"Quiet's good," he followed step. Lighter for all the shit they had just left behind them in that hole. Might miss the Mash though. He mussed his hair the more, before he combed it back with his fingers, steps on the path.

Quiet.

For all the little sounds that played about them. Even the rats scrabbling about brick to brick, almost sounded sweet. Might have just been the burnt sugar playing with his head. Or the lingering taste of honey is mouth. Smell of her on his whiskers.

Breath fell. Almost easy.

Tenser through the Ember District.

If only because he didn't want some Ember to catch site of him. Worse, one of the Salamanders.

This way.

Guide was good though. He smiled at that as he ducked under the archway. Up the stairs. Watching how she took those steps. Put her back into the door, he shouldered in right next to her. Stubborn thing groaned open. Before he turned to see the sights, he shoved the door back to being shut. Turned, and felt the tickle of bright herbs feather about his nose. Breath kissed with tart citrus as his eyes took it all in.

"Little piece of paradise," he found himself saying, set to amble. Caught in some dream.

The sprawl of orange roots, and the faces on the frescos he had walked up to. Traced the tips of his fingers across to feel the dust gather there. A lady dancer, less dusty for it.

A cough. Sounded like an old ghost long burned out, and the memory shivered down his spine. Froze him in his tracks.

She don't care... Can't even take the stairs anymore.

Zalan turned about to find her. "How's she eat?"
 
A three-legged chair sat askew near the balustrade. Someone had once set up to drink here, long before time and sickness took the house. Her eyes lingered on the rusted iron table, the empty goblet overturned on it. The copper guttering had long since corroded to green. Birds nested somewhere under the roofing tiles, their songs faint under the constant drip-drip of a cracked cistern. Silk leaned a hip to the wall, watching him roam. There was something soft in her mouth, but it wasn’t fully a smile.

Places like this were meant to be kept. Safe. Quiet. Secret. She had never brought anyone here before. Not even Spider. Not the sharp boys she use to run with.

And yet.
She'd brought him here. Zalan. The Emberic Cabal.
Another of her safe places, just handed over like a coin across a palm.
She wasn’t sure why.

Silk dragged in a breath, tasted the old stone, the dried orange, the memory of perfume clinging to walls. Maybe she would regret this. She had been raised knowing better than to show anyone the cracks in her world. The places you went when you needed air. But her steps had led him here all the same. She didn't know if it was trust or some sickness inside her. Or something worse.

Don’t regret it, thief.

“She manages,” she said after a beat. “Mostly drinks her brews these days.” Her gaze flicked to the terrace door behind him, then away again. She pushed off the wall, bootsteps slow over roots as she crossed the terrace toward him, the citrus air catching in her throat. The Poxwife had once entertained here, during the days she had not been called The Powwife. That much was obvious. There were little traces, the velvet cushion long turned to moth-eaten scraps, the gold filigree once gilding the terrace railing now dulled but still visible where the grime hadn’t claimed it.

She stepped over a big, brown root and dropped herself down onto a ledge of stone. She pulled a stolen wineskin from her coat. Worked the cork loose with a soft pop. "It's safe enough, Zalan." The city noise faded under the sound of slow-dripping water from the broken fountain. The breeze moved through the orange tree, and the sharp and sweet scent of crushed rind carried across the terrace. She tipped the wineskin to her lips. Let it pool in her mouth a moment before she swallowed, the wine was sour.
 
She manages... Mostly drinks her brews these days,

A lull. Full with the tink and trickle of water. The soft coos of collared doves. Calling and singing sweet to each other in nests made soft between the hard spaces. Dusty grey down scattered about the floor.

He always did like doves.

"Manages, huh?" Something like concern. Still too taught to be tender. His eyes shift from where he had heard the cough, and found Silk, all easy stalk over the roots. Dry leaves and orange rinds, bright behind her. Speckled and dusted with sunlight, and all the little glitters of gold that traced about the place.

She settled down. Popped a cork.

"It's safe enough, Zalan."

