Private Ride or Die

The old lady Poxwife stood before him, barefoot on old planks that creaked. Watching as her tea burned its truth into his bones. Her hands draped at her sides, loose, languid, as if boneless, her fingers moving like they remembered silk sheets and sin. One step, and her hips swayed not like an old woman, but like a courtesan. She laughed, low in her throat. A rasp smeared with honey.

And then... she danced. The sway of a priestess, half-drunk on wine and prophecy. Her robes dropped from one shoulder, slipping with no shame. A woman shouldn’t glide like that on legs so crooked. Yet she did. One bony hand lifted the hem of her skirts. Her feet scuffed softly on the floor, spreading crushed herbs and old teeth with every step. Her voice hummed low in her throat, a lullaby or a curse.

And in a blink...

She was young. Ravishing. Skin like ivory, eyes like storm clouds in spring. Golden hoops swung at her ears, and her mouth was the color of ripe plums. Her hair spilled down her back like black oil. She turned, and the candlelight kissed her bare throat... no pox, no rot, no decay.

And in a blink...

The now returned. She was old again. Sick. Too thin. Pox scars blooming like wilted roses along her throat. One breast exposed, slack, flat and yellowed, with a tattoo of some ancient sigil inked into the fold beneath it. Still, she moved. Still, she swayed. The movement didn’t stop. It stayed fluid. Seductive.

And in a blink...

She had no face. She was bone. Hollowed and grinning. A skull where her face should be, sockets dark and deep. Breasts withered to nothing. Her pelvis just a cage. But the grave had its own seduction and her hips still moved. Still a temptress that had danced through hundreds dreamings before this. The twitching skeleton straddled him, leaned forward, and poked a bony finger into the middle of his forehead.

Then, Zalan would feel pressure. Right between his brows. Like fingers pushing outward from the inside of his skull. A hot line traced up from the base of his spine to the crown of his head. Then stabbed forward. His vision would blur, not from loss, but from gain. Only clarity. A single slit of sight, vertical and weeping light. He would see truth behind truth, the strings that bound men like meat puppets.

And voices that didn’t belong in this world would whisper welcome as the Poxwife kissed his temple. Let her tongue linger. She wheezed a chuckle, thick with phlegm and pleasure, then wiped her glistening fingers down the front of her skirts with a slow, satisfied smear. Bones creaked as she crawled back toward her nest of blankets and bottles.

"Girl…!" she croaked. "If he wanders past this terrace, you watch his heels. Dreams’ve eaten many men...” she whispered. “But I liked the look of this one."

The floors burned away. The Walls burned away. Every piece of furniture and comfort turned to bright flame. Red, orange, gold, green, blue, and white. Up to ash as fingers fanned and and twist and turned across scars and knots, sweat and dried up blood trails.

A laugh. There in his throat. In his ear. Betwixt his ribs where it had stung to the point of twist. Sweet as honey. Despite the ragged breath that shook through him. Rattled his bones.

Smoke. Blue as the sky painted across the underbelly of so many clouds rolled overhead. Feint visions of a crone, set to shift. Set to move. With all the whip and stir of winds that twirled and gust about the dust and the sands. Sounds too familiar.

Take now sweet child
That glow that turns smile
Across your golden face
To that sweet and honeyed place

A voice sang, too clear in his ear.

Come the dance of a young woman. Eyes full of rain, with gold dazzling about the shake and turn of hips twist and foots shuffle. Lips like fruit, full and heavy on the branch. He wanted to eat. Hair that tumbled and shook like midnight. He wanted to pull. Throat pale as the moons. He wanted to choke. Where his lips were red scarlet. His fingers kissed sunlight, poured through amber.

A cough. Full of phlegm and heavy lungs. His hands warm about a cup. Ceramic and blue. Just a hint of green. Shift, rippled, changed there beneath the golden drink. Bloomed with the clouds of cream that spread from where the pour had dropped into its surface.

"Bhut," the old voice came from the haze. A hand, heavy with its love, reached out through the haze. Wanting to touch. Whatever dared reach out to meet it. Eyes near blind. Lungs too full of fluid.

Where the winds do take you,
Where the cinders fly through,
The midnight plum,
The beating drum.

Burned away in a fire, that had not to do with all the dances he had learned. All the beats of the tabla that had guided him beneath the moons.

And in a blink...

