My eyes watered, my throat burned raw. Every breath was a punishment.

Corin ducked under a sagging archway, pulling me with him. “Here.”

We skidded into a courtyard littered with half-scraped hides, stretched taut on racks. Flies swarmed the skins, buzzing thick enough to sound like a storm.

That’s when I heard their boots close. Too close.

The red cloaks stepped into the courtyard, smoke curling around them. Two of them, just like Corin had counted. One bald with a scar slicing across his cheek, the other thickset with a broken nose that hadn’t healed right. Guild blades glinted in their hands, short and curved, meant for gutting more than dueling.

The bald one grinned wider than before. “Thought you could outrun us, rats?”

Corin eased a knife from his coat, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet. His voice was level. “We weren’t running. Just didn’t want to get blood on the bread.”

The thickset Guild man spat in the dirt. “Mouthy little shit.”

I felt my pulse hammering in my ears. My own knife was slick in my palm. Running was over.

“Coin,” the bald one said, pointing his blade at me. “Hand it over, maybe we don’t slit your throats.”

I almost laughed. Coin was never what the Guild wanted. Not from rats like us. What they wanted was fear.

Corin’s lips twitched into that almost-smile of his. “You first.”

And then it broke.

The scarred Guild man lunged. Corin sidestepped, quick as a whisper, his blade flashing. The steel caught his flesh, a line of red slashed across the Guild man’s arm. He howled, stumbling back.

The thickset one came at me. He swung wide, blade arcing for my gut. Instinct kicked in. I dropped low, the blade whistling over my head, and drove my knife upward. It caught under his ribs, not deep but enough to make him grunt and stumble.

Blood sprayed hot across my hand.

“Malrik!” Corin barked.

I twisted, ripping free just as the scarred one charged again. He slammed into me hard enough to rattle my bones, knife scraping against my coat. We hit the ground, rolling in the dirt, his breath sour and heavy in my face.

I shoved, kicked, anything to break free. His blade nicked my cheek, a hot sting of pain blossoming. He snarled like an animal, trying to pin me.

Then Corin was there, boot slamming into the Guild man’s jaw. The crunch was sickening. The man dropped, limp, blood pooling under his head.

The thickset one staggered up, clutching his side, eyes burning with hate. “You little…”

He didn’t finish. Corin’s knife sank into his throat, quick and clean.

The Guild man made a wet gurgling noise, staggered back a step, then crumpled among the hides.

The courtyard went quiet, except for the flies.

I was breathing hard, chest heaving, my cheek burning where the blade had kissed me. My hands shook, the knife slick in my grip.

Corin stood over the bodies, calm as ever. His coat was splattered red, his knife steady in his hand. He looked down at the corpses like they were nothing more than butchered meat.

“Sloppy,” he said flatly.

I barked a laugh I didn’t feel. “I was busy not dying.”

“Try harder next time.”

The stink of blood mixed with the tannery fumes, turning my stomach. I wiped my knife on my coat, though it didn’t help much.

Two Guild men were dead. That was worse than stealing coin. That was war.