The scratch and shift of birds against tile. A lullaby, far older than the Fell. Along with the winds that rustled through the brittle leaves. Orange oils bright on the nose.

"No doubt," he said softer. Watched her drink. Saw the mark he had left on her wrist just as her lips pulled from the skin. Turned his eyes away. "You brought us here,"

And that made more sense than anything.

He stepped easy about the uneven tiles. Mindful about the roots and cracks. He went and sat down behind her. Ass on a gnarled root. Spied the old fruit hanging in the branches. "You ever talk to her?" his eyes shift to the bark he sat on. Fingered the raises of the tigered pattern. Felt the striped grooves beneath the treads of his tips, where the grey mottles and whites of wear hadn't smoothed things down too far. "Have tea?"
 
“Sometimes.” she said, after a pause. The word came like it had been weighed first. A thumb pressed against the side of the wineskin, just to feel the give of it. Her eyes stayed on the fountain, where the green water shivered in a breeze and caught the memory of sun in strange ways. “... when she’s clear enough to know who I am.” Another sip. Smaller now. This time, she offered him the skin with a tilt of her wrist.

“When I was small, too small to be of use and Vendik got in too deep…” A shrug that wasn’t a shrug. “He’d leave me here. With her. I think she’s his mother. Or was. He never said it outright. But…” Why else would he leave his children here?

“She don’t talk much now. But she used to. About the old days. Fancy clients. Jewels. Honeyed skin and silk sheets.” Things she did not understand back then. A laugh.

"There’s a man who comes by sometimes. Sea-scars, stinks of kelp. Leaves her a bunch of poppies every time.” She turned her head a little, just enough to catch the sight of Zalan under the orange tree. “She pretends she don’t know who he is. But her voice always gets sweeter when he's here.” Silk watched the doves. Listened to the old sounds of the terrace. The brittle rustle of citrus leaves, the drip of the sick fountain’s water, the creak of terracotta cooling under shade.

The thief shifted, leaned herself back against him.

“If you… wanna talk to her, you can. She’s in there.”

She nodded, slightly, toward the far wall, toward the window with its warped, sun-bleached shutters pulled tight. The faintest curl of blue smoke still drifted out from somewhere inside. “…Don’t breathe in the haze, though.” Whatever the Poxwife was burning... it was not just herbs.
 
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The skin offered. The skin taken. Warm and sour as it was, just by smelling it. He put it up to his lips as he listened on. Filled his mouth to full when he heard the name Vendik.

Fucking Nine Lives?

Some red spilled over. Splashed on the tile beneath him. Gulped down the drink still in his mouth with a rasp. Settled. Wiped his lip off. Corked the skin. Brushed the rest out from the scraggle of his beard. Didn't say a thing. Just went on listening to all the things she gave up. Scared at how right it all felt, settling down in the pit of him.

A mother. Too small to be useful. Clients and poppies. He caught her spying him. Voice sweet as the dove songs. Her eyes stole away. He felt like he had just lost something. Gained more in its wake.

Was a whole other world, right up those damn steps. Fed by the cold drop of cool water. He thumbed the wineskin.

She rest on him. Heavy, for all the light steps she always took. Fit easy.

If you... wanna talk to her, you can. She's in there

He looked over the ashen strands of her hair. Twist to have her back against the well of his chest. Chin about her shoulder. He followed the point of her nose. Saw the blue smoke curling. Twisting. He knew it well enough. Danced with the stuff himself. In a den far less sweet than this.

"I don't even know what I would say," he confessed. Voice small as the ember at the end of incense. "Hello, Lady Poxwife," it rumbled with a bit of playful heat, "Ma'am, I'm crashing here on account of," half laughed at it. Shook his head. "Your granddaughter," soft as the breeze. Rest his head there in the crook of her neck. Cooed. "She stabbed my ass something good, and probably saved me from Will fucking Vinolan," nudged. "Guess I can say something like that?"
 
