Day one. Evening.
The cart lurched over a rock and Haut's teeth clicked together.
Behind him, Selini's cart followed at twenty paces—close enough to watch, far enough to react. She'd kept that distance since the valley. Smart. He'd have done the same.
The sun dropped behind the hills and the road turned grey. He found a place off the path—flat ground, rocks for cover, no approach from behind—and stopped.
Selini pulled up beside him. She didn't speak. Just climbed down, checked her horse's legs, and started gathering dry brush for a fire.
He watched her work. Watched her hands move. Watched her check her rifle twice before setting it within reach.
"You're jumpy," he said.
She looked at him. "We killed forty-two people three days ago. You're not?"
He didn't answer.
The fire caught. They sat on opposite sides, meat cooking on sticks, smoke rising into dark sky.
Selini ate without looking at him. When she finished, she said: "Sieyres."
Haut waited.
"At the end. He knew. He looked right at you and he knew."
"Yes."
She stared at the flames. "And you just… let him die."
"I threw the grenade."
"After he knew. After he called you out." She shook her head. "He died knowing. That's what you gave him. He was suspicious from the very beginning, but you never left any trace. But you were also worried he will be your doom if you don't eliminate him."
Haut said nothing.
She said: "But how is that, that the both factions arrived at the time you wanted? Even though the timing was slightly off, causing you to take the risk. But still, it is suspiciously perfect timing. What did you do?"
Haut gave her a warm smile and still said nothing.
Selini looked at him across the fire. For a long moment, neither moved.
Then she picked up her rifle and walked to the rocks at the edge of camp. First watch.
Haut lay down with his back to stone and closed his eyes.
He died knowing.
Yes. He did.
Day two.
The bandits came at a bend in the road.
Five of them. Thin horses. Rusted blades. The hollow look of men who'd run out of options. They blocked the path and waited.
Haut saw them fifty paces out. Kept driving.
Behind him, Selini's cart stopped. He heard her boots hit ground. Heard her rifle come up. Good.
Twenty paces.
The leader raised a hand. "That's far enough."
Haut lowered the cart speed. Approaching slowly.
The bandits watched him come. The youngest couldn't have been more than sixteen, gripping his sword like it might bite. The oldest had eyes that had stopped caring years ago.
Haut stopped ten paces from the leader.
"Scram," he said.
The leader laughed. "Scram? So, you are showing arrogance in this situation?"
Haut shot him.
The rifle came from under his coat—smooth, practiced, no flourish. The crack echoed off the hills. The leader dropped. His horse bolted.
The remaining four stared at the body. At Haut. At the rifle, bolt worked, fresh round chambered.
They ran.
Haut watched them go. Then he flicked the reins.
Selini fell in behind him.
"You could have killed them all." She asked Haut.
"They'll tell others to avoid the one with rifle. No need to waste ammunition on them."
After that neither spoke.
Day three. Afternoon.
The road curved through a stretch of scrub brush and loose rock. Hills on both sides, not steep enough to hide an army but steep enough to hide something smaller.
Haut saw them before they moved.
Eyes in the brush. Low to the ground. Too many for wolves.
"Selini."
"I see them."
He kept driving. His hand moved to the rifle beside him. Not drawing. Just ready.
They came from both sides at once.
Not bandits—beasts. Mountain cats, lean and hungry, half the size of wolves but faster. Six of them. Maybe seven. They exploded from the scrub in a blur of grey fur and yellow teeth.
The lead horse screamed.
Haut's rifle came up and he fired without aiming—the crack loud in the narrow pass. A cat tumbled, kicked, went still. Another leaped for Selini's cart. Her shot took it mid-air, dropped it twitching in the dirt.
But the horses were panicking.
Selini's cart swerved as her horse bolted. Wheels scraped rock. A crate slid—tipped—fell.
Haut saw it go. Salted fish, forty crates worth of labor, bouncing down the slope and shattering on the rocks below.
He shot another cat. Reloaded. Shot again.
Selini had her horse under control now, firing steady, dropping them one by one. The remaining beasts—three, maybe four—broke and ran, disappearing back into the scrub.
Silence.
Haut counted bodies. Five dead cats. His hands were steady. His heart was not.
Selini climbed down from her cart, walked to the edge, and looked over. The crate was gone. Fish scattered everywhere, already attracting birds.
"That was a month's catch," she said quietly.
Haut looked at the remaining carts. The horses were shaking, wild-eyed, but alive. The goods were intact—most of them.
"We keep moving," he said.
She nodded. Didn't argue.
They didn't speak again until nightfall.
Day four. Morning.
The road found the mountains.
It climbed and narrowed and became a ledge with a drop on one side that went down until you couldn't see bottom. Selini's cart hugged the rock wall. Her horse's eyes showed white.
Haut's cart rolled along like it was paved road.
Halfway through, the edge crumbled.
