Helletta woke to a pounding headache and the distinct, leaden heaviness that made her limbs feel weighed down. Though she hadn’t been drinking, the sensation was painfully familiar—like the hangovers her master used to suffer when he stumbled home after long nights at the pub. She’d always been the one to hold him steady over the cleansing bowl as he purged the night's excess, his ocean-blue hair spilling forward as he retched.

  Now, as her head threatened to split open, she wished he were here to return the favor. But the narrow bed held only her, and the room’s other occupants were still out, either working their trades or sleeping off the celebration.

  "Good morning!"

  The cheerful voice hit Helletta like a hammer. She groaned, pulling her thin pillow over her head as Ella burst into the room, practically singing the greeting.

  "Why are you so loud?" Helletta mumbled into her mattress.

  "Oh, I’m sorry," Ella’s voice dripped with exaggerated sympathy as she plopped down on the edge of Helletta’s bed. "Is someone feeling a little... delicate this morning?"

  Helletta turned away, trying to block out Ella’s presence and the unforgiving morning light streaming through the tiny window. Her mind was foggy as she tried to piece together the events of the previous night. There’d been a celebration, Remarn’s people watching, and—she winced—almost saying too much...

  "Moore."

  The name jolted her like a splash of cold water. She turned back slowly, her face burning, to find Ella grinning like a cat who had caught an unusually interesting fish.

  "How did you—" Helletta began, then froze. Her master had always warned her about names, about being cautious with who she shared them with. When had she…?

  "You moaned it out last night," Ella said, clearly relishing the moment. "While holding onto my hand, I might add. Very dramatic."

  Helletta’s brown cheeks turned an even deeper shade of red. Her master would be so disappointed—though likely not surprised. He’d always said she had a loose tongue when her guard was down.

  Ella laughed, bright and genuine—a rare sound from someone who usually kept her amusement, like everything else, carefully controlled. "Don’t worry," she said. "Your secret’s safe with me."

  "Though I have to say, you were really getting into character last night. All that talk about ravaging—"

  "I’m sorry," Helletta cut in, wincing as memories of her exaggerated performance came flooding back. "I got carried away."

  "Must’ve been holding onto a lot of frustration, huh?"

  Helletta nodded, then immediately regretted it as a fresh wave of pain throbbed through her head. She was about to ask Ella if she’d learned anything about who had posted their original job request, but Ella’s finger pressed briefly against her lips, silencing her.

  A second later—barely that—heavy footsteps approached their door.

  The old boards of the boarding house creaked as Sour Boy entered, hands in his pockets, his long hair braided in the intricate style of the senior fishers. His clothes were made of fine fibers, pressed and tucked into pleated trousers with a wide belt—a meticulous imitation of southern military fashion that, combined with his serious expression, almost made him look like a garrison soldier. Almost.

  Helletta and Ella exchanged glances, both noting the try-hard quality of his appearance, but neither commented as he surveyed the room, his expression laced with disappointment.

  "Boring," he muttered to himself, before raising his voice. "Get ready for breakfast. Long day ahead."

  "What are we doing?" Ella asked, her bright smile perfectly back in place.

  "Simple escort work," he replied, though his tone hinted that neither task would be as simple as he made it sound. "And later, meeting with some clients. Taking requests."

  Helletta’s head pulsed with another warning throb, as if sensing that the day ahead would demand more focus than she currently possessed. But at least, she thought as Sour Boy turned to leave, she wouldn’t be facing it alone.

  Even if her only ally was a mysterious chemist who had drugged her the night before.

  The boarding house mess hall greeted them with the warm scent of fresh bread and satnip spread, instantly lifting Helletta’s grogginess like morning fog. Her mouth watered as she eyed the simple but ample breakfast laid out before them. When a server brought over cold tea—a rare luxury in the south—her mood lifted even further.

  "You look better," Ella observed as Helletta tore into her third piece of bread. "Amazing what food can do for a chemically induced stupor."

  Helletta chose to ignore that last part. "Where are the others?" she asked, glancing around the nearly empty hall. "Swinter and Drekan?"