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The thief huffed a low laugh as his little ember voice. “Say nothing. Flash a smile. Tell her you’ve no coin but plenty of bad decisions. That’s the kind of men she wasted her youth on.”

Silk shifted just enough to look up at him, her lips twitching at his half-laugh. Her lips curved into a coy smile as she glanced toward the shuttered window where the Poxwife rested. "She’s a lonely old whore. Spends most of her days listening for the stairs and hoping it’s some lover from sixty years back... If she’s anything, she’d get a kick out of hearing about that. Bet that would spice up her quiet days." Sure, she hoped he wouldn't say anything like that to the dying old woman who Silk thought was her grandmother. But the thief would love to hear him recount their night, something that would’ve made her laugh, maybe blush.

She was just about to nudge him, teasing him to practice that storytelling, when he dropped Vinolan's name. The warmth fled from her eyes, replaced by a sudden cold knot tightening in her gut.

“Vinolan’s got an airship now,” she said softly. Her throat felt dry, rough. "It won’t take him very long to put together a new crew.” She said, hollow as rust. “Not even half of his bastards died when Widow’s Veil went down." She wet her lips, but her mouth tasted of old wine.

"What if I just made us both ghosts?”
 
Tension ran through her quick. Wrong thing for him to say. And all the sweetness coming out of her rusted right up enough to choke on. Soft as she put the fears to air.

A rumble at the base of his throat, come the mention of Widow's Veil. A click of his teeth as he turned his nose away. Spied the dusty sky above them, and thought of all the smoke and haze that swirled about the memory. Fucking mess that was.

What if I just made us both ghosts?

A breath poured out of him cool. Remembered that look in her eye. That twist in his gut. He keened his eye on her.

Wrapped an arm easy about her waist. Let the weight of his head fall on her shoulder. "What if that mucker last night had beat you to mine?" A roll of jaw along the shoulder, head bumped soft against hers. All smoke and iron came off strong from her old coat, stung his nose. Took it in all the more. "What if we got on that ship, and my fire got all twisted in the engine?" He shook his head. No. Arm squeezed what mattered now. Said soft in her ear, like guarding some secret "Wouldn't be here to hear the doves sing. Or smell them old oranges on that tree," he loosed his arm. Sat in the sound of it all.

Her breath. Rising and falling against him.
 
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The thief didn’t like what-ifs. What-ifs got people killed. What-ifs were for dreamers, gamblers, folk who thought they could outwit the gods. And she wasn’t that. She was a knife in a boot and a plan in the moment. She should’ve been, should’ve stayed, sharper than this. All these little soft-lipped maybes never did her any good. A thief doesn’t ask “what if?”, no she asks “how fast?” “how deep?” “who’s watching?” She acts, or she ends up dangling from a noose.

But she’d felt it last night, too. Zalan slowly turned to something she would miss. She had walked off roofs with less hesitation than she was feeling now. She tilted her head back slightly, felt his breath brush the side of her neck, temple brushing his. His arm around her, the weight of him against her shoulder, the way he said that, it cracked something down low in her chest. Where she'd built herself tight and clever.

She let out a sound between a scoff and a sigh. “You're not supposed to say shit like that...” she muttered while her cheeks started to feel warm. Slowly, she slid her arm over his, where it circled her waist. Fingers found his knuckles, callused and warm. She traced them featherlight. Back and forth. Back and forth. Memorizing them for later, in case there wasn’t a later. “Doves, oranges, your voice in my ear, dangerous talk, that.”

She gave his hand a soft squeeze.
 
A squeeze as soft as pigeons twined. Breath come fall right out of him. All hum. Warm as a summer's rhyme. Raw thing.

Buzzed at the edges. Bled. Stung so good. Right through him. Felt sink the toothy points. Eyes like scales of cloud curtains. Promised rain.

All in.

He squeezed back. Soft in how sure his arm snaked around. Fingers fanged gentle. Pressed at those soft places. Underbelly. Hip handle.

Wings on it all the same. Set to fluttering. To that tingle of her fingers still dancing where well worn pads had traced. Trails he would walk across in time.