Not under him—under Selini. Her rear left wheel hit a patch of loose stone and the ground just… gave way. She shouted. The cart tipped. Horses screamed.
Haut was off his cart and running before he knew he'd moved.
He grabbed her harness—the lead horse's bridle—and pulled. Pulled hard, legs braced against stone, muscles screaming. The cart teetered. More crates slid. One went over—dried meat, thirty bundles, gone.
Selini was on the other side, pushing, shoving, her face white.
The cart settled.
They stood there, breathing hard, looking at each other across the horses. Below, the crate bounced once and vanished into haze.
Selini's hands were shaking.
Haut let go of the bridle. Walked back to his cart. Climbed up.
"We keep moving," he said.
She followed.
Day five. The last pass.
They emerged from the mountains onto a slope that descended into green. Below, spread across a valley like a stain on cloth, lay the Southern Colonies.
Walls of grey stone rose from the plain. Towers marked every gate—six of them, maybe seven, too far to count. Smoke from a thousand fires hung over everything, thick enough to blur the sun. Roads led out in every direction, crowded with wagons and walkers and riders.
Selini stopped her cart and stared.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Looks like someone set a city on fire and forgot to put it out."
Haut almost smiled. "Wait until you smell it."
He flicked the reins and started down.
The gate guards took one look at their carts—battered, blood-stained, missing crates—and demanded toll. Ten silver per cart.
"Was five yesterday," Haut said.
"Yesterday you had more crates." The guard shrugged. "Today you look desperate. Ten silver."
Haut paid from a pouch at his belt—Shadow Sect silver, still stamped with their mark. The guard looked at the coins, looked at Haut, looked away.
Inside, the city swallowed them.
Streets so narrow the carts barely fit, packed with bodies speaking languages Haut didn't recognize. Stalls selling everything—fried dough on sticks, blades wrapped in oilcloth, cages of small beasts with too many eyes. Smells of cooking meat and open sewage and something chemical that stung the nose. Noise constant, overwhelming—shouting, haggling, crying, laughing, all at once.
Selini's head moved constantly, tracking faces, doorways, rooftops.
Haut drove like he'd been here a hundred times.
The Merchant's Quarter had its own walls. Its own guards. Its own rules. Haut presented credentials—paper from a man who owed him, from a deal two years dead—and they were admitted.
Inside, the noise didn't stop but it changed. Became transactions instead of chaos. Men in fine robes moved between warehouses with purpose. Porters carried crates stamped with symbols Haut recognized—trading houses, shipping guilds, the organizations that ran this city from behind the scenes.
Haut found a warehouse with a blue door.
"Wait here."
He went inside.
The woman behind the desk didn't look up. Old in the way of people who'd outlived everyone they started with—sharp eyes, sharper mind, no sentiment left.
"You're alive," she said.
"Disappointed?"
"Indifferent." She waved at a chair. "Sit. Show me."
He laid out the inventory. Salted fish—forty crates short now, but still enough. Live fish in barrels, shaken but alive. Dried meat—thirty bundles lost. Grain. Hides. Herbs. Then the weapons—rifles, pistols, blades. Then the silver, three hundred coins stacked and counted.
Vell looked at the goods. Looked at him.
"You lost some."
"Beasts. Mountain pass."
"Then the pass." She picked up a rifle. Worked the action. Set it down. Picked up a Shadow blade. Turned it in the light. "Squadron issue. Sect blades." She looked at him. "You've been busy."
"I've been paid."
She laughed—dry, like rocks shifting. "Same thing." She set the blade down. "Five hundred for the goods. Weapons separate—three hundred for those. Silver's yours—I don't buy coin."
"Eight hundred total."
"Seven. Final."
He considered. Less than he'd hoped. More than he'd have gotten anywhere else.
"Done."
She wrote. While she wrote: "Bounty on your head. Posted five days ago. Someone named Cinx. Thousand silver."
Haut's face didn't move.
"I know."
"Someone will claim it."
"Probably."
She pushed papers across the desk. "Warehouse at the end of the street. Unload there. Credit's in your account." A pause. "Whoever you're running from—run faster."
He took the papers and left.
Outside, Selini was where he'd left her. Rifle hidden. Eyes on the street.
"Well?"
"Seven hundred credit. Goods stored." He climbed onto the cart. "Follow me."
They unloaded at the warehouse. Men in rough tunics carried crates inside while a clerk checked items against Vell's list. When it was done, he handed Haut a chit—paper with numbers, redeemable for coin or credit anywhere in the quarter.
Haut tucked it away.
"Find an inn," he told Selini. "Somewhere cheap. I have business."
Her eyes narrowed. "What kind of business?"
"The kind that doesn't need two people."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she took the reins of her cart and drove off without a word.
Haut watched her go. Then he turned and walked into the city.
The beast market was three streets over from the Merchant's Quarter, close enough for convenience, far enough that the guilds could pretend it didn't exist.