  "Individual missions," Sour Boy answered, picking at his own food with precise, almost military movements. His braids caught the morning light filtering through the hall’s high windows, making the careful plaiting all the more pronounced. Every detail of his appearance seemed meticulously calculated to project authority, down to the way he held his teacup.

  "Not even in pairs?" Ella asked carefully, her eyes tracking something subtle in Sour Boy’s expression.

  His silence was heavy, weighted with unspoken meaning. It wasn’t hard to guess why he wouldn’t want Swinter—with his desperate dreams of redemption—paired with Drekan, who looked at everyone around her as if they were potential prey.

  "About our mission," Ella continued when it became clear Sour Boy wouldn’t elaborate. "What kind of escort work?"

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "We’ll be meeting a merchant," he said, setting his cup down with precision. "He’s coming in on the morning tide. Our job is to get him from the loading docks to Quartersquare without drawing attention."

  "Simple enough," Helletta remarked between bites.

  "No." Sour Boy’s tone hardened, sharp as steel. "Not simple. We’re not just protecting him—we’re ensuring no one realizes he’s trading with Remarn’s people. He has to look like any other merchant on a routine run."

  "Why all the sneaking?" Helletta asked, brow furrowing.

  Ella spoke up before Sour Boy could answer. "Because Quartersquare’s immunity has limits." Her usual smile took on an edge of irony. "The deal with the city guard only applies within the market. Outside those boundaries, anything connected to Remarn’s operation gets… special attention."

  "More than special," Sour Boy said grimly. "Get caught doing Remarn’s business outside Quartersquare, and they’ll drown you in the deepest part of the harbor. The merchant too." His face remained impassive, unbothered by the brutal reality. "It’s part of the arrangement."

  "The bargain that keeps the peace," Ella mused, her gaze drifting over Sour Boy’s military-inspired attire. "Immunity inside, but step one foot outside..."

  "Exactly." He rose, adjusting his pressed collar with practiced care. "Finish eating. We need to get you both properly equipped. Can’t escort anyone looking like dock rats."

  Helletta wanted to argue that she didn’t look like a dock rat, but another piece of bread and a sip of cold tea seemed more pressing. Besides, she had to admit—her salt-stained clothes and borrowed needle weren’t exactly suited for a covert escort mission.

  Helletta reached for another piece of bread. Whatever the day held, at least she’d face it on a full stomach.

  Sour Boy led them through narrow back alleys into a part of Stratus Haven Helletta had never seen—a maze of interconnected platforms where shadows seemed to cling like smoke. They stopped in front of a small shop wedged between two larger buildings, its windows clouded with what looked suspiciously like dream essence.

  The dream weaver inside was nothing like the one they’d seen at Remarn’s celebration. While that weaver had been all dramatic flourishes and theatrical gestures, this one was a small woman with practical hands and weary eyes. Her workspace was crowded with masks of every shape and size, each seeming to shift and blur if looked at directly.

  "New faces," Sour Boy said simply, setting a small pouch of crystals on her workbench.

  The dream weaver didn’t speak. She studied each of them in turn, her gaze lingering longest on Helletta, before selecting three masks from different shelves. They looked ordinary enough—simple designs that covered only the upper face—but when Helletta put hers on, reality itself seemed to tilt.

  "Oh," Ella said, staring at her. "That’s... different."

  Helletta caught her reflection in a clouded mirror and almost stumbled. Her face had changed completely. It wasn’t a dramatic shift—she still looked like someone from the southern regions—but different enough that her own Master might have walked past her on the street without a second glance.

  "The dreams will hold for about twelve hours," the dream weaver said, her first words since they’d arrived. "After that, they’ll start to fade. Don’t let anyone touch them directly—it breaks the weave."

  Their next stop was a weapons shop disguised as something else entirely. The sign outside advertised fishing supplies, but the needles and reels inside clearly weren’t meant for catching fish.

  "Here," Sour Boy said, handing Helletta a new needle. The weapon felt perfect in her grip, its thread glinting silver in the shop’s dim light. The attached reel was small but carefully crafted, designed to be hidden discreetly beneath clothing.

  Ella received a new set of vials along with what looked like a miniature distillation kit. Her eyes sparkled as she inspected the equipment, though her usual serene smile remained firmly in place.

