Chapter 6: The Salt-Scarred Road
The Hollow City's bells chased them long after its walls had vanished into the night.
Arno ran until his lungs burned, the stolen starlight in his blood lending his limbs a fleeting, feverish strength. Vey moved like a shadow beside him, their breaths coming in sharp, controlled bursts. They didn't stop until the last echo of the bells had faded into the wind, until the only sound was the creak of ancient trees and the distant cry of a night heron.
Beneath the skeletal branches of a dead willow, Vey finally halted, pressing a hand to their side where a dark stain spread slowly across their tunic. "Change of plan," they panted, their voice raw. "We're not staying in the Free Cities."
Arno leaned against the rough bark, the blank card pulsing hot against his ribs. "Where, then?"
Vey's teeth gleamed in the moonlight. "Oeimeira."
Three days' hard travel brought them to its outskirts, where the forest gave way to rolling fields of barley and flax, then to the stinking sprawl of tanneries and dye-works that ringed the capital. The air grew thick with the tang of fish and seaweed, with the shouts of merchants and the creak of ship rigging. The city proper rose like a jagged crown atop the cliffs, its whitewashed walls streaked with ocean spray, its hundred bridges arching over canals choked with merchant barges.
Vey led them through the dockside chaos with the ease of someone who knew its rhythms. "The Cabal has less influence here," they muttered, dodging a porter hefting a crate of saffron. "Too many eyes. Too many rival powers." They shot Arno a sharp look. "But that doesn't mean they're absent."
Arno felt it before he saw it—the way the blank card's heat spiked as they passed a narrow alley where a figure in gray robes stood motionless, their face hidden beneath a deep hood. The figure made no move to follow, but the card's reaction was unmistakable.
Hunger.
Vey's grip on his arm tightened. "Don't stare."
The Salt Queen's Respite was the kind of tavern where deals were made in whispers and settled in blood. Its walls were stained with decades of pipe smoke, its floorboards sticky with spilled wine and older, darker things.
Vey pushed open the door without hesitation. "We need passage to Fortuna," they announced to the room at large.
Laughter rippled through the crowd. A grizzled ship's master with a kraken tattoo coiling up his neck leaned forward, his smile revealing three gold teeth. "No one sails to Fortuna this time of year. Not with the storm season coming."
Vey tossed a leather pouch onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud. "Now they do."
The ship's master didn't touch the purse. His gaze slid to Arno instead, lingering on the way his fingers twitched at his side—on the faint silver glow that pulsed beneath his skin when the card grew restless. "What's your business in the Gambler's Grave?"
Arno met his eyes. "The same as everyone else's."
Another pause. Then the ship's master laughed and scooped up the purse. "The Wandering Mirth sails with the dawn tide. Be aboard or be left."
As they turned to leave, a hand caught Arno's wrist.
The gray-robed figure from the alley stood beside him, their grip like iron. Up close, their hood shadowed not a face, but a smooth porcelain mask—featureless save for a single crimson teardrop.
"The hollow ones whisper your name," they murmured, their voice like dry leaves scraping stone. "They say you will draw the card that cannot be drawn."
Vey's dagger was at the figure's throat in an instant. "Let go."
The mask tilted. The grip tightened.
The blank card burned.
Arno's vision whited out. When it cleared, the figure was gone, leaving behind only the scent of charred silk and a single, perfect pearl resting in his palm.
Vey exhaled sharply. "We're leaving. Now."
Dawn found them on the Wandering Mirth's deck, watching as Oeimeira's spires dwindled behind them. The sea was calm, the sky a flawless blue, but Arno couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on his back.
Vey leaned against the rail beside him, their bandages damp with salt spray. "Fortuna won't be safe either," they said quietly. "Nowhere is, with what you carry."
Arno turned the pearl over in his fingers. It was cold despite the morning sun, its surface unnaturally smooth. "Who were they? The masked ones?"
Vey's jaw tightened. "The Cabal calls them the Unseen Court. They're… interested in the Deck. In its outliers. In things that shouldn't exist." Their gaze dropped to the card hidden beneath Arno's shirt. "Like you."
The card pulsed, sending a wave of heat through his chest. The starlight in his veins answered, brighter now, hungrier.
Somewhere belowdecks, a sailor began to sing a shanty about drowned gods and stolen fortunes. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of salt and distant storms.
The Wandering Mirth creaked and groaned as it cut through the black waters, the night air thick with salt and the stench of unwashed men. Arno stood near the bow, the wind tugging at his cloak, the blank card a constant, pulsing warmth against his ribs. The crew had given him a wide berth since boarding—whispers of the incident with the masked figure had spread faster than spilled rum.
But not all of them were smart enough to stay away.
"Oi. Deck-touched."
The voice was a guttural growl, slurred with drink. Arno turned slowly.
Bracken was the ship's brute—a mountain of muscle with a broken nose and knuckles like smashed cobblestones. He loomed in the lantern light, a bottle dangling from one meaty hand, his eyes bloodshot and gleaming. Behind him, three other sailors watched, grinning like sharks.
"You don't belong here," Bracken spat. "Not on this ship. Not in this world."
Arno said nothing. His fingers twitched at his sides. The starlight in his veins hummed, restless.
Bracken took a step closer. The deckboards groaned under his weight. "I said—"
Arno moved first.
He ducked under Bracken's wild swing, driving his fist into the man's ribs. The impact sent a jolt up his arm—hitting Bracken was like punching a sack of wet grain. The sailor grunted but didn't stagger, his free hand lashing out to grab Arno by the throat.
The world tilted as Arno was lifted off his feet, then slammed onto the deck. Pain exploded across his back, his vision swimming. Bracken's face swam above him, grinning.
"Thought you were something special, eh?"
Arno twisted, driving his knee up between Bracken's legs. The man roared, his grip loosening just enough for Arno to wrench free. He rolled to the side as Bracken's fist came down like a hammer, splintering the wood where his head had been.
The crew whooped, forming a loose circle around them. No one intervened. On a ship like this, fights were settled with blood.
Arno scrambled to his feet, his breath coming in sharp gasps. The starlight flared in his veins, sharpening his vision—he could see the sweat on Bracken's brow, the way his weight shifted slightly to the left, favoring an old injury.
Bracken charged again.
This time, Arno was ready.
He sidestepped, driving his elbow into the back of Bracken's neck as the man barreled past. Bracken stumbled, catching himself on the rail. For a heartbeat, he was off-balance.
Arno didn't hesitate.
He grabbed the back of Bracken's belt and hauled, using the man's own momentum against him. Bracken's eyes widened as he tipped over the rail, his fingers scrabbling for purchase.
And found none.
The splash was deafening in the sudden silence.
The crew stared, their grins frozen. Arno leaned over the rail, watching as Bracken surfaced, sputtering and cursing.
"Next time," Arno said, his voice low, "I won't miss the rocks."
No one laughed.