Southern Colonies. The next day.
The map seller's shop was tucked between a tannery and a stable, the smell of old leather and horse dung thick enough to taste. Haut had passed it a dozen times before he stopped. The sign said nothing. The door was open.
Inside, the walls were paper. Not wallpaper—actual paper, sheets of it pinned to the stone, covered in lines and names and drawings of things Haut didn't recognize. Mountains with peaks that touched nothing. Rivers that ran for months. Cities with names he couldn't pronounce.
The man behind the counter was old. His hands were stained with ink, his eyes clouded with something that wasn't age. He looked at Haut when he entered. Didn't smile.
"You want something specific?"
"A map. Of the world."
The man laughed. It was a dry sound, like paper crumbling. "You don't buy a map of the world. You buy pieces of it. Small pieces. The ones you can carry."
Haut set ten silver on the counter. "Show me what you have."
The man looked at the coins. Then he turned and walked to the back of the shop. He pulled a tube from a shelf, uncapped it, and slid out a sheet of paper that was longer than Haut's arm.
He spread it on the counter.
The map was old. The paper was yellow, the edges frayed, the ink faded in places. But the lines were clear. A disk, not a sphere, with edges that fell away into nothing. Continents that looked like they'd been torn from something larger and set adrift. Oceans so vast they swallowed the names written in them.
Haut looked at it for a long time.
The Southern Colonies were here. A dot. A scratch of ink near the bottom edge. North of it, the Shadow Sect's territory. The Elite Squadron's. The villages he'd walked through, the rivers he'd poisoned, the mountains he'd crossed. All of it fit in a space smaller than his palm.
Above that, more land. More names. More cities. More wars. More of everything.
The man tapped the map with a stained finger. "This was made by the First Supreme Myth. Heaven's Blessing Virtue. He walked the edge of the world and drew what he saw. No one's walked it since."
Haut looked at the edge. The map showed nothing there. Just a line, and beyond it, nothing.
"The Fourth Supreme Myth modified it," the man said. "Death's Defier Zin Shu. He added the oceans. The currents. The winds. He sailed for three hundred years and mapped what he found."
"Three hundred years?"
"He lived longer than most."
Haut traced a line from the Southern Colonies to the northern edge of the map. "How long to cross this?"
"Years. Decades. Depends on the route. Depends on the weather. Depends on how many people try to kill you on the way."
Haut's finger stopped at a mountain range that cut the northern continent in half. "What's here?"
The man leaned closer. His eyes cleared for a moment, focused. "Nothing. Everything. Depends on who you ask."
"Tell me."
The man looked at the map. At the mountains. At the space beyond them.
"There are five Supreme Myths in history. Some say six. The First mapped the world. The Second built the first cities. The Third wrote the laws that hold them together. The Fourth sailed the oceans. The Fifth died before anyone knew his name."
He paused. His finger traced the edge of the map, where the paper was torn, where the ink faded to nothing.
"The Sixth lived as a normal man. Eighteen hundred years. He worked, he slept, he ate, he died. No one knew he was anything until after he was gone. Then people found his writings. His journals. His maps." He tapped the paper. "Some of this is his. The parts no one else could see."
Haut looked at the map. At the mountains, the oceans, the edges. "Is he real?"
The man shrugged. "Does it matter? The maps exist. The writings exist. The knowledge exists. Whether a man made it or a myth made it—it's still there."
He rolled the map back into its tube. "Ten silver."
Haut paid.
The warehouse. That evening.
Haut spread the map on his table.
Kael was on the beam, watching. The bird had been to the Thornwood four times since the burning. Each time, he brought back something. A knife. A pouch of coins. A document that told Haut things he hadn't known about the Shadow Sect's allies. The silver seal was on the shelf now, melted flat, waiting to be recast. The coins were in the crate with the rest.
Haut looked at the map.
The Shadow Sect had been seven hundred years old. The map made that number feel small. Seven hundred years. Seven centuries of soldiers, of wars, of walls built and burned and built again. All of it fit in a space smaller than his thumb.
The Elite Squadron was nine hundred. Older. Stronger. They'd dominated the Shadow Sect for centuries before Haut was born. They'd survive the Shadow Sect's fall. They'd send spies. They'd find him. They'd come.
Haut looked at the northern continent. At the mountains that cut it in half. At the names written beside them, the cities, the kingdoms, the places he'd never heard of.
He was small here. The map made that clear. The Southern Colonies were a dot. The Shadow Sect was a scratch. The war he'd spent months fighting, the people he'd killed, the sect he'd burned—it was nothing. A grain of sand on a beach the size of a world.
He should feel something about that. He didn't know what.
He folded the map and placed it in the crate with the silver.
Two days later. Vell's warehouse.
Vell was counting coins when he entered. She didn't look up.
"You've been quiet."
"I've been thinking."
"About what?"
He sat across from her. "The Elite Squadron. How much do you know?"
She set down her coins. "More than you, probably. Less than I'd like."