Keep it in his mind. The sound of it. Her voice, sweet as it was. Glad as it was. She gave that to him.

The whole of it. Soft thumps and heart aches.

His fingers opened wide. Slipped round knuckles. Wanting. "What are you going to do about it," Sunk them into those spaces between his finger, lips traced soft about the line of her neck. "Silk?" Felt a storm about his lips. All orange zest and green remedy.

Pressed them there behind her ear. Soft squish to the bone. Black tangle of scraggle and beard caught in dove colored tresses. Pulled away.

Let hand slip from waist, all drag across leathers and irons. Pushed off the root, and strode toward the shutters. Easy roll of the arm, as his fingers felt about where she had pressed.

Colder as the warmth bled off. A long exhale. Fingers rubbed the smooth ware of the old banyan wood. His fingers found the hold. Pulled the doors open, easy with the jam, and mindful of the smoke.

"Yo," cleared his throat, hand waved away a tempting blue curl. "I mean, hello, ma'am" a little bow at the end of it before he stepped in to the dark heart of it.
 
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The thief leaned into it. Let him curl around her like smoke in a lantern glass. Her body answered before her mouth did, hip shifting to tuck closer, shoulder rising to meet his kiss like it had known it was coming. A slow smile curved her lips. “Mm,” she hummed. Let the sound linger. Felt the scrape of beard and heat of breath. She let her head fall back slightly, just enough to tilt her mouth toward his ear. Whispered low. “Sounds like you like getting into that sort of trouble...”

Silk didn’t follow. She stayed beneath the tree, her shoulder against the root where Zalan had leaned just moments before. She stared at the door he’d gone through but made no move to rise. She could warn him... maybe she should? But what would that change?

The room stank of licorice, clover oil, piss, and perfumed rot. Heavy curtains blocked out most of the day, light smeared across dust motes like bruises on a whore’s thigh. It was hot, close, full of breath and shadow. The old Poxwife lay swaddled in yellowed silks, jaw bound with a kerchief to keep it from falling slack. Her skin was wax and liver-spotted, mouth cracked at the edges where she'd once worn red. A faint rasp rose with each breath. Her eyes fluttered open, dull but alert, as the figure in the doorway stirred.

From the far corner, behind the curtain of burning herbs, a voice rose.
“Hello, boy.”

Out of the gloom stepped a tall, slender shape, an elf, shaped by time and cunning. His hair was like old snow, a dirty white, braided back in a tail that reached down his shoulder blades. His leathers were patched but clean. Vendik Nine Lives. The thief’s thief, the kind who left no footprints even when it rained blood. “She still pretty in her ruin, isn’t she?” he asked, not looking at the poxwife, but at Zalan, eyes like iced tea.

Silk closed her eyes. The sound of Vendik’s voice struck old nerves. She bit the inside of her cheek, and the taste of iron grounded her.

Vendik’s lips curled in a half-smile. His gaze then flicked past Zalan to Silk, narrowing slightly. “Didn’t expect you to drag him here, Girl.” The Poxwife coughed, a harsh rasp that shook her thin frame, but managed a weak smirk.“He always knows who’s knocking,” she murmured, eyes lingering on her son with regret, pride, and something darker.

Silk stayed beneath the tree. Because if she went in now, it wouldn’t just be words. It’d be curses and tears and maybe steel.
 
Hello, boy.
Heard him before he could see him.

A smirk drawn across Zalan’s lips like a knife. "Been a long while since someone called me, boy," gut coiled like a snake, and fingers twitched about both hands at his side like fangs bared. Lungs pulled in a long breath, just kissed with the blue. "Nine Lives," he gave. Squeezing his hands to fists. Didn't take his eyes off him for a long, cold moment.

Shook his head with a huff remembering the story.

She still pretty in her ruin, isn’t she?