In the hole. There beneath the wood. There to see his name. Carved Line by line. After sweat filled nightmare had poured out of him. Wet. Stinking. Ammonia choked his breath.

Eyes not so different. Brown as well brewed tea. Brown as black walnut. There as sagged skin shift about muscle and bone. Breast shift, yellow and marked with old image, just tease beneath the sway.

Hands reached out to grab. To move. To test if any of this was real. If he still stood there, in the room, so full of orange scented oils and sweet smoke that fucked the pain away. Fingers tried. The wood. The carving. The scars. The bone there beneath the wrist. The breast, yellowed and flat. Squeezed. Gripped. Didn't stop. Seduced.

And in a blink...

The world had burned away. Stacks set to blaze. His own legs had turned to ash. Withered and gone as he fell. A skeleton danced and more beside him. Grabbed breasts that were not there. Felt at ribs. Pressed at the space betwixt bone. Felt the pressure build. As bones straddled what was left. Weight bared down to bury him.

Into the muck he sank. Fields he had walked across. Stormed across. Burned across. To burn again. Storm again. Walk again. Until he could walk no more. Legless. Flesh burned away. All within turned to smolder and ash as the skeleton writhed and shift and danced upon him. Pressed fingers between his brows.

Bone gave way. Light poured out. And he could see his bones there upon the smoldering earth. White against the black.

Wet press against the skinless skull. Warm as it was. Laugh as it did. dipped down deep and hollowed him out in wet mess. Sticky. Hot. Mess.

Across the ashes of that field. Green sprouted from.

Eyes wide and seeing it all. Zalan gaped. Looked down at his pants. Out to the door as the Lady Poxwife nestled ack beneath her nest. Walked toward to light of the terrace. Toward the smell of citrus, and pigeon shit.

"Yo, I need a fucking bath," he muttered. Stumble step, after wide eyed, dilated stumble step.

She heard him before she saw him, footsteps like they belonged to someone else, staggering and wide.

And there he was...

Silk was perched on the crumbling ledge like a gargoyle, boot swinging over the edge. Orange peel coiled beneath, a discarded ribbon. She licked juice from her fingers, watching Zalan with an arched brow. He looked… cracked. Halfway between shatter and shine. His eyes blown wide.

"Yo, I need a fucking bath,"

The thief snorted. Tore off another wedge of orange and flicked it lazily at him. It smacked his chest and slid down the damp fabric. Vendik was gone. He never stuck around when the Dream-tea done its work. Left others to gather the pieces.

"Yeah?" she said, voice dry as salt. She stood in one easy motion, boots scraping on the stone as she dropped from the ledge. Landed soft. Always did. She sized him up. Pupils dilated. Still seeing stars, probably. The thief stepped close. Close enough to smell the sweat, the faint, threaded reek of prophecy on him. She peeled another wedge from the fruit, popped it into her mouth.

“You coming, seer?” she asked, lazy grin curling. Without thinking, she held out her hand, palm open, steady. Guiding him away from the terrace.

Behind them, the Poxwife hummed lullabies, mixing with the chirping of cicadas in the warm evening.

He looked like something wild now, something scorched and sacred and not all the way come back from whatever fucking edge he’d just looked over. The light caught in the sweat along his throat. And his eye, gods, his eyes, still mirrored the flame he’d drunk in that room. Still open to the world in a way she wasn’t seeing.

The tips of his fingers ghosted over her wrist, a light graze against skin gone strange with smoke and vine. It would bruise, sure, but so had a hundred other things in this life. And most of them hadn’t meant half as much. It was the first time it ever felt like someone held on because they didn’t want her to leave. That is rarer than gold in this city. She would take that, even if it stings.

“Don’t fret it. Bit of pain’s nothing,” she murmured, thumb brushing his fingers. The weight of the whole damn world folded into just some words. “I liked how hard you held.”

It wasn’t the sting that stayed with her, it was the grip. The need in it. The kind of hold that didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Like grabbing a ledge before the fall, not caring if the rock cuts hands bloody. That was what she felt in his fingers. That kind of desperation. That kind of want. The thief had been held down before, by guards, by rivals and ghosts of her own mistakes, but never like that. Never like someone was trying to keep her in the world.

Silk exhaled slow, guiding them down through the Ember District once more.

---

Her pace was sure, dodging wine-blind gamblers and laughing working girls with easy grace. Past the howls of dice games and the crackle of late oil lamps guttering out on balconies. She didn’t speak as they walked. Not until the steam began to rise.