Cages lined both sides of the narrow lane. Small beasts—furred, scaled, feathered—hissed and chittered and stared with too many eyes. Merchants called out prices, claimed lineage, promised loyalty spells already bound.
Haut walked slowly. Looked at each cage. Said nothing.
At the end of the row, a small cage sat apart from the others. Inside, a bird watched him.
Not a bird. Something like a bird. Black feathers with a sheen of deep blue in the right light. A beak too sharp for its size, curved like a blade. Claws that gripped its perch with deliberate precision.
It watched him the way he watched others.
Haut stopped.
"How much?"
The merchant was a thin man with quick eyes and slower movements—the kind who'd learned that looking eager cost money. "That one? Not for sale."
"Everything's for sale."
"Not that one. Too valuable. Too rare. Sharpbeak raven—you know them?"
Haut knew them. Scouts, hunters, smart enough to follow complex commands. Rare in the wild, rarer in captivity. Worth more than most men earned in a year.
"How much?" he said again.
The merchant named a price. Eight hundred silver.
Haut laughed—a short, flat sound. "That's double what it's worth."
"Then go buy one for four hundred." The merchant smiled, showing gaps. "Oh, wait. You can't. Because there aren't any."
Haut looked at the bird. The bird looked at him.
"Three hundred. And I'll tell you why your loyalty spell is flawed."
The merchant's smile flickered. "My spell is fine."
"The bird's watching me like it's deciding something. A properly bound beast doesn't decide. It obeys. Your spell's slipping."
The merchant looked at the bird. The bird looked at Haut.
"…Four hundred."
"Three fifty. Final."
The merchant sighed—performed, theatrical. "Three fifty. And you say nothing about the spell to anyone."
Haut counted coins. Three hundred fifty silver, nearly half his credit. The merchant produced a small stone—warm to touch, carved with symbols—and pressed it to the bird's chest. A murmur of words Haut didn't catch. The bird shivered once.
Then it looked at Haut with different eyes.
"Name it something," the merchant said. "The spell binds to the name."
Haut thought for a moment. Then: "Kael."
The bird tilted its head. Accepted.
Haut took the cage and walked away.
In an alley, away from eyes, he opened the door.
The bird—Kael—stepped out onto his forearm. Claws sharp even through his sleeve. It looked at him. He looked at it.
"Follow," he said.
Kael launched into the air, circled once, and perched on a ledge above. Watching.
Haut walked back toward the inn. The bird followed, moving from ledge to ledge, invisible to anyone not looking up.
Good.
Selini was waiting in the common room when he returned. She had a room key on the table and an expression that said she'd been waiting too long.
"You were gone four hours."
"Business."
"What kind of business takes four hours?"
He sat across from her. "The kind that involves money changing hands and people forgetting they saw you." He slid a paper across the table. "Your brother's location. Village three days north. Directions on the back. Your contact already knows."
She picked it up. Read it. Read it again.
"If you're lying—"
"Then you'll never find him. But you'll keep looking." He stood. "Which is the same as now."
He climbed the stairs to his room. Didn't look back.
The room was small. Bed, table, window overlooking an alley.
Haut sat on the bed and pulled out the wooden plate.
Three layers left.
One used for Huang. One used for the Shadow Sect, before the ambush. One used for Selini's contact, sending her north. Three left.
Through the open window, Kael dropped from the sky and landed on the sill. Black feathers. Sharp eyes. Watching.
Haut looked at the bird. The bird looked at him.
"Three layers," he said quietly. "And you."
Kael tilted its head.
Haut lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Through the window, the city hummed. People spending money they'd earned. People spending money they'd stolen. The same everywhere.
Tomorrow she leaves. Things will be easier now.
Now I have the profit from caravan loot and the bounty. But I still need to sustain the village for profits. The village will still face outside pressure, maybe more so now.
Good.
He closed his eyes.
He saw Sieyres. Standing among the dead. One eye gone. Blood pouring from a dozen wounds. Smiling.
Is that all?
Haut opened his eyes.
Stared at the ceiling.
No matter how difficult, I will always choose my way!
His heart was in tranquility.
Kael made a soft sound—not a call, just… presence.
Haut looked at the bird.
"Watch the door," he said.
Kael launched to a beam above, settling into shadow, invisible.
Haut closed his eyes again.
At this moment he thought of the time of the endlessly long river. When the ritual failed and the two miles wide river was poisoned, nearly causing his death. Thankfully he used a blue defect artifact to reduce the damage and survived the blow. But compared to his life it was not a big loss. What is power, beauty, wealth and gold if met with death? He was never afraid of death. On the contrary, he desired death only when he was working hard. But if he could avoid death, he definitely will.
Absolute victory never existed. It was a fool's wishful thinking. And fate would never give absolute defeat either.
This time, he slept for a whole day.