The night had settled over Ogefil like a shroud, heavy and damp, pressing against the walls of the tavern, seeping through the cracks in the shutters, filling the rooms with the particular chill that came off the water when the sun had gone and the warmth had leached away. But the remnants of the massacre in the market area remained—dark stains on gray gravel that would not wash away, abandoned stalls that creaked and groaned in the wind, the hollow silence where commerce had once roared.
The dead had been removed—dragged away by families, by rivals, by the opportunistic—but their absence was its own kind of presence. News traveled across the island with the speed of fire through dry grass. By dusk, every soul in every tavern, every whore in every brothel, every pirate on every ship knew: two unknown men, claiming the Mistress's authority, had wiped out an entire market section. Not raided. Not fought. Wiped out.
The island's already chaotic equilibrium had tilted. What came next was anyone's guess—and everyone was guessing.
.....
"That bitch! That two-coins whore! That filth!"
Master Branth's voice was a wreckage of fury, each curse ground through teeth clenched so tight they might crack. His coat—a heavy garment of dark navy wool, salt-stained and tobacco-burned—hung open over a stained tunic. The silver wheel pendant at his throat caught lamplight with each heave of his chest.
His face was a map of old violence. Scars crossed his forehead in parallel lines. But the prominent one—the one that drew the eye—ran beneath his chin, a pale ridge where someone had once tried very hard to separate his head from his shoulders.
The room around him reeked. Spilled rum, stale tobacco smoke, the sour sweat of anger, and the sweet undertone of rotting food forgotten in corners. Empty bottles carpeted the floor in a glass graveyard.
Branth tilted his head back and drained the current bottle in one long, desperate swallow. Then, with a grunt of disgust, he hurled it forward. It missed the standing messenger by inches, shattering against the far wall, joining the glass graveyard that was growing and growing.
"I'll kill her myself! I'll hang her entrails from her own balcony!"
Around him, his men kept their heads low—the posture of those who had learned that eye contact during the Master's rages was a shortcut to being the next thing thrown.
One of them—a bulky man with a beard that seemed to have swallowed his lower face—ventured a rumbling voice. "Master. Say the word. I'll bring you those two bastards' heads before dawn."
The floodgates opened. "I'll bring them alive! We'll make it last!" "Hang their bodies from the highest mast! Let the gulls have their eyes!" "No—drain them slow! Let them watch each other bleed!" "Kill the hag's people too! Every last one! Make her watch!" "Butcher them! Feed them to the pigs!"
In seconds, they had all agreed on a single course of action: total extermination.
Branth raised his chilim to his lips. The match flared. The bowl caught. He drew deep, held the smoke, released it in a long grey plume that curled toward the ceiling. The room fell silent.
An entire market. Wiped out. Bold. Reckless. And that bitch claims no connection—says they're acting alone, trying to impress me. His old brown eyes, filmed with age but sharp as ever, moved through calculations. Hunter Union? A Rajyam probe? Or just two mad dogs with more teeth than sense?
He took another drag. Smoke escaped his nostrils as he exhaled, giving him briefly the aspect of some ancient dragon.
"Boldness is not the same as strength." His voice was calmer now—the rage banked, not extinguished, but controlled. "They've challenged me. But we don't strike blind."
A few of his men shifted. One opened his mouth. Branth's gaze found him—just that, a look from old brown eyes—and the mouth closed.
"Watch them. Learn them. Report every movement, every meeting, every meal. We wait. We learn. Then we act."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken dissent, but no one spoke.
"As you command, Master Branth."
Branth raised his chilim again, but his gaze was elsewhere—seeing something his men could not. So it begins. The final piece. This little island's fate will be decided in the next few days. And I intend to be the one deciding it.
Behind the aged eyes, something young and hungry still burned.
.....
While two factions sharpened their knives and planned their moves, the object of their attention sat cross-legged on a goat-hide bed, surrounded by the ingredients of invention.
Toric watched from his own bed, his battered body grateful for rest even as his mind churned with confusion. Before him, Ashan had arranged an assemblage that made no sense whatsoever: a slab of offal meat; a square of goat hide, scraped and stretched; a small bottle of rock salt; another small bottle of sesame oil; a wooden tray of diluted limewater; several polished wooden molds, each carved into a shape that Toric recognized but refused to name; linen thread; a bowl of beeswax, slowly solidifying.
What kind of sorcery is this? Toric's thoughts circled the question without landing. What ritual requires those shapes? That meat? Is he summoning something? Binding something?
He shifted on the bed. Is it safe to be in the same room?
Ashan paid him no attention. His focus was absolute, his movements precise—the same careful control he applied to charmcraft, now applied to a very different medium.
In my previous life, I read an article about ancient contraceptive methods. Goat intestine, treated and shaped. Sheep cecum. Linen sheaths. His mind drifted for half a heartbeat. Why, exactly, did I read that article? Probably the same reason I read everything—knowledge is knowledge. You never know what will prove useful.
His lips curled, not quite a smile. And I really didn't expect this to be the useful application.
He picked up the blunt blade and began the delicate work of scraping. Fat and mucus yielded to the blade's edge, sloughing away to reveal the thinner, cleaner membrane beneath. His movements were quick and economical, honed by hours of charm inscription.
Scrape. Turn. Scrape. Check.
The key is thinness without perforation. Too thick, and it's useless—no sensation, no compliance. Too thin, and it tears at the wrong moment.
His lips curled again. There's a metaphor there, probably. I don't have time to find it.
His mind drifted for another half-heartbeat. Who would have thought? Reincarnated warrior-mage, walking the path of cosmic greed, destined for immortality... inventing the condom.
He paused, let the blade rest. If my past self could see me now.
The thought flickered and died, replaced by the cold precision of the surgeon. The membrane before him was ready. He reached for the limewater.
Behind him, Toric watched with wide eyes, his hands clenched on the edge of the bed, his breath held.
Possibly both.