Looked to the Lady Poxwife. Felt an ache, all earth, water, and orange oil. “A real dream,” he let out. Eyes moved back to Vendik. Hands loosed about him. Some ease in his spine. “Funny we’d be sharing it,”

… Girl.

Tightened back up. Showed teeth in something that could pass as a smile. “You’d rather I leave, Nine?”
 
"Don’t flatter yourself thinking you’re anything more than a pup under my shadow.” The elf had seen lifetimes pass like shadows on a wall. Zalan was but a flicker in the dark to Vendik. He tapped the flat of the knife against his palm. No threat in it. The elf tilted his head, just enough to make the bones in his neck creak. Eyes focused on Zalan like he was meat hung wrong on a hook. The elf's voice was as quiet as a rope tightening.

“You come in here cuffing at her hips and panting like a hound in heat, and now you’re asking me what I’d rather?”

His knife tapped once against his thigh. Zalan was light, cocky. Trying to sound unbothered, but he’d walked like someone carrying a debt that might be called in at any second. The kind of step that made Vendik smile.

“I’d rather you’d stayed in your boots and kept walking. I’d rather you’d remembered who carved your name into the underside of that door in Low Harbor, back when you were still pissing yourself over ghosts you'd burnt. I’d rather she didn’t look at you like you might be something more than another reason to dig a grave.”

A beat. He let the words hang in the air. Then, a smile. Wicked and terribly calm. He shifted then, barely. Let his coat fall open just enough to show the shape of something under it. A curve of bone-handled steel, maybe, or just the threat of it.

“But here you are. So.” Vendik's eyes flicked again to the Poxwife, then back. "You crawled out of some pisshole, didn’t you? Survived the claws and the crawl." Nine Lives stepped forward. Slow and certain. The sound of his boots on stone was softer than it had any right to be. He moved like a man who’d spent a lifetime learning when not to make noise. He took another step. A heartbeat closer. His breath smelled of clove and brandy and something else, unripened fruit. “But she ain’t your softness to fuck the weight off your chest."

While Vendik speaks, the Poxwife's old jeweled hands toyed with a dried orange peel in her lap, stripping it slow with a hooked silver nail. She lets Vendik have his say. Every word. Every ounce of threat, of heat, of protection. But when he finishes, when the room is thick with bad tension and male pride dressed in blood and sharp edges, she exhales slowly. Raggedly.

“He’s not yours to gut, son. Not in my house.”
 
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He bared it. Snarled and twisted as his grin turned at it.

A laugh. At Low Harbor. Fucking Low Harbor. Thumb pressed hot over pointer. He could see that fucking knife come loose through the haze. Stabbed, gentle like, into the grain of that wood he would run his fingers over. Just to feel something when he came out of the blue. Always laughed at how deep it had went. How clean.

Z
A
L
A
N​

A fucking reminder. Took the grin right off his face. Turned the fire to grey ember. His thumb slipped to middle like a crossbow’s crank come set to click. Bones pressed at the dig of a grave.

“We all fucking die some day, Nine,” he hissed. Mind on the steps. The distance. Too close to all of it. Good and proper fucked. But then he knew that the moment the fucker spoke. The moment they left that hole.

Moment he saw her peering down at him over that dead fucker’s shoulder. Blood fresh across her face.

Let the breath fall out of him. He didn’t owe this fucker a damn thing. Neither did she. And Zalan’s eyes showed that much.

He’s not yours to gut, son. Not in my house.

A crane of the head toward the old Lady. You heard her. Smile like smoke on his lips. “I heard tell of a mean cup of tea?”
 
The old elf didn't blink. Just rolled the words over once, let them hang in the stale air. Then, cruel and slow as frostbite, he replied. “That so?” he murmured. A drag of quiet contempt. “That why you keep trying to outrun it like a rat on a sinking ship?” His eyes hollow as an old well, never left Zalan.

When Zalan asked for tea, Vendik tilted his head toward the Poxwife without breaking eye contact. “Pour him the dream.” And then, to Zalan: “It will show you how deep the hole really is.”