“Almost there.” she murmured.

The bathhouse stood crooked between two boarded-up brothels, its tiled dome soot-stained, its sigils half-worn by time and fingers. Tarlan’s, they called it, though nobody remembered who Tarlan was. A teal curtain flapped outside the doorway, expensive silk once, long since turned stained by algae and moist. Steam curled up beneath it, curling around their ankles like a dog waiting to be let back in. Vines had taken root around the frame, pushing in through cracks like curious fingers.

---

A wave of hot air, heavy with lavender and salt, greeted them. Inside, the bathhouse was its own world. Warm, wet, humming with whispers and low laughter. Tiled mosaics climbed the walls in the shapes of mythical beasts and broken empires.

It was old, older than it looked from the outside. Time had stained every inch of the tilework and wood, and the air was sour with mineral sweat and stranger things.

Behind a polished slab of basalt that served as the counter stood Orios, tall, lean, and with the long face of a snake that had learned manners. His robe hung loose on his frame, open enough to see the tattoos winding up his ribs and around his throat. His dark curls were pulled back in a tight knot, glistening with oil and sweat, and a thin silver chain draped across his collarbones.

When he looked up and saw Silk, his expression barely shifted. But when his gaze landed on Zalan, something darker curled beneath his eyes.

“Well, fuck me blind.” Orios murmured, leaning his forearms on the basalt slab, silver rings stacked like knucklebones, one thumb idly tracing the dried scorch mark burned into the surface where someone once made the mistake of saying no. His mouth curving into a cruel little smile. “The Ember's golden mongrel. You bringing him in here, girl?” He reached under the counter, drew out a pair of grey linen cloths. Dropped them down like scraps for dogs. “Is he paying, or you?” Orios smile going sour. “’Cause the Cabal never does, girl. They walk in like gods and leave their debts in blood and silence.”

Warm across the long bones, cool across the knuckles. "Damn," he said weightless at the sight and sound of her. Grounded by the touch of her. Head all, sway in the dream of her. "Can't go saying things like that," his fingers twined about the tip of her thumb. Let it run up to the web between them. Soft in how they squeezed her between each knuckle.

All branches twined about about the wind's caress.

"Seer, and liking how I held," he thought it all over. Felt the things churn inside of him as they glided down the way. All patterns like the braided bark down a tree's trunk. "Gonna make my head get big," almost a laugh.

Still heard the doves cooing in the rafters. Feathers falling in the sun, and dried shit, earthy, mixed with sharp tang.

"Last thing I want is to be just another hurt,"

---

The streets were ablaze with shadows. Tongues of color that dashed across the canvas of so many shades of black. Tongues of gold, he knew too well, flickered and waved their sultry invitation.

Wanted to be touched. Wanted to be spread. Pulled apart and let to run, while lushes of plum bounced round and clumsy about them. Rose colored girls, all flower and thorn, with laughs like sharp curves on hidden knives.

Then the kiss of warmth on his nose. The stickiness of water, come boiled up.

"Almost there,"

His hand gave hers a squeeze. Bones real. Scars real. He just, had to keep walking. This was all real.

Even as the bricks along the way shimmered with the dance of prancing tigers. The flight of hawks, and the race of dogs.

Ripped and tore at each other.

The snap of tealed silk on the wind brought his eyes back. Her hand still in his. Her arm still strong as she lead him. Feet sure. Ducking them in to this place, so claimed by curling vines that all but pushed away those rampant beasts that raced toward the domed bathhouse.

"Tarlan's," he murmured under his breath. "Trouble,"

In they went.

Was mostly on fumes when he was met by the real vapors. Scent more than enough to ground him. All crisp tang and flowery sweetness. Too easy as it was. Voices bounced off walls. Too clear in his ears.

His eyes traced the mosaics. Watched the beasts furl and shake. Griffins. Winged Lions. Three headed jackals. And dragons long dead. Snarled and hissed and flared about split pomegranate, and golden chalices, still bright when the light caught them just right.

Looked to the desk and found a familiar face. "Shit,"

Didn't let go, but he did hide his face some with the angle of his look. Knew it didn't do any good. Let breath spill as he chuffed. Felt the tea kick through his blood with another pulse of his heart.