"They're nine hundred years old."
"They're older than that. The name is nine hundred years. The organization is older. They've been fighting the Shadow Sect for so long no one remembers why."
"And now the Shadow Sect is gone."
Vell looked at him. "Now the Shadow Sect is gone. And the Squadron has nothing to fight. They'll turn their attention elsewhere."
"To me."
"To whoever did it." She leaned back. "They don't know it was you. Not yet. But they'll find out. They have spies everywhere. Information is what they do."
"Then I need to be somewhere they can't find me."
Vell laughed. "There's nowhere they can't find you. They've been hunting people for nine hundred years. You think a warehouse in the Southern Colonies is going to stop them?"
Haut said nothing.
Vell's smile faded. "Your best chance is to make yourself useful. The Squadron doesn't kill people who are useful. They use them."
"And who do I make myself useful to?"
She picked up her pen. "That's the question, isn't it."
The Warrens. That night.
The scarred woman was at the Silver Toad. She was alone. Pello wasn't there. The boy wasn't there. Just her, sitting at the back table, tiles spread before her, waiting.
Haut sat across from her.
"I thought you'd be back," she said.
"I needed to think."
She looked at him. Her eyes were pale, unreadable. The scar across her throat was white in the lamplight.
"About what?"
"About the people who want me dead."
She laughed. "Everyone wants you dead. You burned a seven-hundred-year-old sect to the ground. You think people don't notice that?"
Haut said nothing.
She leaned forward. "I noticed. The people I work for noticed. The people who run this city noticed. You think you're hiding? You're not. You're a fire in a room full of people who've been sitting in the dark for years."
"Then why aren't they killing me?"
"Because they want to know what you're going to do next." She picked up a tile, turned it in her fingers. "The Shadow Sect was old. Seven hundred years. The Elite Squadron is older. Stronger. They've been watching you since the valley. They know about the village. They know about the river. They know about the woman you sent north."
Haut's hands didn't move. "What woman?"
"The one looking for her brother." She set the tile down. "They know where he is. They've always known. They're waiting for you to make a move."
Haut looked at her. At her pale eyes, her steady hands, her scarred throat.
"Why are you telling me this?"
She stood. "Because I want to see what you do. You're not like the others. You don't gamble for money. You don't fight for glory. You don't kill for pleasure. You burn seven-hundred-year-old sects to the ground and you don't even blink."
She walked to the door. Stopped.
"Come back when you're ready to play for real."
"How long are you going to live pathetically?"
She turned back, her expressions darkened. "What did you say?"
"Your life is no different than a worm's. You don't thrive to achieve something. You're barely living. If you accept my deal you might get a real purpose."
"What deal? What purpose? If that's not useful to me then you should consider your words."
Haut pulled a small grey flower from his coat. The petals were dry, papery, the color of ash. A Grey Oath flower. Selini had used one with him months ago.
Riven looked at the flower. Her scarred throat moved when she swallowed.
"You're serious."
"I don't work with people I can't trust. And I don't trust anyone."
He held the flower between them.
"The terms: You will not attempt to kill me, harm me, or cause me to come to harm through action or inaction. You will not share information about my identity, my plans, or my location with any person or entity. You will assist me in the Vex heist and the subsequent escape to the north. In return, I will not attempt to kill you, harm you, or cause you to come to harm. I will pay you fifty-five percent of the treasury's contents. I will provide you safe passage from the city."
She looked at the flower. At his face.
"That's the deal. You didn't even bother to satisfy me? But, I'll take 70%. And if one of us breaks the oath?"
"We die. The flower ensures. I will send you more details later."
She was silent for a moment. Then she nodded.
"I accept."
The flower glowed. Grey light, pulsing once, twice. Then it crumbled to dust.
The oath was made.
The warehouse. That night.
Haut sat at the table. The map was spread before him. Kael was on the beam, watching.
He looked at the Southern Colonies. At the dot that was the city. At the lines that led north, to the villages, to the mountains, to the Shadow Sect's ashes.
Nine hundred years. The Elite Squadron had been fighting for nine hundred years. They'd seen empires rise and fall. They'd watched sects burn and rebuild. They'd survived everything the world threw at them.
And now they were watching him.
He looked at the map's edge. At the nothing beyond it. The First Supreme Myth had walked there. The Fourth had sailed there. The Sixth had written about it, and no one knew if he was real.
Haut folded the map.
He wasn't ready for the edge. He wasn't ready for the Squadron. He wasn't ready for any of it.
But he would be.
He pulled out the wooden plate. Two layers left. He didn't write anything. He just held it, felt the weight.
Then he put it away.
Kael made a sound. Soft. Settling.
Haut lay down on the cot and closed his eyes.
The world was larger than he'd thought. Larger than anyone in the Southern Colonies thought. The map had shown him that. The Supreme Myths had walked where no one walked, sailed where no one sailed, lived longer than anyone should.
He was small here. A grain of sand on a beach the size of a world.
He should feel something about that.
He didn't know what.