The Poxwife was already moving before Vendik finished speaking, a rustle of dry skin. She seemed too tall all of a sudden, shadows clutching at her skirt like children. Her hand, liver-spotted and heavy with rings, set the steaming bowl down in the hands of Zalan.

“Sip,” she said, voice rotted at the edges. Her smile was wide and cracked. She tapped the rim with a blackened nail. “Boiled three times. Stirred once, widdershins.”

Meanwhile, Vendik stepped through the door and out into the daylight. The curtain fell shut behind him. The breeze tugged at his coat as he approached the tree where Silk sat. His boots crunched dry leaves that hadn’t been swept in seasons.

The cup sat heavy in Zalan’s hand. Rough ceramic, glazed with the same mossy sheen that crept down the walls of the Poxwife’s room. Steam curled from it in long, sinuous threads, slow and sticky... and it smelled like incense in a house of dying gods.

And the color? It wasn’t a color.
It was the space between colors. Like fractured light behind closed eyes, or the glimmer off water you only dreamt of drowning in. Swirls shifted inside it, green, gold, rust, and something too deep to name.

The Poxwife smiled, all gums and missing molars. “It’s brewed from blackflower, fireseed, and the fungus that feeds on dead thoughts. No lies in the leaves. See the teeth on tomorrow.”
 
A click of the teeth. A shake of the head as he rocked his weight from one foot to the other. Breath swirling in his lungs with all the spoil and rotting allure of the room.

Hardly masked the smell of blood that reeked off of Vendik.

Knew it just as well as he knew the blue. Knew it better even. Only his came with golden tongues, and the smell of sizzling pig grease.

Pour him the dream.

Fucking made his old withering 'ma make the tea. Zalan couldn't hide the wry twist of hate at that.

It will show you how deep the hole really is.

"Plenty fucking deep, I'm sure," he said with a growl to his words. Spine curling up again as he waited.

The Lady Poxwife was already up and moving. The way she did, well, it had a mystery all its own. Strong and nimble. Like a promise, too sure to break, save all the cracks that begged it fall apart. She handed him the bowl. Hands all glittering and dazzle. He stepped to her, and took up the offer. Handled with care.

"Thank you, ma'am," fell out of his lips. Head bowed some. Old habit. Older than the Jackals. Raised up.

It was warm against his hands. Bled through the clay. Cupped gentle like it belonged to some lowly sinner, come receive an offering. Hoped for absolution. Knew better than that. Hoped all the same. Damn the shame.

Steam set all trail to follow. The tea...

Sip. A tap. Boiled three times. Stirred once, widdershins.

"Widdershins..." Zalan muttered. Caught just the trail of coattails. Out the door, and to the roots. Leaves like bones crunching. Couldn't catch her eyes. His gut twist at that.

He shook it off. Looked to the Lady Poxwife. All smile without teeth. Gave him the recipe. He'd remember that. Less he didn't. She let him know what came next. Had eyes like hers.

"Teeth on tomorrow, huh?" he said, only a hint of a laugh. Shook his head. Still there in that room.

Looked down into the cup.

Saw colors he was no stranger to. Those things that played with his eyes when the sparks got too hot down in his chest. Raked glass bright blue across his spine in the night. Split him open and bloomed technicolor about every body in the room his eyes could see, just begged him to turn grey.

Shimmer of gold. Color of rot. Red as rust. Set the spark to a black fire turned violet as midnight on moonless sky. With not but the stars to see all the hell he had brought.

Breath fell out of him. As it had so many nights before. Steam tails twisting about his nose, like a wanton heat.

He brought the cup to his lips and drank it down with a sip. Turned gulp. Turned drain.

Bitter as sin. He pulled the cup from his lips. Wiped down the wet about his mouth. Looked down at the cup. Looked up at the Poxwife. Laughed, all teeth split wide. "No lies, then," he offered the cup back to her with one hand.

Felt a tremble run up his bones. Eyes full of all the strange light that had been hiding about them. Guests and visitors, come chase away the children.
 
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