"Always did like the way you spun the yarn, Orios," thumbed his chin some as he let his hand slip. "Golden mongrel, huh?" bent down to one knee and picked up the cloths, and snapped them over his wrist. Dug into his boot while low. "That one's new,"

Felt the ground swallow him up.

Saw Kherric, back when he was still under the bastard. Looming over his shoulder. Orios, right there behind the desk. Wide eyed and steps away.

Fhigli's dark curls gripped tight between his fingers. Kid right pissed himself when the white flame sparked near his eyes. Right there, at the end of Zalan's fingers. Pointer and middle. Aimed down at the desk.

Rock slag and basalt smoke flying off where the flame ate away.

Was glad when he had heard the kid hadn't gone completely blind. Not for good, anyhow. Smiled nice and big, neath the blue haze of Low-Harbor.

Shook his head as he pulled a string of heavy silvers from his boot. Slapped them on the desk with a weird smile on his face. "Don't worry, Orios," he said, shit eating. "Silk's got my leash good and tight,"

The tattooed man watched Zalan dust off his ghosts. “New?” Orios finally said, words rolling out slow. “No, Zalan. That name’s old now." His mouth twitched.

"You think I gave you that name?” A chuckle, all wet and rotten. “You earned it. Burned it into the Kherric’s face 'when your blood got loud.” Like the years had carved his name into the scorched basalt Zalan once melted. “You had fire once. But here you are now... spun-out and eyes full of dream smoke. Fucking fireborn and fucked up." He just forward, leaning on his elbows, watching Zalan the way a snake watches a frog that thinks it's already too big to be swallowed.

Orios didn’t flinch as the coins were slammed down in front of him. The steam curled up from a brass vent at the base of the desk, bleeding heat like a wound that wouldn’t clot. His mouth pulled into something like a grin, but there was no joy in it. His gaze flicked to Silk, and it shifted. Didn’t soften, just changed like a man remembering the rules of a game no one plays fair. He licked his lips once, slow. Let the silence stretch, then...

"Hope that leash holds, Silk."

Then the coins disappeared from the desk without Orios never seeming to move. Gone. As if swallowed by the scorched stone itself. A hiss of breath in the vents. “Go on. Get clean. See if it helps.”

“Hey,” he said as Silk started to walk away, voice like gravel rolled in honey, “You know the rules.” He pointed lazily, two fingers like a warning. “No steel past the arches. Not even yours, Thief.”

---

Tarlan’s was old.

Not the kind of old that meant dust and decay, but the kind that meant stories buried behind tiled walls. Layered like the mineral crust on the edge of the marble basins, or the pale ghost-marks of blood and oil that would never quite come out of the floor.

Past the reception. Just a long corridor of mist-choked light and translucent silks hung like veils from the ribs of the building. each strip lit softly by copper lanterns burning low and red. The corridor lead to a single changing chamber, wide and open, though broken up by ornate screens of etched brass. No men’s and women’s sides. Just people and folk of every make, shape, and bend.

“Guess this is where we strip.”

Her tone was light, but her shoulders were tense. She grabbed some of the folded linen cloth from him. Silk paused, fingers to the clasp at her collar. She lingered at the edge of the screen.

You don't leave steel behind in places like this, Nine Lives had taught her.

If Orios words had bothered Zalan any, he didn't right show it.Strange smile still spread wide across his mouth. Teeth still showin. Head bobbin easy with the telling of it.

"Kherric sure did wear it, didn't he?" he almost laughed. Head pitched one side, then the other. Looked all sapper, checking for armonium powder and shard dust. "Fireborn and fucked up," he echoed. Teeth still showing. Nod. "That sounds right, yeah," his own voice seemed to shake. Reverberate. Not in his throat, but in the air about his ears. The hair across the whole of him.

Grass in the wind. Pindhi. Jon and Ethel's orange trees shaking their leaves in the wind. Lungs full of an all too different fire. Struck up by pads of feet in the dust and the dirt. Legs burning. Robes flying as the whole world spun to the beat of old and honored drums.

Shoved off, and made for the baths. Gave a one finger salute to the snake. Middle and long over his shoulder. "Be catchin ya, Orios,"

One way or the other.

Footsteps like pond skimmers against stone that turned to glassed water.

---

Passed the corridor, and through the phantasmal veils and the glowing lamps, he could still hear the fire's song.

There in the flicker of the lantern's red glow. Like the faintest beat of a heart he could feel through the tips of his fingers. One hand about his bruised neck. Finger's on his pulse.

