as the saddlebags hit the cobblestones with a clatter louder than a dropped chandelier, the crowd's silence shattered into a hundred murmurs. Watabei didn't move—couldn't move—her boots rooted to the spot like the damn oak the goblin favored. Goburo's fingers lingered on the bags' straps, his knuckles blanching to the color of old bone beneath his mossy skin. The swordsman's smirk didn't waver, but his grip on his sword tightened, the leather of his gauntlet creaking like a hanged man's noose.
Then Layla materialized between them, her silver hair flaring in the torchlight like a banner. "Oh good," she said, voice dripping with false cheer, "a *performance*." She twirled on one foot, her tattered skirts fanning out to reveal boots crusted with what looked like dried frog spawn. The crowd recoiled. "Shall we clap for the hero?" She brought her hands together in slow, mocking applause. "Or shall we ask why he's got a child in chains?"
The swordsman's grin froze. The goblin girl whimpered, her oversized ears twitching toward the sound of Layla's voice. Watabei finally unfroze, her fingers uncurling from fists she didn't remember making. The map in her pocket felt like it was squirming against her thigh again—breathing, shifting, *lying*. Just like this moment.
Goburo crouched, his knees popping like greenwood in a fire. He didn't reach for the shackles—not yet—just held out his hands, palms up, as if offering sunlight to a moth. The goblin girl stared at them like they might bite. "Hey," he murmured, softer than wind through willow leaves. "You're Nettle, right? Hagra's kid."
As the goblin girl—Nettle—flinched back from Goburo's outstretched hands, a single tear carved a clean track through the dirt on her cheek. The crowd's murmurs thickened, curdling into something uneasy. Watabei didn't need to see Layla's ears twitch to know the elf was counting exits.
The swordsman's grin hardened into a rictus. "Hagra's *brat*," he corrected, twisting the name like a knife. His gauntlet clanked against the shackles' chain. "And she's *property*."
Nettle's breath hitched. Goburo's fingers spasmed, his mossy skin flushing the color of rotten apples. Watabei stepped forward—finally, *finally*—just as Layla's boot lashed out, hooking the swordsman's ankle with the precision of a scythe through wheat. He toppled sideways, his armor shrieking against the cobblestones. The crowd gasped. Someone dropped a tankard.
"Whoops," Layla said, blinking faux-innocence. Her toes flexed inside her boots, the leather creaking. "Slipped."
As the swordsman hit the ground with a clatter of armor and ego, Watabei saw three things in rapid succession: the goblin girl Nettle's shackles jangling loose, Layla's fingers flicking something small and glinting into the lock, and Goburo's expression shifting from fury to something dangerously close to hope.
Then chaos erupted.
The crowd surged like a startled flock, half scattering, half pressing closer for a better view. A merchant's crate of apples overturned, fruit rolling between boots like dice. Watabei lunged forward, her shoulder slamming into a brewer's barrel-broad chest just as the swordsman roared and heaved himself upright. His blade came free with a metallic scream, the edge catching torchlight like a grinning mouth.
Layla was already spinning away, her silver hair a whip of motion. "Oops," she singsonged, dancing back as the sword bit empty air where her ribs had been. Her grin was all fang. "Slipped *again*."
Watabei didn't have time to roll her eyes. The brewer she'd body-checked staggered, ale sloshing from his tankard in a frothy arc—straight into the swordsman's face. The man sputtered, blinded for half a heartbeat. Long enough. Watabei seized Nettle's wrist, yanking the goblin girl behind her just as Goburo's fist connected with the swordsman's jaw. The crack echoed like a splitting branch.
The crowd's murmurs erupted into shouts. "Greenskin brawl!" someone howled, equal parts delight and alarm. A child squealed—whether in terror or glee was unclear. Watabei didn't care. She was too busy cataloging exits: the alley to the left reeked of fish guts, the baker's awning to the right sagged under the weight of last week's snow. Both terrible. Both better than staying.
Nettle's fingers trembled in her grip, small and calloused. The girl's pulse rabbited against Watabei's palm. "Move," she hissed, shoving the goblin toward Goburo. "Now."
As the alley swallowed them whole—Watabei dragging Nettle by the wrist, Goburo limping behind with Layla's silver hair flickering like a torch in the dark—the sounds of the riot faded into a distant roar. The fish-gut reek hit Watabei like a slap, but she didn't slow, her boots skidding on greasy cobblestones. Nettle stumbled, her split sandal flapping, and Watabei hauled her up without breaking stride.
"Left," Layla hissed, her voice cutting through the chaos. Watabei obeyed, yanking Nettle into a narrower passage where the walls leaned close enough to kiss. Something crunched underfoot—a rat's skull, maybe, or a discarded walnut. Goburo wheezed behind them, his breath ragged. "They're—still—coming—"
Watabei risked a glance back. Torchlight flickered at the alley's mouth, silhouetting the swordsman's lopsided helmet as he barged through the crowd. His sword gleamed like a promise of violence.
Layla's hand clamped onto Watabei's elbow, her grip colder than the shadows. "Up," she urged, nodding toward a rickety fire escape. The iron groaned under their combined weight as they scrambled upward, Nettle's ears flattening with every creak. By the time they reached the rooftop, the swordsman's curses were muffled by distance and the alley's crooked turns.
As the rooftop tiles groaned beneath their weight, Watabei pressed a finger to her lips, her other hand still clamped around Nettle's wrist. The goblin girl's pulse thrummed against her palm like a trapped bird. Below, the swordsman's torchlight flickered like a dying star in the alley's throat, his curses muffled by the labyrinth of leaning walls. Layla crouched beside them, her silver hair a pale smear in the moonlight, her ears twitching with every distant shout. Goburo's breath came in ragged bursts, his knuckles split and glistening where they gripped the roof's edge.
Watabei exhaled through her nose. The map in her pocket squirmed again, the linen shifting like a living thing. *Breathing*, Layla had called it. She resisted the urge to tear it out and fling it into the night. Instead, she leaned closer to Nettle, her voice a blade's whisper: "Hagra's hut. Where is it *now*?"
The goblin girl stiffened, her oversized ears swiveling toward Watabei's voice. For a heartbeat, she looked ready to bolt—then Goburo's hand settled on her shoulder, his touch lighter than cobweb. "Hey," he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of a bruise on her collarbone. "We're not with *them*."
Nettle'