  Finally, Sour Boy handed each of them a small pouch. Inside, gold crystals caught the light—not many, but more than Helletta had ever seen in one place.

  "Advance payment," he said. "Don’t spend it all in one place."

  Helletta weighed the pouch in her hand, feeling the solid, almost startling reality of its contents. She’d watched her master toil for months to earn less than what she held now. No wonder people turned to crime, she thought. One job could yield more than a lifetime of honest work.

  "Ready?" Sour Boy asked, adjusting his own mask.

  Helletta nodded, securing her new needle at her hip. The weight of the gold crystals in her pocket felt like both a promise and a warning. Either way, there was no turning back now.

  They made their way to the loading docks, three strangers wearing borrowed faces, treading the thin line between Quartersquare’s sanctuary and Stratus Haven’s laws.

  The merchant’s sail emerged through the morning mist like a ghost ship, its design distinctly foreign to Stratus Haven’s waters. As it drew closer, Helletta noted details that marked it as a craft from the central regions—the sharp angles of its prow, the meticulous way its sails caught the wind.

  They met him at The Drowning Fish, a dockside bar that had seen better decades. The merchant was tall, dressed in the elaborate fashion of the central regions—layered fabrics and unnecessarily intricate fastenings. Everything about him felt out of place here, where practicality was the rule.

  "Terribly remote," he announced as a greeting, his accent clipping his words in that precise, slightly condescending way of central region nobles. "Absolutely terribly remote. Do you know how long it takes to sail here without a Wayfinder Needle? Weeks! Actual weeks on actual water!"

  "Please," Ella gestured to a nearby table, her borrowed face still bearing her usual bright smile. "Sit. Tell us about your journey."

  He eased into the chair as though it might snap under him. "Davish Kern," he introduced himself, though Helletta doubted it was his real name. "Delegated to House Brightreave, though that hardly matters out here in the…" he waved his hand dismissively, "edges."

  "What brings a central region merchant so far south?" Ella asked, her voice casual, though her eyes were watchful.

  "Business opportunities, naturally." He straightened an already-straight collar, his expression faintly disdainful. "Though I must say, I don’t plan to make this journey again. The accommodations alone…" He shuddered delicately, as though the very idea of Stratus Haven offended his senses.

  "Let’s discuss the route," Sour Boy interjected, his military-inspired outfit seeming to put the merchant at ease. "We’ll need to avoid the main thoroughfares. The city guard—"

  "Yes, yes, I’ve been briefed on your charming local customs." Kern’s smile was thin and dismissive. "Immunity inside the market, drowning outside. Very dramatic. Very... southern."

  They spent the next hour mapping out their path to Quartersquare. Ella knew which streets the guard patrolled most heavily, while Sour Boy had memorized their shift changes. Helletta, meanwhile, found herself observing Kern closely, noting how his polished manners couldn’t quite mask the shrewd calculation in his eyes. Whatever he was trading, it was worth risking the threat of drowning.

  "We’ll take the lower routes," Sour Boy concluded, tracing a path through the platformed streets that would keep them out of sight. "We’ll stay close to the water levels where the mist provides cover."

  "And if we’re stopped?" Kern asked, eyes flickering with concern.

  "We’re just local traders," Ella replied smoothly, her borrowed face smiling brightly. "Taking a central region tourist to see the famous fish markets. Nothing suspicious about that."

  "Just try not to talk too much," Helletta added. "Your accent..."

  "Yes, well, we can’t all sound like we grew up on fishing boats," he sniffed, but there was a flicker of humor in his tone.

  They finished their drinks—Kern barely touched his—and made the final preparations. The dream weaver’s masks felt strange against their skin, an odd sensation of foreignness overlaying familiarity, but they would allow them to blend in. Their new weapons were concealed but within easy reach.

  "Ready?" Sour Boy asked, standing.

  Helletta touched her new needle, feeling its reassuring weight. The gold crystals in her pocket felt heavy, a constant reminder of what was at stake. One job, she thought. One job could change everything.

  "Ready," she said, and they stepped out into Stratus Haven’s gray morning. Four people with borrowed faces, poised to walk the thin line between safety and the deadly depths of the harbor.