Fireborn? Or firefucked?

He sucked on the tip of his canine as he eyed the eyes that eyed them. Saw them glow and twist in the shadows. Dash against the walls where he had seen some of that red paint spilled and sprayed and smeared. Let his hand fall.

Memories, still blurring with the dregs of that tea. Fucking rules didn't mean a lick then. Didn't mean a lick now. Everyone took what they could, and held on until they couldn't.

Lullabies, and cackles mixed with the dances and the wet mess. He huffed a cooler breath.

"One hell of a granny you got," he said idly. Something softer about his brow. Heard the people mill about.

Normal talk. Laughs. Whispers. Grunts. Whatever they were outside this place. The water would wash them all the same.

Shook his head. Eyes on what mattered as he stepped behind a screen. "What, you nervous?" he teased. Grin come shine through the haze. Hands already working out of his shirt. Peeled it off easy. Night old bandages still hugged at him. Skin sweat shone, and grime ridden. He sniffed at himself. Face all scrunched as he shook his head sharp. "Guess I would be too, walkin next to all this," he laughed.

Snapped the shirt over one shoulder, and put his paws on her shoulders. "I'd give ya a rub to make it easier, but you know," he keened his chin over his shoulder. "I'm a right mess, and that water ain't soundin too bad," curl and teeth, and playful invitation.

“Glad you liked her.” Whatever passed between him and the old woman had opened some door he hadn’t closed.

“You’re welcome to visit her, y’know. Anytime you want.” His breathing sounded off. Too open. She knew why, he had been marked by the old woman’s delirious attentions. Curiosity, lust, or hallucination.

“Nervous?” A scoff. Her shoulders stayed high, even as his hands came down on them. “Not unless you start asking for toe rubs.” But the tightness in her jaw stayed. Deep inside her gut, that old pickpocket’s instinct coiled, always nervous. Not used to someone else drawing the bath. The sound of coin that never changed hands. The too-smooth voice of Orios.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she muttered, barely above breath. “I’m not the one who had a stare down with Nine Lives and drank Poxwife tea.”

She slipped behind one of the carved wooden screens, its lacquer chipped and its floral motif long faded to memories of cherry blossoms. Didn’t matter how many bodies were here, some shaved, some scarred, some curiously marked by ink or bruises. She didn’t let her eyes linger. Didn’t want theirs on her, either. Not more than they already were. Underneath all layers of crusty thief gear was muscle corded lean and tight, all whipcord tension and old bruises. A webwork of faded scars trailed across her ribs and back, places where other blades had tried, and failed, to finish the job.

Her armor and clothing peeled off in stiff layers. Grime-crusted, blood-flecked, still wet in spots. She stripped with quick, efficient motions. Tunic off. Yeah, she’d be lifting someone else’s on the way out. Trousers next. Leather harness untied, the weight of her belt and buckles dropping to the bench with a quiet clink. She hesitated over the certain straps, bracers, inner knives, boots and sheaths. Every item taken off felt like being asked to go blind into a dark room and pretend there was no blade at your throat. Her fingers paused over the smallest one, curved like a viper’s fang. A little thing. Quick to vanish.

She stared at the linen robe they’d been given. Whiter than anything she had ever owned. Cleaner too. Still, she wrapped it tight, knotted it low on her hip, and slipped the curved dagger into the folds. Making sure no glint of metal would betray her. She breathed in deep, steam and scented oils, something musky beneath the rosewater. Her nose wrinkled. Her fingers went through her hair. She stepped out from the screen barefoot, soles arching against the mosaic tiles.

---

On their way to the pools, they passed a trio lounging along a marble bench, limbs draped like cats in a sunbeam. One of them looked up, clocked Zalan, and gave the barest dip of the chin. A kind of acknowledgment, the kind given to dangerous men.

Another Ember, Silk thought.

The great pool at the heart of Tarlan’s. A sprawl of milky turquoise water sunk into ancient marble, its surface glowing soft from lanterns hung above like stars. Flower petals floated along the surface, roses, chamomile, and some sharp-sweet citrus that caught in the back of the throat. Spices, too, cinnamon bark and clove, and something stranger. There was side-pools, smaller things built for whispered exchanges and smothered laughter.

On the mist-slick mosaics, painted beasts drank forever from sacred wells. "Where do you want to go?"

"Well shit, there goes that fancy," he played to. Noticed how she kept all tight. Nudged her some with the side of his brow. "I don't need to do nothin," he said, easy as his his hands worked at some of the tension in her chords. Light, and careful not to grab too hard. But with weight. "And all that tea, and blade talk aint going to stop me from wantin to care for you," gave up the job, with how twisted up he had gotten just thinking of all the shit that could've gone wrong.

But things had changed. Something clicked. And he wasn't sure how they could go back. For all the death and ruin he had seen in the dream. She was all flowers and green vines, still growing and twisting there before his eyes. Beneath his hands. The stones she stepped on, sprouting with new life.

And it all died just the same as she turned away. Turned to ash by unseen flames.

Warm trails on his hands, like they'd run through good dirt. Rubbed his thumb against his forefinger. Dust like red rust. Turned black. Turned Purple. Turned technicolor like armonium charges. Sniffed at it. Laughed.

"Well shit," he said to himself. Looked over at the eyes that watched him. Gave them a raise of the chin, and a cheeky grin. Shimmied out of his trousers right then and there.

Had walked into that shit Hunter's Den with nothing but his ink on him. Even left the lenses back at the Card.

Undid his bandages. Touched the fresh scar at his side. Where she'd dug her finger into to get her name out of his lips. Watched how little green schutes poked out from the scabbing red.

A darker shade than the ink on the back of his palms. That line of old traditions, needled into him when he was just a kid too scared to dance for the fire.

"Been a while since i thought on that one,"

Eyes flicked to the the slap of barefeet, sound barely there over the everything else. Saw the green sprouting neath bares toes. Tickling arches. Looked up those lines of her legs like braided steel. Dumb look on his face. Lip curled like a knife too happy to be free. "Well shit,"

---

Zalan's eyes narrowed as they saw the dipped hello. Skull of a face, snarling like a henna painted tiger's maw. Flickering and fluttering like fire's tongues. Just a slight tilt of the chin up to the man.

Benni.

Fucking Benni was Raker. Intel gatherer. Just as likely to sell you down the river, as they were to give you the drop on good jobs. Least, the ones that weren't in his crew or on the list. Proper vetted. And Benni sure as shit wasn't a Salamander.

Was hard though. Staying keen with all the steam smelling like a garden, sweeter than sin.

Where do you want to go?

His eyes scanned about. The dream of glittering tiles, slick with steam, and glazed with glory from a bygone era. His eye caught the beast, tongue dipped into one of the private wells.

A three headed jackal.

The old beast called to him. Teeth bared with all their promise. And he snarled back. Let his eyes wander as they moved. Saw something that made him smile.

He nod his head toward it. "Over there,"

A side pool. Guarded by a salamander, all wreathed in fire as it slithered its head down to the waters. Flowers and vines tangled with the tongues of orange and gold. Eyes bright with green.

Let his towel fall at the edge of the pool. Lines of Aghni's path traced down his spine, in a band just above his hips, then down in curled wrap that followed the sides of his thigh, twist unto the well of the muscle just above his knee, wrapped behind calf, and shackled around his ankle in a band of arterial red.

Seals of an old dead language painted by the stab of bone needle and armonium ink scrawled over the bones of his feet. Just as they were at the base of his spine, and their between his shoulders and under his wrists.

Disappeared into the milky water with his first step, then second. Rolled his neck, and rubbed some of the soreness out from where the ache from the dead man's hands still lingered. Still bruised.

Pushed a breath out through his teeth and sank into the water. All the way down. Liked how the heat kissed him all stingy up front. All over. Popped out and groaned all delight and relief as the water washed over him.

Squeezed the water out of his eyes as he laughed. "Shit, that's good," Turned to find Silk. "Well?" he asked, all grinning as he let himself sink back and float in the hot scented bath. "Ain't gonna leave me to stew bymself, are ya?" a bounce of the brows as the water trickled out from a spout in the wall.

She followed Zalan toward the pool, the heat rising off the water as a thick breath. The tiles underfoot were slick with moisture and years, veined in green algae and gold from the old glaze. The air was so warm it made her skin hum.

When Zalan let his towel drop and stepped into the water, she caught the sight of the tattoos along his skin, those curling bands of ink that wrapped him and wound down his body like a flame. She stared, jaw tightening. “Those marks...” she said, voice soft, almost careful. “Nine Lives told me all the flame keepers were dead.” She didn’t mean it as accusation. Her gaze flicked from his tattoos to his eyes, searching. “Guess he was wrong...”

"Ain't gonna leave me to stew bymself, are ya?"

"You already half cooked, Zalan" she said with a smirk. The thief stood at the pool’s edge, untying her robe slowly and wary, strangers moved like ghosts behind veils of vapor. She wasn’t about to bare herself to any of them. The linen fell around her in a very unnatural precision. When the fabric slipped, she had the dagger in her hand for the briefest heartbeat. A flick of one wrist, a shift of fabric, and the blade vanished into the folds of the cloth, all piled neatly very close to the poolside.

Then she stepped in. The water struck hot, biting, and she hissed through her teeth as the heat climbed her legs. There was no hiding what she was. Fucking dirty. As clean as a dozen nights of running and sleeping next to rats.

Her body was carved out of hunger. Lean. Hard. Sinew and sharpness where softness should’ve been. Dirt lived beneath her nails, in the cracks of her knuckles, along the small of her back, collarbones, and elbows. Her hair hung matted. Her body was lean and hard as wire, an acrobat’s muscle, but honed by hunger and not luxury. Ropey arms, stomach flat and corded, legs built for running and climbing, and kicking her way out of tight corners. Old scars crossed her like cartographer’s lines. Her skin was like a ledger of debts. Silver trails where blades had kissed too close, where glass had bitten deep, where a whip had licked her and stayed too long. Burns at the ankles, healed shiny.

There was grace there, but the kind born out of a thief's survival, and not art or pedigree. She sank to her shoulders. “Almost forgot what clean feels like.” Her gaze flicked up through the curls of steam, found his. As someone who had never drunk the Poxwife's brew, she had to ask. “So, what’s the tea showin’ you then?”

"Nine lives told me all the flame keepers were dead..."

"More than one way to kill a thing," Zalan said, voice lined with a hurt that echoed through the ages. Time remembered in his spine. Through the coil spun about his fingertips. "Not that I went and did much to keep it alive," he chuffed with a bitter laugh. "My ashes and cinders,"

"You already half cooked, Zalan,"

A low rumble of amusement rolled out of him, like the roil of the river over a crocodile's back. "Here I thought I was crisped," thumbed the meat of his nose. "Ain't too bad then, if I still got a little juice in me," he played along. Watched how she kept the towel raised with the swirl and bunching of silvery haze.

Cute. Like a secret. Just for him in the then and now. The steely glint of a shooting star, traced and winked away. Adding all the more magic to it as she stepped into the pool. Peels of green moss. Tangles of new vines. Leaves and thorns. Pealed right off as she dipped into the pool. Her filth, all that cake of her hard earned life, swirled and mixed with the brine of the bath. All shimmer and pop as flowers and their golden pistols shot out and faded in the same breath.

Watched her dip in, and hide away all the scrawl of her blade bound tale.

Almost forgot what clean feels like.

His lips played up at their corners. Jasper eyes, aglow with the milky bathwater. Turquoise and emerald in shimmers and turns.

"Makes it feel all the better," he let croak from his throat as he leaned his head back, spine bent. Eyes up at the ceiling as the water buoyed him. The steam curling. His ears warmer and warm as he water beat about the edge of his chest, and pulsed to the beat of his heart. Slow thumping in his chest. "Even when every part of you might feel like it never knew how, or doesn't deserve it," laughed. "Feeling clean,"

Mists swirled around them.

Figures encroached about the edges. Stalked, like wild dogs surrounding prey about the grasslands.


Her words echoed off the walls. What did the tea show him? Held his hand up to his eyes. "Price I gotta pay," he said. Simple as the truth. Fingers all white bone. Snaked by vines that bloomed and blossomed. Rooted in the iron of his marrow. "For things some part of me seems to want,"

"Funny seeing you here, Fire Breather," came a voice like old dirt torn up. A laugh like the blood out the scab. "See, after the last time you showed that ugly mug of yours," eyes snapped to the towel at the edge of the pool. Kicked it clear, knife spun out. One of the others from the mist.

"Kherric," Zalan said with a sure smile. "Course you would be here,"

A laugh from the other man as he bent low to the pool. Pulled his own knife from the towel still round his waste. "Well you know, how us old Jackals have trouble letting old bones lay, Mongrel,"

"Yeah," he croaked. "Sure do," float on like a cooked piece of meat beneath the spilling Salamander spout.